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by Celina Wieniewska,Bruno Schulz

Download Sanatorium Under the Sign of the Hourglass ePub
  • ISBN 0395860237
  • ISBN13 978-0395860236
  • Language English
  • Author Celina Wieniewska,Bruno Schulz
  • Publisher Mariner Books (May 1, 1997)
  • Pages 200
  • Formats docx txt rtf doc
  • Category Fiction
  • Subcategory Contemporary
  • Size ePub 1592 kb
  • Size Fb2 1242 kb
  • Rating: 4.6
  • Votes: 674

This is the second and final work of Bruno Schulz, the acclaimed Polish writer killed by the Nazis during World War II. In the words of Isaac Bashevis Singer, "What he did in his short life was enough to make him one of the most remarkable writers who ever lived." Weaving myth, fantasy, and reality, Sanatorium Under the Sign of the Hourglass, is, to quote Schulz, "an attempt at eliciting the history of a certain family . . . by a search for the mythical sense, the essential core of that history."

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In the words of Isaac Bashevis Singer, "What he did in his short life was enough to make him one of the most remarkable writers who ever lived. Weaving myth, fantasy, and reality, Sanatorium Under the Sign of the Hourglass, is, to quote Schulz, "an attempt at eliciting the history of a certain family.

Sanatorium under the sign of the hourglass

Sanatorium under the sign of the hourglass. Sanatorium under the sign of the hourglass, Bruno Schulz ; translated from the Polish by Celina Wieniewska Walker New york 1978. Australian/Harvard Citation. All users of the catalogue should also be aware that certain words, terms or descriptions may be culturally sensitive and may be considered inappropriate today, but may have reflected the author's/creator's attitude or that of the period in which they were written.

The exegetes of The Book maintain that all books aim at being Authentic. That they live only a borrowed life, which at the moment of inspiration returns to its ancient source. This means that as the number of books decreases, the Authentic must increase. However, we don't wish to tire the reader with an exposition of doctrine. We should only like to draw his attention to one thing: The Authentic lives and grows. Other author's books: Sanatorium Under the Sign of the Hourglass.

December 12, 1977 Issue. Sanatorium Under the Sign of the Hourglass. Get book recommendations, fiction, poetry, and dispatches from the world of literature in your in-box. By Bruno Schulz and Celina Wieniewska, (trans. The New Yorker, December 12, 1977 P. 44. A nightmarish story in which a man arrives in a nearly deserted, straw-filled train to visit his father, who has died. The father is at a sanatorium where time is set back, alive, but in his final illness. The doctor says the son should go to sleep like everyone else there. There is no night or day; just twilight. 1. Letter from Trump’s Washington.

Weaving myth, fantasy, and reality, Sanatorium Under the Sign of the Hourglass, is, to quote Schulz, "an attempt at eliciting the history of a certain family. Translated by. Celina Wieniewska. illustrated, reprint. From inside the book.

Weaving myth, fantasy, and reality, Sanatorium Under the Sign of the Hourglass, is, to quote Schulz, an attempt at eliciting the history of a certain family. To read this book, upload an EPUB or FB2 file to Bookmate.

Give Schulz a try. Sanatorium Under the Sign of the Hourglass New York: Penguin, 1988. A translation by Celina Wieniewska of Sanatorium Pod Klepsydrą, with an introduction by John Updike. Sanatorium Under the Sign of the Hourglass - Bruno Schulz. You like Kafka? Give Schulz a try.

Sanatorium Under the Sign of the Hourglass is the English title of Sanatorium Pod Klepsydrą, a novel by the Polish writer and painter Bruno Schulz, published in 1937. The novel takes the form of a collection of dreamlike, poetic short stories that reflect on the death of the narrator's father, as well as life in the modest Jewish quarter of Drohobycz, the provincial town in the Austro-Hungarian Empire where Schulz was born

Talk about Sanatorium Under the Sign of the Hourglass

Bruno Schulz is the most subtle and rewarding phantasmagorical European writer I'm aware of. No one else has taken language to the places Schulz has taken it to, and done it in such an alluring manner.

While it could be argued that authors such as Beckett and Joyce have had a much more wide-ranging genius in their writing, Schulz has mastered the craft of writing "for a reading audience" in a way that neither of the aforementioned authors could have dreamed of.

Schulz has an elegance and a "lightness" about his style that no other truly experimental authors I'm aware of have even come close to paralleling (Elias Canetti comes close, but with a more restricted range of patterns and emotions). Schulz does not in any way sacrifice depth or profundity for enjoyment. Neither does he fall victim to the "jaded, bitter, tortured intellectual" archetype that so many authors fall into, and perhaps even willingly.

Yes, Schulz's writing is "magical", and in the truest sense. He opens up a strange and foreign perspective on life that most of us could only dream of while on some kind of psychedelic drug or while anticipating some kind of psychological breakthrough. But this isn't fantasy writing, THIS IS RAW, UNCUT REALITY. In many ways, the strange perspective that Schulz has on life is much more real than the more "meticulous" prose of many authors. And he conveys this strange perspective with such lightness of spirit, with such seductiveness that we cannot help but to follow him gladly down the strange and joyous paths he opens up for us.

He has all of the beauty and richness of Proust, with the sharpness of insight into the human condition that only Kafka or Beckett could handle. All in all, Bruno Schulz is hands-down, the most skilled and honorable author I have ever had the privilege to discover. His few works are a gift to all the world's readers.

May his name forever be associated with the passion and love of reading, writing, and wealth of experience, and may you, inspired by this review, be moved to enjoy the wonders only Schulz himself was fit to share.
A book that dreams you into it.An outstanding read! A surrealistic masterpiece!
... by not speaking or reading Polish. Even the significance of the "hourglass" in the title of this book is lost on a reader of translations except by way of footnotes. Oh well ...

The translations of Schulz's two small books -- his total surviving oeuvre -- by Celina Wieniewska are available together in a single Penguin edition. I've already reviewed the first half of that edition, "The Street of Crocodiles". Do yourself a big literary favor and get the "complete" works of Schulz forthwith!

And now, into the Sanatorium ...
History is not a parabola, a wave function, a spiral, or any kind of graphable orderly line through Time. Eschatology is as bogus a 'science' as astrology. History is a squiggle. A fractal curlicue. Nobody has ever perceived this truth more clearly than the writers born in the old Habsburg Empire (dear old Kakania): Franz Kafka, Robert Musil, Gustav Meyrinck, Joseph Roth, and Bruno Schulz, to name the best of them. Schulz is the most fractally squiggly of all, the most 'liberated' from the illusion of chronology. "Sanatorium" is narrated in a bizarre time-warp of synchronicity; the narrator's Father, the figure who binds all moments together, appears in seemingly random sequence as both dead and alive, present and remembered. Is "Sanatorium" a single narrative, or a series of semi-connected vignettes? The surreal answer is .... both.

"Surreal" is an overused label for literature of fantasy, but it fits Schulz more aptly than most, although "just plain weird" might be yet more apt. Reading Schulz is like walking into a gallery of paintings by Vincent van Gogh. The images are NOT abstract; the objects represented in paint or in words are decidedly ordinary. The viewer/reader knows full well that no colors so bright exist in nature, no angles so sharp can survive the gravity of the quotidian, yet the images are stupendously convincing. More 'real' than 'reality' ... super-real, surreal in the root sense of the invented term.

Here's a sample:
"Afterwards the gardens filled the air with enormous sighs and grew their leaves hastily, working overtime by day and night. All flags hung down heavy and darkened, helplessly pouring out the last streaks of color into the dense aura. Sometimes at the opening of a street someone turned to the sky half a face, like a dark cutout with one frightened and shining eye, and listened to the rumble of space, to the electric silence of passing clouds while the air was cut by the flight of trembling, pointed arrow-sharp, black-and-white swallows."

And another:
"... one day, at a late hour I shall stand on the threshold of these gardens, hand in hand with Bianca. We shall find forgotten corners where between old walls, poisonous plants are growing, where Poe's artificial Edens, full of hemlock, poppies, and convolvuluses glow under the grizzly sky of very old frescoes. We shall wake up the white marble satue sleeping with empty eyes in that marginal world beyond the limits of a wilting afternoon."

The reference to Edgar Allen Poe is revealing, and an anglophone reader might well be reminded also of Hawthorne's finest 'gothic' short story, "Doctor Rappuccini's Garden". But there's an older source for this wellspring of imagination, an "influence" to be sought, I think, a century and some decades father back in the literature of Middle Europe: the fantastic language of E.T.A. Hoffmann. That strand of influence struck me especially because I've just been playing a part in a production of the opera "Tales of Hoffmann", which inspired me to read the original tale called "The Golden Pot". There are too many repeated images in "Sanatorium" and "Pot" to be chance: images of gardens, flowers, birds both caged and free to flee indoors, and salamanders! Flowers and birds might be mere coincidence, but salamanders? Hoffmann's works were immensely popular in the 19th C; unquestionably both Poe and hawthorne were acquainted with them. American readers don't turn to Hoffman much these days, which is their loss; he was a far wittier writer than J.K. Rowling. I'd wager a month's stock dividends, however, that Hoffmann was still wildly popular in Middle Europe when Bruno Schulz was learning to write by reading.

One more sample, and then I'll stop lest I retype the whole dazzling book:
"At last, at the city boundary the night gives up its games, removes its veil, discloses its serious and eternal face. It stops constructing around us illusory labyrinths of hallucination and nightmare and opens wide its starry eternity. The firmament grows into infinity, constellations glow in their splendor in time-hallowed positions, drawing magic figures in the sky as if they wanted to announce something, to proclaim something intimate by their frightening silence. The shimmering of these distant worlds is a silvery starry chatter like the croaking of frogs. The July sky scatters an unbelievable dust of meteors, quietly soaked up by the cosmos."