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The Passport Herta Müller Martin Chalmers 9781852421397 Books

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The Passport Herta Müller Martin Chalmers 9781852421397 Books

LIfe has become unbearable for Windisch - we never learn his first name - in a Brechtian objective that keeps us at arms length or further from the hero noir and this distasteful dystopia. I need to stay away, am repelled, and yet I am sucked in, fascinated and disturbed as much as Munch's Scream. No one screams aloud but they want to, it seems. The sentences are as short and shardlike as the broken edges of each character. Muller's poetic prose transcends the smallness of the town and the small mindedness of its inhabitants. I love them only because they are true. They are broken, not just by Ceaucescu's tyranny and the dysfunctional bureaucracy of greed, putrefaction, and lust in the petty functionaries; but by the aftermath of Nazi trumpets and bugles; Russian rape and rapaciousness; and slave labor and starvation. Muller's mother was starved in slavery for years and her father a minor Nazi satrap in the town that is the model. Muller was born in the aftermath of this rise and fall and then subjected to the dispossession of dictatorship and the securitate secret police. Fragments of all this background is jumbled together in haunting, mystifying, surreal prose that is constantly poetic. A pothole in the road is an icon of the state of the community. Frogs croak in the background as everyone struggles with ersatz relationships that only tempt the promise of what might have been. And yet life goes on, stuggling to rise above slime that festoons their wings, mankind is only a pheasant in the world, hunted by dogs and men, cowering in the underbrush, it nevertheless leads hunters away from its chicks protectively, only to its own doom.


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The Passport Herta Müller Martin Chalmers 9781852421397 Books Reviews

When I started reading one short, declarative sentence after another, I was a bit put off, but as I allowed the poetic rhythm of the book to pull me in, I was fully engaged. Written from a grim place, where society has been taken to its lowest level, we see how people who've faced war, starvation, and rape react. It isn't pretty, but it's real.
Sometimes the surrealist images have to be taken for what they are without being analyzed. Once the reader slips into the village, watches the owl circle, knows the dilemmas Windisch and his wife and daughter have faced, one starts to get an idea of what it is like to live in this stark world where choices don't exist.
It's hard for Americans to take it in, difficult to image a man sending his daughter off to give herself to the town officials (including a priest) of the village so the family can have passports, but the bare bones struggle reeks of truth.
The book is sparse, fitting of a tale told of a place and time where daily existence was a challenge and no easy paths existed. Profound. Read it several times. It's poetry.
Written by Lois Requist, author of "RVing Solo Across America . . . without a cat, dog,man, or gun."
Here is another Muller book on the quotidian brutality of life under the Ceacescu regime. It is the prominent theme of her overall ouevre, and here is explored in as great of detail as any of her other books. The plot, like the book itself, is thin; Windisch seeks to exit his tiny Romanian village and has to go through the corrupt government to secure a passport, at great risk and cost, to do so. The plot isn't half as interesting as the way Muller chooses to tell the story. The book is presented in a series of tiny vignettes that each in their own way shed some light on how people lived, thought, rationalized and reacted in such a dehumanizing world. Some further the plot, some reveal character, and some are presented as-is in order to make the story seem as everyday and true to life as possible. It is a fine and necessary book, and subtly educates the reader about a period of time not as covered as it should be. It is still a chore to wade through, however, and this could be due to Muller's writing abilities or a shoddy translation which created some chunky prose. This isn't a pretty read, but anyone interested in Muller's work after her sudden post-Nobel fame would benefit by experiencing it.
I had a difficult time wrapping my arms around this bleak narrative and mystifying (haunting) prose.
Perhaps because it was sandwiched between reading Nabokov's Lolita and McEwan's Black Dogs, the writing style did not engage me as I thought it would... given my love of prosaic writing.
I found it difficult to follow the staccato style embedded in the cold and grim landscape.
I got lost in the bleakness and oppression and was unable to soar with the promised prose.
Another reviewer here that said in part that reading this novel was like looking at a Salvador Dali painting while watching a film noir at the same time.... and I could certainly associate with that! ....It really needed the reader's full attention and I just couldn't provide that.
The purported poetry in this book is very bleak and tersely woven with menacing metaphors ...not anything to woo a reader... IMO.
I enjoy poetry, I write and read poetry with some degree of understanding and I did not find Müller's use of poetic prose inviting or easily accessible.
The book is written in clipped short sentences and reads at times like a Dick and Jane book.... For example... "There were grey cracks between the blinds. Amalie had a temperature. Windisch couldn't sleep. He was thinking about her chewed nipples."
Müller's sentences are gloomy and darkly disburbing... she paints a joyless existence of mired mournful movement. Death and clocks drearily dominate the narrative.
The 'poetic' metaphors are often hallucinatory and surreally envisioned .... "a butterfly "flies through the tailor's cheek, passing out of the back of the tailor's head, white and uncrumpled"...."An apple tree grows a mouth and eats its own apples," etc. Surely, some of her poetic metaphors suffered through the translation and that could have been part of my difficulty with her style.
I found little in the choppy, uneven, and doleful writing style that engaged me to care for any of the characters.
LIfe has become unbearable for Windisch - we never learn his first name - in a Brechtian objective that keeps us at arms length or further from the hero noir and this distasteful dystopia. I need to stay away, am repelled, and yet I am sucked in, fascinated and disturbed as much as Munch's Scream. No one screams aloud but they want to, it seems. The sentences are as short and shardlike as the broken edges of each character. Muller's poetic prose transcends the smallness of the town and the small mindedness of its inhabitants. I love them only because they are true. They are broken, not just by Ceaucescu's tyranny and the dysfunctional bureaucracy of greed, putrefaction, and lust in the petty functionaries; but by the aftermath of Nazi trumpets and bugles; Russian rape and rapaciousness; and slave labor and starvation. Muller's mother was starved in slavery for years and her father a minor Nazi satrap in the town that is the model. Muller was born in the aftermath of this rise and fall and then subjected to the dispossession of dictatorship and the securitate secret police. Fragments of all this background is jumbled together in haunting, mystifying, surreal prose that is constantly poetic. A pothole in the road is an icon of the state of the community. Frogs croak in the background as everyone struggles with ersatz relationships that only tempt the promise of what might have been. And yet life goes on, stuggling to rise above slime that festoons their wings, mankind is only a pheasant in the world, hunted by dogs and men, cowering in the underbrush, it nevertheless leads hunters away from its chicks protectively, only to its own doom.