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Sixty years after a book's publication, its author remembers his lost love and missing son, while a teenage girl named for one of the book's characters seeks her namesake, as well as a cure for her widowed mother's loneliness.
Storia commovente e coinvolgente. Interessante elaborazione narrativa del tema della memoria familiare legata alla storia della seconda guerra mondiale e della persecuzione ebraica. ( )
Beskrivelse: I en nedslitt leilighet i New York prøver Leo Gursky å overleve litt til. Hver kveld banker han på radiatoren for at naboen over skal høre at han fortsatt lever.Men livet hans har ikke alltid vært slik. For seksti år siden bodde han hjemme i Polen, der han forelsket seg og skrev en bok. Kjæresten mistet han da hun flyktet til Amerika rett før krigen. Boken ble også borte. Men uten at han selv er klar over det, har den overlevd: Den har krysset hav, blitt overlevert mellom generasjoner, og forandret liv. Fjorten år gamle Alma er oppkalt etter en person i denne boken. Etter at faren hennes døde, er hun fullt opptatt med å finne en ny kjæreste til moren, holde styr på en lillebror som tror han er Messias, og ta utførlige notater i et hefte hun kaller Hvordan overleve i villmarken, Bind tre. En dag dukker det opp et mystisk brev i posten, og Alma begir seg ut på jakt etter sin navnesøster.Personene i Kjærlighetens historie er mennesker man blir glad i. Hver for seg sysler de med gåter som på bemerkelsesverdig vis er forbundet med hverandre. Nicole Krauss har skrevet en medrivende og imponerende sammensatt roman om mennesker som har blitt avkuttet fra sin fortid, og som på hver sin pussige, rørende måte forsøker å få livet til å henge sammen.
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For my grandparents, who taught me the opposite of disappearing and for Jonathan, my life
Incipit
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When they write my obituary. Tomorrow. Or the next day. It will say, Leo Gursky is survived by an apartment full of shit.
Citazioni
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A thought crossed his face in a language I didn’t understand.
It’s also true that sometimes people felt things and because there was no word for them, they went unmentioned. The oldest emotion in the world may be that of being moved, but to describe it and just to name it – must have been like trying to catch something invisible.
Maybe this is how I'll go, in a fit of laughter, what could be better, laughing and crying, laughing and singing, laughing so as to forget that I am alone, that it is the end of my life, that death is waiting outside the door for me.
The truth was I'd given up waiting long ago. The moment had passed, the door between the lives we could have led and the lives we led had shut in our faces. Or better to say, in my face.
Once upon a time there was a boy who loved a girl, and her laughter was a question he wanted to spend his whole life answering.
Everything snapped into focus. It's one of those unforgettable moments that happen as a child, when you discover that all along the world has been betraying you.
You asked if I was married. I was once, but that was a long time ago, and we were clever or stupid enough not to have a child. We met each other when we were young, before we knew enough about disappointment, and once we did we found we reminded each other of it.
Having begun to feel, people's desire to feel grew. They wanted to feel more, feel deeper, despite how much it sometimes hurt. People became addicted to feeling. They struggled to uncover new emotions. It's possible that this is how art was born. New kinds of joy was forged, along with new kinds of sadness: The eternal disappointment of life as it is; the relief of unexpected reprieve; the fear of dying.
People hurried past me. And everyone who walked by was happier than I. I felt the old envy. I would have given anything to be one of them.
"Once I start to think about it, it's hard to imagine any kind of anything—happiness or otherwise—without her. I've lived with Frances for so long that I can't imagine what life would look or feel like with another person."
I finally understood that no matter what I did, or who I found, I—he—none of us—would ever be able to win over the memories she had of Dad, memories that soothed her even while they made her sad, because she'd built a world out of them she knew how to survive in, even if no one else could.
I lay in the dark and the silence, which was nothing like the dark and the silence my father lay in as a boy in a house on a dirt street in Tel Aviv, or the dark and the silence my mother lay in on her first night at Kibbutz Yavne, but which held those darknesses and those silences, too.
Now that mine is almost over, I can say that the thing that struck me most about life is the capacity for change.
There's even a moment when it becomes exhilarating to realize just how little needs to stay the same for you to continue the effort they call, for lack of a better word, being human.
it's like some tiny nothing that sets off a natural disaster halfway across the world, only this was the opposite of disaster, how by accident she saved me with that thoughtless act of grace, and she never knew, and how that, too, is part of the history of love.
Ultime parole
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Sixty years after a book's publication, its author remembers his lost love and missing son, while a teenage girl named for one of the book's characters seeks her namesake, as well as a cure for her widowed mother's loneliness.
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