Per me l'autore avrebbe potuto scrivere anche solo questo unico romanzo e aver già scritto tutto ciò che è perfettamente completo e non c'è bisogno più di nulla.
A ripensarci ora dopo mesi che l'ho letto, scoprendolo in ritardo, il mio grido interiore e la mia sconfitta si fanno forti e presenti, perché oscillo tra il desiderio di aver voluto anche io nascondere il "mio cadavere" (meglio sotto il letto) e la sensazione ferma e evanescente a un tempo, dolorosa di averlo fatto, però senza il filtro abile e lirico di McEwan.
Io poco abile a sublimare... leggere come vivere è salvifico mentre lo faccio,
ma a volte straziante (come in questo caso) quando finito di decantare comincio a ricordare...

Decepcionante.

در مورد حد و ظرفيت وحشيگري آدمي، شيطان صفتي بالقوه، پتانسيل بي تفاوتي، و شرارت نهفته در انسان، در يك قالب بي تعهد پست مدرن و بدتر از اون تلاش منتقدان براي توجيه، طبيعي انگاشتن، و پذيرفتن همه ي اينها چه ميشه گفت؟
مك ايون رو -كه البته اين كار براي هميشه كنار گذاشتن و هيچ گاه برنگشتن بهش دليل قطعي و كافي بود- نميذارم كنار به دو دليل:
اول اينكه از كارهاي خيليييي اوليه اش بوده؛
دوم شبهه ي
Plagiarism
همراه اين كاره.

يصور هنا مكيوان في عمله الروائي الأول 1978، صورة سوداوية كئيبة وبتعقيد عميق وأحاسيس مؤلمة تنتابك أثناء القراءة، أربعة أشقاء فقدوا الأب ثم الأم خلال صيف حار في وقت متقارب وهم بأعمار صغيرة، واتخاذهم إجراءات صارمة لإخفاء وفاة والدتهم تجنبًا لدور الرعاية، وتشكيل أسرة غريبة وحشية مكونة من الأخت الكبرى والأخ الأوسط، كل ذلك كان بتشجيع الأخت الكبرى التي أخذت دور الأم، والأخ دور الأب في عالمهم المعزول في حي مهجور، وبدون أقرباء لهذه الأسرة العجيبة، ووضع جانب الطفولة البريئة في طي النسيان، كانت السرية محركهم الأوحد، وأدت تلك الحالة من الطفولة المرضية المجنونة والانحلال بما لا يحمد عقباه، وتتحول حياتهم إلى شئ مشوه مجنون مرضي يطالهم جميعًا بلا رحمة.

كعادة مكيوان الوصف مبهر وعميق؛ ولكن ليس كأعماله اللاحقة ولكن كعمل أول كان سردًا مميزًا وشيق يدعوك لمواصلة القراءة دون شعور بالملل. سوف تشعر بروائح القمامة والأطعمة المتعفنة في منزلهم مختلطة بمشاهد حديقة المنزل المهجورة، وحشائش غير معتنى بها. كل تلك التفاصيل تأخذك من الغرابة إلى البغض بشكل رهيب لما يدور بشكل يثير الاشمئزاز.

{تم إنتاج فيلم مقتبس عن الرواية عام 1993}

Another one from the Mookse Madness list, and I don't think I would have read it otherwise.

Unfortunately I was familiar with the plot from the film version, and this removed the key elements of shock and suspense that the plot relies on, which is not McEwan's fault. What remains seemed rather slight and rather obviously an early work.

An easy read (apart from the subject matter) so I can't really begrudge the small amount of time I spent on it, but nor do I want to write a longer review.

FIABA NERA


Charlotte Gainsbourg è Julie, che in questa foto prende il sole nel giardino di cemento, Jack è interpretato da Andrew n. Robertson, che abbandonerà presto la professione, e Alice Coulthard è Sue.

Non ho ucciso mio padre, ma certe volte mi sembra quasi d’avergli dato una mano a morire.

Partenza forte per questo primo romanzo di Ian McEwan.
E come dice Jack nell’incipit, è vero che non ha ucciso il padre, ma lo ha lasciato morire senza chiamare aiuto, senza prestargli soccorso: e, quindi, sì, si può dire che gli ha davvero dato una mano a morire.


In un altro ‘angolo’ del giardino di cemento, Julie, Jack, Sue e il piccolo Tom.

Il padre muore presto. Tipo non particolarmente raccomandabile, certo non affettuoso, facile all’ira, non amato dalla moglie, che se non ne festeggia la dipartita eterna è solo perché anche lei è messa male, confinata a letto da una malattia, vera o presunta, che se la porta via poco dopo la morte del marito.
Il padre s’era incapricciato di un progetto ben strano: realizzare un giardino di cemento, dove a predominare era il colore e la sostanza della calce invece del verde di fiori e piante. Un progetto ancora più strano se si pensa che la casa dove abitano è come una specie di fortino circondato da palazzoni e grattacieli, l’ultima roccaforte di un mondo che rifiuta di adattarsi, trasformarsi (crescere?).
Col cuore non proprio saldo, maneggiare grossi sacchi di cemento non è lo sforzo che un medico raccomanderebbe: e infatti è proprio per questo che l’uomo viene stroncato da un infarto.


Jack e Julie giocano a mamma e papà: dopo la morte dei genitori, i due fratelli maggiori assumono il ruolo di capifamiglia, spingendosi fino a condividere lo stesso letto, e i piaceri carnali ad esso associati.

Jack è in bagno intento a pratica masturbatoria: si attarda per completare l’opera onanistica e quando raggiunge il genitore è troppo tardi.

Credo che definire disfunzionale la famiglia di Jack sia quasi eufemistico: padre e madre, che muoiono a poca distanza uno dall’altra; quattro figli, due adolescenti, Jack e sua sorella maggiore Julie, 15 anni lui e 17 lei, e due più piccoli, la tredicenne Sue e Tom, che di anni ne ha solo sei.
I maggiori, Julie e Jack, capiscono che se non vogliono finire in mano ai servizi sociali, parcheggiati o affidati uno di qua e gli altri di là, rinchiusi in qualche istituto per minorenni, devono tenere nascosta la morte della mamma.
Così ‘nascosta’ che la madre finisce dentro un baule in cantina che, per evitare odore sgradevole, viene ricoperto dal cemento del titolo.
Cemento che comunque segue il suo scorso: si crepa, proprio come quello del cosiddetto giardino, la puzza viene fuori, ed è inutile dire che è quella del cane morto e sepolto in cantina: Derek il fidanzatino di Julie, quello che scatena più di una gelosia in Jack, Derek sgama che qualcosa di losco è stato combinato dai quattro ragazzini, inclusa la sua fidanzatina Julie, e decide di intervenire.
Intervento a suo modo liberatorio: forse anche per il lettore che è messo intelligentemente alla prova dalla nota perfidia di McEwan.


Morto il marito, la madre, interpretata da Sinéad Cusack, non si alza più dal letto, accoglie i figli intorno a sé, finché anche lei muore.


La cantina non è solo il luogo ‘geografico’ dove si nascondono segreti e intorno a cui ruota buona parte della storia: la cantina è anche metaforicamente quella che ciascuno ha dentro, nel cuore o nella mente, probabilmente nell’animo, e che McEwan si adopra, credo con un certo qual piacere, a esplorare, entrando negli angoli più remoti, negli anfratti più riposti, a cercare segreti, parti scure e oscure.

La cantina è l’intera casa che si isola e protegge dal mondo esterno, con questi quattro minorenni che vogliono restare insieme, uniti (Jack e Julie in unione compenetrante, quella che di solito si definisce incesto), fermare il tempo, congelarlo: e chissà che il cemento non serva anche a quello, a bloccare il processo di crescita. Eterni adolescenti, eterno bambino Tom, il più tenero, che si diverte a travestirsi, soprattutto in abiti femminili.


Charlotte Gainsbourg aveva 21 anni quando girò il film, ma alle spalle già un’intensa carriera d’attrice.

Sì, con questo suo esordio nella narrazione lunga - ancora relativamente lunga: il romanzo ha solo centocinquanta paginette, si legge in un soffio (trattenuto) – MeEwan ci regala una fiaba nera.

Il film fu scritto e diretto da Andrew Birkin, il fratello di Jane, e quindi lo zio della protagonista Charlotte Gainsbourg, scelta di cast felicissima (ma anche gli altri ruoli sono ben centrati): la figlia di Serge e Jane incarnava alla perfezione il fascino tentatore, e perverso, della bella adolescente. Andrew birkin, più noto come sceneggiatore che regista, con questo film vinse un meritato Orso d’Argento al festival di Berlino.

McEwan's first novel, published when he was only 30. (It was preceded by an even more shocking collection of short stories, "First Love, Last Rights", https://www.goodreads.com/review/show....)

A profoundly disturbing, but very well written book. Had I realised the true nature of it, I doubt I would have read it, and somehow the fact it is told in such an unjudgemental way almost makes it worse.

"I did not kill my father, but I sometimes think I helped him on his way", is the opening sentence. It is set in a hot summer in late '70s England. Four children live a rather isolated life in a very insular and not entirely happy family. Their father dies, and not long after, so does their mother (this much is mentioned in the blurb), leaving them to fend for themselves and each other. Tom is 5 or 6, Sue 12, Jack (the narrator) turns 15 and Julie about 16 or 17.

Bereaved, fearful, lonely, unprepared, bored (school holidays), directionless, coupled with puberty and sibling squabbles. Each tries different coping strategies, none of which really work: shy Julie (previously with a reputation for "disruptive, intimidating quietness") takes charge, Sue reads and also writes a diary, Tom regresses (a cot delivers "an enveloping pleasure in being tenderly imprisoned"), and Jack... retreats and masturbates. But those behaviours are trivial in comparison to other actions.

They lose sense of time, self and not just right and wrong, but what the rest of the world would judge as right and wrong: "Nor could I think whether what we had done was an ordinary thing to do, understandable even if it had been a mistake, or something so strange that if it was ever found out it would be the headline of every newspaper in the country... every thought I had dissolved into nothing."

I found the story gripping and oddly credible, and yet I was appalled by it too - a little like Lolita.

cw: transphobia

‘ve read this book about a week ago and I still can’t make out what I actually think about it.

It was like watching a Lars von Trier movie. It’s disturbing, you hate it but you love it, all at the same time.

let me start by saying that it truly takes a great deal of effort to write a book in which none of the characters seem relatable, none of which you can sympatize with. Julie, Jack, Sue and Tom were never meant to be “characters” in the common sense of the word. The four siblings, are mere caricatures of real characters, none of them likeable, twisted in their nature, whose purpose is to disturb and disqust. Whether it’s sexual abuse, physical abuse, incest, pedophilia, compulsive masturbation, drug addiction, all of the four kids are meant to appear “sick” in their own right.

There is however another “condition” that the author ascribes to one of his characters. Tom, the youngest of the four siblings, yearns to act himself out as a girl (and a toddler towards the end of the novel). Even though the two sisters don’t seem to care and actually reinforce his behaviour, Jack vehemently condemns it. Numerous times in the novel he explicitly states that cross-dressing might “affect him badly later in life”. And so does Derek, Julie’s boyfriend, the only character in the novel who comes outside of the family. He too, unaware of Jack’s opinion, expresses his deep worries about Toms “out-of-ordinary” behaviour and condemns him as sick.

Let’s recapitulate. The characters are meant to disgust, they are caricatures, purposely meant to be “unlikable”, sexual and physical abusers, unaware of their own perversion, and among them is a six year old boy, whose sickeness is demonstrated through his desire to become a girl.

Unlike Trier, this novel simply wouldn’t fly today. I am not calling McEven transphobic, certainly not in the way J.K.Rowling is.
(Is Cement Garden a sign of internalized transphobia tho? yes, most likely !)

The novel was published in 1978. McEven himself probably wasn’t even aware about including a trans character and thus commenting on gender identity and gender dysphoria. What “wasn’t” there 30 years ago however, can clearly be observed in there now.

It’s like reading Simone de Beauvoir. Then her work was revolutionary and shifted the feminist discourse miles ahead. Today we know her feminism excluded everyone apart from white women. It is not enough for today, it has never been. But you can still appreciate it for what it once achieved.

And so, despite previously being bold and shocking, today Cement Garden simply feels outdated and problematic.

I rate it 3/5 with a red exclamation mark. Honestly, you won’t miss much by leaving it out of your reading lists, but if you do have to read it, be critical of his unintended(?) unsolicited commentary.

Comrades, are you in dire need of palliative care due to pathological levels of happiness? Then I’m going to strongly recommend you add this to your misery tonic. Have you ever, after witnessing several of your friend demure when asked to snort a line of Smarties candies, grew irritated by the whole spectacle and yelled: “For fucks sake! Give ‘em here!” Decimated all the dextrose and colorful additives with one vicious snuffle, lurched away from the table with concerted nonchalance, then entered the bathroom and collapsed into the sink, screaming: “Why is everything I know and love combustible?!” Well, I must say, you’ve gotta buck-up Nancy. There are people who wear mittens full of pissed off Bullet Ants that make far less of a scene.

Anyway, I wasn’t dangerously happy to begin with, so this was an unnecessary treatment in my case. But, as my prior recklessness in placing Halloween candy in the crosshairs of a determined nostril may indicate, I am nothing if not implacable in my will to toil endlessly in activities governed by capricious Jungian forces that often conspire against my well being.

What’s the book about? Well, let me give you some clues by way of a conversation I had with my dad after finishing it.



Dad: What’cha been readin’?

Me: I just finished this book about death, incest, alienation, regression, projection, tribal dominance hierarchies and titillating cartwheels with bare tendrils of pubic hair!

Dad: Huh. Cartwhee... Well. How was it?

Me: Very depressing.

Dad: I’d say. Why do people read things like that?

Me: *Adopting a Posh Accent*: You see, the flower of the human condition cannot properly unfurl without being inundated by the fetid waters of sorrow.

Dad: *Sigh*

Me: To vicariously take in these horrible experiences is to reaffirm our commitment to life by reminding ourselves that things are tenuous. That the ephemera of our present contentment can be blown away in —

Dad: *redacted*

Me: In an instant. It’s a message. An exercise in extreme perspective taking which seeks to violently shake us from our trivial preoccupations and —

Dad: *redacted*

Me: What, father? Everything I’ve said has been quite logical and perfectly anodyne.

Dad: What’s wrong with you?

Me: Methylation patterns in my genome.

Dad: I’ve gotta go.

The author’s debut novel – in fact more of a novella, I read this book due it being included in the 2019 Mookse Madness tournament.

The plot of the book is discussed elsewhere and best summarised by Wikipedia

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Cem...

My brief observations .....

I found it difficult to relate the book to McEwen’s later writing which can, in my view, range from the brilliant (Atonement) to the far too frequently annoying (less any particular book than aspects of his writing).

Probably the two most annoying aspects are entirely missing here:

The insistence on reproducing his research and/or interests in extensive detail – contrast for example the interminable squash game in Saturday with the snooker game here, which does not even make sense with a break of reds and blacks scoring 49.

The prepopenderance of upper middle class, successful, characters living in nice London houses. Here by contrast we have an almost feral set of children living in squalor. Albeit admittedly in what is still a large house (can he write about small houses I wonder) but the last undemolished house in an urban wasteland.

However I found what was also missing was any real credibility to the story line – one which in the key aspect of its unlikeliness reminded me a lot of this year’s Booker longlisted “Snap”. I also had the curious sense that it was literally misplaced and would have worked better in a rural American Twilight zone style setting – one I think McEwen was trying to reproduce in the seeming decay of late 1970’s England.

Overall I now understand why the author was once nicknamed Ian Macabre.

راوی داستان باغ سیمانی فرزند دوم (جک) یک خانواده 6 نفری است. تمام داستان در خانه، حیاط و کوچه ی منتهی به خانه می گذرد. اندکی بعد از مرگ پدر، مادر خانواده نیز می میرد و فرزندان از ترس از هم پاشیدن خانواده و جدا شدن از یکدیگر، مادر را در صندوقی در زیرزمین خانه، میان سیمان دفن می کنند... زاویه دید اول شخص ، سادگی نثر، نقل خاطره وار وقایع در فضایی دلهره آور از عوامل جذابیت داستان است. در ارتباط با سانسور ترجمه فارسی که باعث تغییر فاحش در ساختار داستان شده، پیش از این مطالبی شنیده بودم و در حین خواندن متن فارسی نیز متوجه بریده شدن قسمت هایی از متن شدم. با مقایسه ای گذرا میان متن اصلی و ترجمه فارسی مشخص شد که کیفیت ارتباط جک و جولی (خواهر و برادر) در طول داستان سانسور و تم اروتیک از داستان کاملا حذف شده است (از آقای مترجم بابت امانت‌داری و تعهد نسبت به خواننده ممنونم!)

She lifted herself slightly and sank down. A cool thrill un- furled from my belly and I sighed too. Finally we looked at each other. Julie smiled and said, 'It's easy.' I sat up a little way and pressed my face into her breasts. She took a nipple between her fingers again and found my mouth.As I sucked and that same shudder ran through my sister's body, I heard and felt a deep, regular pulse, a great, dull slow thudding which seemed to rise through the house and shake it. I fell back and Julie crouched forwards. We moved slowly in time to the sound till it seemed to be moving us, pushing us along.

مخاطب فارسی زبان تنها در پایان کتاب،آن هم به صورت کاملا مبهم به وجود ارتباطی خاص میان جک و جولی پی می برد و این موضوع در ترجمه فارسی از کیفیت داستان و تاثیرگذاری آن تا حد زیادی کاسته و باعث تغییر پیرینگ داستان شده است

Will it reflect badly on me if I say this book isn't sordid enough to be entertaining or truly affecting? Considering how unsettling and uncomfortable it already is?

Four siblings, ranging from 6 to 17, who have too close for comfort of a relationship (if the word "incest" flashed in you mind, you are correct - it is not a spoiler, the "action" starts on page 2), witness both their parents die within the weeks of each other. When their mother dies, they make a decision to bury her in the cellar and to not tell anyone, to keep their family intact. Left to their own devices, these children go through the motions of playing house and, you guessed it, they don't do it very well.

The Cement Garden gives a predictably disturbing and occasionally icky picture of what can happen to kids isolated from the community and unsupervised by adults. As much as I hate reading about incest, especially when it is written as some romantic device or for melodramatic effect, here it is strangely understandable, albeit not less gross.

However, the novel didn't quite work for me. I thought there was more to say about the family, the kids' parents, their path to such a taboo closeness. The point the author was trying to make with this story evaded me. I just didn't quite get it or even if I did, the novel failed to affect me as much as Atonement and On Chesil Beach did in the past. It happens rather often when I read McEwan though.