کتاب ساندویچ ژامبون

اثر چارلز بوکفسکی از انتشارات نگاه - مترجم: علی امیر ریاحی-معروف ترین رمان ها

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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من دبیرستان بوکوفسکی خونده بودم. در نگاه اول خوشم اومده بود. بعد که از هیجان‌زدگی‌م کم شده بود از خودم پرسیدم این همه شلوغی برای چیه. بعدش هم نفرت از برندهای فرهنگی نذاشت برم سمتش.
الان بعد سالها یه شانس دیگه بهش دادم و این کتابشو خوندم. مصممتر شده‌م که ترجمه نباید خوند. تجربه خوندن این کتاب و تجربه‌های چون این مطمئنم کرده‌ند که ترجمه نخونم و توصیه کنم که ترجمه نخونند.
فرق است. در برخورد با ترجمه‌های بوکوفسکی بنظر میاد که یکی از محصولات کثافت نشر چشمه برای مصرف‌کننده‌های جمعه‌بازار و کتابفروشی افقه. ولی خود متن خیلی کلاسیکه. در ترجمه‌هاش آدم حس میکنه ازین نویسنده‌هاست که خودشو جر میده بیک مضمون یا یک جمله برسه و بعد یه‌جوری عادی مطرحش میکنه انگار از همیشه پس ذهنش بوده. خوندن متنش بآدم نشون میده که احتمالن حتا دغدغهٔ همچو چیزی هم نداشته. اصلن جمله‌هاش تفاوت خیلی ساختاری با محاوره نداره.
مثلن همین کتاب، یه پسر مردم‌گریز زندگیشو از بچگی تا جوونی روایت میکنه و از فقر، مشکلات خونوادگی‌ و علاقه‌ش بخشونت میگه. آدم باید هیچ جاه‌طلبی‌ای در درونش نباشه که همچین روایتی رو انتخاب کنه. همین در روایت و نوشتنش هم مشهوده. مثلن کرت ونگات اکثر جمله‌هاش فکرشده و مصنوع و بقول ادبا سخته‌ست. در حالی که بوکوفسکی دستکم این کتابشو خیلی ساده و عادی و روان نوشته. شاید تو کل کتاب دو سه تا «تیکهٔ قشنگ» باشه. حتا سعی نکرده مثلن مثل سلینجر سن راوی رو تو نوشتنش نشون بده. مشخصه‌های اصلی نوشتنش فکر میکنم نفرت‌پراکنی و خشم و سرعت باشه.
احتمالن بنظر میاد دارم بد این کتابو میگم، ولی واقعن مرادم اینست که کافه این آدم رو نویسنده‌ای معرفی کرده که سن خر عمرو داره ولی هنوز دغدغهٔ عجیب بودن داره و تو روز میشینه جمله‌های باحال طراحی میکنه؛ ولی حق این است که یه آدم شریف و متواضعه. یه کتاب جالب و سرگرم‌کننده نوشته که واقعن کشش داره. من خودم تو دو نشست خوندمش. هیچ چیز فوق‌العاده‌ای نیست ولی قابل احترامه.
یه جای کتاب راوی که بعدن الکلی میشه در مورد اولین تجربهٔ الکل خوردنش اینجوری میگه:
We sat on a park bench and chewed the gum and I thought, well, now I have found something that is going to help me, for a long time to come. The park grass looked greener, the park benches looked better and the flowers were trying harder.

مشاهده لینک اصلی
همیشه انتخاب تو از بین دو تا بد است ، مهم نیست که کدام را انتخاب کنی ، هر کدامشان ذره ای از تو را می خورند تا آنجا که دیگر چیزی باقی نماند . بیشتر آدم ها در بیست و پنج سالگی تمام می شوند .

#ساندویچ_ژامبون داستان پسربچه ای از محله ای فقیر نشینه که از طرف خانواده مخصوصا پدرش مورد بی مهری و ضرب و شتم قرار میگیره. آرزوی خانواده اینه که پسر بچه به جاهایی در زندگیش برسه ولی شرایط جسمی و ظاهری این بچه کار رو بسیار براش سخت و دشوار میکنه.

کتاب سانسور داره جاهایی که بدجور توی ذوق میزنه، مترجم یجاهایی برای فرار ااز سانسور از عباراتی استفاده کرده که بیشتر از سانسور تو ذوق میزنه. گذشته از اینها ترجمه خوبی بود.

دوست داران بوکوفسکی حتما بخونید.

مشاهده لینک اصلی
It is true that Ham on Rye lacks a serious plot. It is also true that Mr. Bukowski writes in a crude, whiskey soaked style. However, the novel makes up for its deficiencies with a well-honed theme on the bullshit realities of middle-class existence and the ugly truth of how our society deals with those who reject that path. Such a novel should necessarily cause the reader to taste a tinge of bile in his or her throat. If you dont finish the book weary and angry, then you missed the point. As to the comments below that disparage Mr. Bukowski as a mean-spirited asshole, I ask you to consider four possibilities: 1) you misread his skid row saintliness as something distasteful; 2) you forget that Mr. Bukowski wrote a novel, not a memoir; 3) you judge his offensive comments in a vacuum instead of its time and place; or 4) you are comfortable with the mediocrity shit can of existence that he laments.

مشاهده لینک اصلی
Ham on Rye is flanked by sauces of happenstance and its delectability depends on the preferences of one’s reading tongue. Mine, for one, could not bear its sour, unsavoury ingredients.

In this bildungsroman, which is semi-autobiographical too, the protagonist, Henry Chinaski loads his bag of dilemma and expletives, and throws its weight around with nonchalance and non-disruptive disdain. The backdrop of the Great Depression, fuels the negative sentiments and Chinaski finds its shackles, throughout the novel, difficult to break away from.

This was my first Bukowski and it didn’t go entirely uneventful, thankfully. His brazenness and indifference met in a heady concoction, sending a mild swagger across the reading eye. His treatment of his family, friends, school, job and life at large, wasn’t without a stream of empathy which was successfully evoked with some explosive arrangement of words. Of his hopeless friends, he said,
It looked like it was my destiny to travel in their company through life. That didn’t bother me so much as the fact that I seemed irresistible to these dull idiot fellows. I was like a turd that drew flies instead of like a flower that butterflies and bees desired.
The charms of the initial dilemmas and Chinaski’s attempts (or non-attempts) to fathom them, drowned into a sea of booze for the better part of the book. Nothing mattered as long as drinking was an option and the young Chinaski held nothing beyond the tinted bottle. Purposelessness pervaded the pages like a rigid plague and Bukowski’s pen remained, painfully, under-qualified to bulk up nothing. A case of plot and prose, pulling each other down.

It appears that Bukowski’s life was way bitter and the taste nailed anger and anguish into his deepest cores. But perhaps, he didn’t write this book to shed those rusty flakes. He wrote to keep them alive. Almost like a protest, like a defiance. And under my reading lens, that defiance grappled without inspiration.

مشاهده لینک اصلی
@The first thing I remember is being under [email protected]

So begins this chronicle of the dirty old mans humble beginnings, his formative years, and the myriad oppressions he endured throughout his childhood, adolescence, and early adult life. In the most literal sense, this opening line represents baby Hanks first concrete memory, but it also sets the tone for the entire memoir to come. Dedicated to @all the fathers,@ Ham on Rye is both an indictment of and a tribute to every boss, bully, teacher, preacher, and dictator (foreign and domestic) to leave their mark on Chinaskis (Bukowskis) coming-of-age experience, charting his own way forward if only by counterexample.

@description@
@My father liked the slogan, Early to bed and early to rise, makes a man healthy, wealthy and wise. But it hadnt done any of that for him. I decided that I might try to reverse the [email protected]

Each loosely connected chapter finds Hank at some point in his troubled youth, from his earliest memories of Andernach, Germany, to the first of many rented rooms in Los Angeles, California. Most of the intervening narrative deals with his abysmal home life throughout his equally trying school years. Whether at the hands of his father or his peers, young Hank takes his lickings and learns to give a licking or two in kind. He fights back, carves out his niche, thinks about girls and yearns for safe haven.

@description@
@R.O.T.C. was for the misfits. Like I said, it was either that or [email protected]

As with any semi-autobiographical work, one has to wonder how much of it is true. Hank loses more fights than he wins, and his descriptions of failure should ring true for anyone accustomed to the experience. If Bukowski were to fictionalize anything here, youd think that he might actually get laid somewhere in these 283 pages. Having said that, its probably not much of a spoiler to reveal that he remains a virgin at least up until the bombing of Pearl Harbor, but anyone whos ever read Bukowski knows that he more than made up for this later in life (see Women, etc).

Theres got to be some scholarly work out there that unpacks the fact from fiction, but if one exists I am not aware. With Buk and his parents long since dead, I suppose I could call up Linda Lee to ask. Stupid idea, I know, but maybe I could convince her to adopt me the same way she adopted Hank all those years ago. Despite their famous squabble, I have no doubt in my mind that she added at least an extra decade to his life, without which he may have never lived to see the publication of this book in the first place. But I digress, and my glass needs refilling. Goodnight...

For further reference:

@The father never [email protected]
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K_v1fc...

@Thats called growing [email protected]
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WiuJGh...

Peace out, bitches!

@description@

This review is dedicated to Lila Jane.

مشاهده لینک اصلی
It all started in 7th grade with these stupid clubs they made us join. Some kind of “get involved” self esteem horseshit. Every other Friday was club day. An hour before school let out everyone had to pick a club to go to. They gave us a list. I left mine blank, so they put me in the Sports Cards Collecting Club. Better than the Baking Club, I guess. My friend Joe, whose dad was president of the Charles County fire department, didn’t leave his blank. He actually chose the Sports Card Collecting Club. The first Friday came. Same boring shit classes as usual. Then it was time to meet for our clubs. I had smoked a few cigarettes in the boys room before showing up, and was late. They gave us free football cards. I only like football when it’s tackle in the street without pads. Pads are for pussies. On top of that they gave us Redskin cards. Everybody was a Redskin fan, so I hated the Redskins. These cards: burning material.

Joe spent that night at my house. Usually we stayed up trying to watch porn. HBO tits and an occasion bush through a fuzzy screen, because my cheap parents wouldn’t get pay channels. Softcore stuff was all there was then. No internet. This softcore stuff never showed cock though. That was good. I hate seeing another guy’s cock.

But that night all we could think about was lighting those Redskins on fire. After polishing off my Dad’s bottle of Wild Turkey, we went to bed. When we woke up the next morning, Joe threw up. I probably drank twice as much as he did. That shit for brains can’t ever hold his liquor. He didn’t even eat the scrambled eggs my mom made for breakfast. So I ate his too. My mother always told me that she loved me. I didn’t love her, but she made good eggs. When my mom went upstairs Joe said I ate those eggs like they were Marilyn Monroe’s cunt. Now I don’t mind having my dick sucked, but I never eat pussy, so I punched him in the face. Now he had a black eye and his headache hurt worse; because while I may have small hands, I always hit hard. People remember it when I hit them.

After this we went into the woods behind my house to burn those cards. We started cautious because it was windy and there were lots of leaves on the ground. It was so sweet watching those cards melt and burn. But that got old, so I said, “Joe, this burning football cards is for goddamn children.” Joe just shrugged his shoulders. All he ever did was shrug his fucking shoulders. I kind of liked that about him.

I decided to light a few small piles of leaves. Now that’s a fire. Burn baby, burn. I was starting to feel alive. We found a bucket and put the fires out with water from the creek. No problem. I couldn’t get enough though. Who could? Fire is life. Things need to burn, wither, and be destroyed. Life is this type of destruction: a fire slowly charring us until we’re seven feet under hanging with the worms.....

So I made larger, better fires. BURN BABY, BURN, BURN, BURN. If only there had been whiskey left for this occasion. Then one of the fires got out of control. The wind took it into more leaves and then into some trees. Joe tried throwing water on it, but there was no putting out this fire. I just stood and watched the beautiful destruction I had created. Joe started coughing from the smoke and threw up again. Then he ran back up to my house. I just stayed and watched, waiting on the sirens.....

It finally took nine fire trucks to take that sucker down. I wanted to see a house burn. Came close, but no cigar. I was always coming close but never really getting anywhere, it seemed. It was Mr. Robinsons house that almost got it. Twenty more yards and it would have happened. But I at least had seven acres to my credit.

The whole neighborhood showed up for the event. I didn’t run or act like it wasn’t me. Only pussies run. Joe showed up too. And would you believe that he was crying? Others were crying too. Like Mrs Robinson. And my mother. And people actually tried hugging me. I guess they felt sorry for me. I didn’t feel sorry for myself. A friend’s mom gave me a big hug, told me she knew I wasn’t really a bad kid deep down. I got a nice hold of her ass as she hugged me. It wasn’t bad for her age.

I went home and my parents tried to ground me. But that shit never works. I had had my fun. I even had a few beers in my coat pockets that I had taken from Mr. Robinson’s garage. It was a better day than most.


مشاهده لینک اصلی
I feel like this kid is someone that Ive known well, not just read a book about him.

مشاهده لینک اصلی
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