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Frost (1963)

av Thomas Bernhard

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MedlemmarRecensionerPopularitetGenomsnittligt betygOmnämnanden
4251443,637 (3.93)8
Visceral, raw, singular, and distinctive,Frostis the story of a friendship between a young man at the beginning of his medical career and a painter who is entering his final days. A writer of world stature, Thomas Bernhard combined a searing wit and an unwavering gaze into the human condition.Frostfollows an unnamed young Austrian who accepts an unusual assignment. Rather than continue with his medical studies, he travels to a bleak mining town in the back of beyond, in order to clinically observe the aged painter, Strauch, who happens to be the brother of this young man’s surgical mentor. The catch is this: Strauch must not know the young man’s true occupation or the reason for his arrival. Posing as a promising law student with a love of Henry James, the young man befriends the mad artist and is caught up among an equally extraordinary cast of local characters, from his resentful landlady to the town’s mining engineers. This debut novel by Thomas Bernhard, which came out in German in 1963 and is now being published in English for the first time, marks the beginning of what was one of the twentieth century’s most powerful, provocative literary careers.… (mer)

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» Se även 8 omnämnanden

engelska (12)  italienska (1)  tyska (1)  Alla språk (14)
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I'm not sure what I expected, but it wasn't this: I've read most of Bernhard's later work, and always put this one off. I think I'm glad--this was an amazing book, but I was expecting something easier than Bernhard's usual, not more difficult. The rant form is here in nuce, but broken up, like a later Bernhard book smashed into tesserae and scattered before the reader. Allow me to explain the clear with the obscure: it's much more Wittgenstein or Nietzsche, and less Adorno. And I prefer Adorno in every possible way. ( )
  stillatim | Oct 23, 2020 |
"'You see,' said the painter, 'the brain is capable of nourishing itself on the inventions , the great inventions of little and lesser and infinitesimal dread ...it can make itself roar ...make itself a world, an original world, an ice age, a vast stone age of organization ...One proceeds from a very small and insignificant instance, from a little individual who falls into one's hands ...From the principle of some desecration, the justness of such desecration, into the desecration itself ...one leaves the victim lying there, one has snow fall on him, one has him decompose, dissolve, an an animal might dissolve that one once might have thought oneself to be ...Do you understand? Life is the purest, clearest, darkest, most crystalline form of hopelessness ...There is only one way to go, through the snow and ice into despair; past the adultery of reason.'" - pg 265

So the painter, Strauch, as you can tell, is really fun to be around and in this first novel by Bernhard you're around him a lot. He never goes away. His pain and suffering, his insanity, his desperate yearning for joy that can never exist, his sudden outbursts of miserable poetry, his disorganized mind - they never dissipate, come to a conclusion, enlighten or erupt. This is a novel of insistent suffering and the reader is left to find meaning wherever they can, amid the natural desolation of a snow covered village, Strauch wouldn't blame you if you decided there was nothing to find in the first place. The artfulness of this novel is captured in the nonsensical, poetic urge to go "past the adultery of reason." Unpacking that phrase is a waste of time, just as assessing a madman artist against the standards of medical norms is a waste of time, just as searching for meaning in the assessment of that student of medicine is a waste of time. It all amounts to no aims or conclusions. It exists in meaningless misery and deceptions layered with deceptions.

So, yeah, great book. Something to read the kids before bed. Bernhard's project came on strong and never let up. It is a difficult book, a painful book, and a necessary seedling for themes that resonate and develop throughout his career. Though this is Bernhard's first novel, I don't think it is the best place to start. In fact, I think this is a terrible place to start. I read Gargoyles first and it brought me here. I will likely read more of his work only because of the dialogue created between this and his other novels. ( )
  Adrian_Astur_Alvarez | Dec 3, 2019 |
"'You see,' said the painter, 'the brain is capable of nourishing itself on the inventions , the great inventions of little and lesser and infinitesimal dread ...it can make itself roar ...make itself a world, an original world, an ice age, a vast stone age of organization ...One proceeds from a very small and insignificant instance, from a little individual who falls into one's hands ...From the principle of some desecration, the justness of such desecration, into the desecration itself ...one leaves the victim lying there, one has snow fall on him, one has him decompose, dissolve, an an animal might dissolve that one once might have thought oneself to be ...Do you understand? Life is the purest, clearest, darkest, most crystalline form of hopelessness ...There is only one way to go, through the snow and ice into despair; past the adultery of reason.'" - pg 265

So the painter, Strauch, as you can tell, is really fun to be around and in this first novel by Bernhard you're around him a lot. He never goes away. His pain and suffering, his insanity, his desperate yearning for joy that can never exist, his sudden outbursts of miserable poetry, his disorganized mind - they never dissipate, come to a conclusion, enlighten or erupt. This is a novel of insistent suffering and the reader is left to find meaning wherever they can, amid the natural desolation of a snow covered village, Strauch wouldn't blame you if you decided there was nothing to find in the first place. The artfulness of this novel is captured in the nonsensical, poetic urge to go "past the adultery of reason." Unpacking that phrase is a waste of time, just as assessing a madman artist against the standards of medical norms is a waste of time, just as searching for meaning in the assessment of that student of medicine is a waste of time. It all amounts to no aims or conclusions. It exists in meaningless misery and deceptions layered with deceptions.

So, yeah, great book. Something to read the kids before bed. Bernhard's project came on strong and never let up. It is a difficult book, a painful book, and a necessary seedling for themes that resonate and develop throughout his career. Though this is Bernhard's first novel, I don't think it is the best place to start. In fact, I think this is a terrible place to start. I read Gargoyles first and it brought me here. I will likely read more of his work only because of the dialogue created between this and his other novels. ( )
  Adrian_Astur_Alvarez | Dec 3, 2019 |
Das Buch hat bei mir einen massiven Eindruck hinterlassen, aber keinen guten. Pessimismus, Misanthropie und Depression auf die Spitze getrieben in bildgewaltiger, trauriger Schwärze.
Häufig sind die Tiraden des Malers, der vom Ich-Erzähler beobachtet wird, komplett unverständlich, mehr Bild als Sinn – als Leser hatte ich oft ein Gefühl, als würde ich ein abstraktes Gemälde betrachten, mitgerissen, aber ohne verstandesmäßigen Zugang.
Schwere Kost, sicher nichts für Leser ohne Ausdauer. Faszinierend, aber auch abstoßend. Ein Ritt, wie kaum ein anderes Buch ihn in mir ausgelöst hat, aber eigentlich zuviel des Guten, oder vielmehr des Schlechten.
Letztlich zu schwer verdaulich. ( )
  zottel | Jun 14, 2019 |
This was Bernhard's first novel, following on from two collections of lyric verse and some musical collaborations with the composer Gerhard Lampersberg, and was really his breakthrough work as a prose writer, bringing him to the attention of the critics and winning him a couple of major prizes and quite a few important enemies (always a mark of success in Bernhard-land).

The narrator is a medical student, who has been given the rather unlikely assignment by his supervisor, the surgeon Strauch, of conducting an extensive undercover observation of Strauch's brother, a painter. The brother has burnt all his paintings, abandoned his life in Vienna, and gone into a Wittgenstein-like retreat in the obscure and impoverished mountain village of Weng, where he is staying in a run-down pub. The narrator tracks the painter down and soon finds himself recruited to go on long walks through the snow with him (Weng is clearly a place where it's always winter and never Christmas) and listen to his increasingly bleak and Bernhardish thoughts about his mental and physical state, the villagers, the landscape, Austria ("...the bordello of Europe..."), the arts, and death by disease, accident, murder and suicide.

It's a little bit looser and less intensively musical than mature Bernhard prose, and it uses unexpectedly conventional layout devices like paragraph breaks(!) and chapters, but you can see where it's headed. There's plenty of the usual scathing and very black humour, doctor-bashing, general misogyny, impatience with dullwittedness, and contempt for Austrian folksiness mingled with pleasure in the oddities of Austrian language. One of the main characters is the Wasenmeister, the person responsible for disposing of animal cadavers in the village (roughly equivalent to "knacker" in English). Not a word you will find in many modern dictionaries! Needless to say, he turns out to be in cahoots with the disreputable landlady of the pub.

Not a book that is likely to encourage many tourists to visit rural Austria, and probably best avoided if you are liable to depression, but otherwise well worth our time, like everything else I've read by Bernhard. And a fascinating glimpse at how he got to his mature style. ( )
  thorold | Jun 8, 2017 |
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I reviewed this recently on gradpadscansion.wordpress.com . In short, I enjoyed the quality of the writing, and the translation read wonderfully, but after a while, it began reading like a Goth/Emo diary, with much to do about darkness, cold, and, um, darkness. Not a book I'd recommend.
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» Lägg till fler författare (5 möjliga)

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Bernhard, Thomasprimär författarealla utgåvorbekräftat
Graftdijk, ThomasÖversättaremedförfattarevissa utgåvorbekräftat
Hofmann, MichaelÖversättaremedförfattarevissa utgåvorbekräftat
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"Was reden die Leute über mich?" fragte er. "Sagen sie: der Idiot? Was reden die Leute?"
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Eine Famulatur besteht ja nicht nur aus dem Zuschauen bei komplizierten Darmoperationen, aus Bauchfellaufschneiden, Lungenflügelzuklammern und Fußabsägen, sie besteht wirklich nicht nur aus Totenaugenzudrücken und aus Kinderherausziehen in der Welt.
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Wikipedia på engelska (2)

Visceral, raw, singular, and distinctive,Frostis the story of a friendship between a young man at the beginning of his medical career and a painter who is entering his final days. A writer of world stature, Thomas Bernhard combined a searing wit and an unwavering gaze into the human condition.Frostfollows an unnamed young Austrian who accepts an unusual assignment. Rather than continue with his medical studies, he travels to a bleak mining town in the back of beyond, in order to clinically observe the aged painter, Strauch, who happens to be the brother of this young man’s surgical mentor. The catch is this: Strauch must not know the young man’s true occupation or the reason for his arrival. Posing as a promising law student with a love of Henry James, the young man befriends the mad artist and is caught up among an equally extraordinary cast of local characters, from his resentful landlady to the town’s mining engineers. This debut novel by Thomas Bernhard, which came out in German in 1963 and is now being published in English for the first time, marks the beginning of what was one of the twentieth century’s most powerful, provocative literary careers.

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