Animals
(Sprache: Englisch)
Hebe Uhart s characters are made of an almost palpable material. They are alive, and they seem to emerge from the page to tell us, This one here is me, that one over there could be you. Alejandra Costamagna, The Paris Review
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Hebe Uhart s characters are made of an almost palpable material. They are alive, and they seem to emerge from the page to tell us, This one here is me, that one over there could be you. Alejandra Costamagna, The Paris ReviewReading Hebe Uhart we laugh a lot, although we are never sure if what we ve read is just a joke, because in her words there is also, above all, precision and wisdom . . . Alejandro Zambra
Hebe Uhart s Animals tells of piglets that snack on crackers, parrots that rehearse their words at night, southern screamers that lurk at the front door of a decrepit aunt s house, and, of course, human animals, whose presence is treated with the same inquisitive sharpness and sweetness that marks all of Uhart s work.
Animals is a joyous reordering of attention towards the beings with whom we share the planet. In prose that tracks the goings on of creatures who care little what we do or say, a refreshing humility emerges, and with it a newfound pleasure in the everyday.
Watching a whistling heron, Uhart writes, that rebellious crest gives it a lunatic air. Birds in the park and dogs in the street will hold a different interest after reading Uhart s blissful foray into playful zoology.
Lese-Probe zu „Animals “
My History with AnimalsMy father used to enjoy confusing the children. He
would sing: Of all the many birds that fly, I like the
pig. My response to this song was first suspicion, then annoyance.
When I was about six years old, he d take me on walks
around the outskirts of Moreno, which already turned to countryside
only eight blocks from downtown, and the plumpest cows
stood out there behind wire fences. He would tell me:
Say hello.
And I would say:
Hello there, cow.
If one of them mooed, he would tell me:
See? Now she s saying hello.
Around the same period, we used to go over on Sundays to eat
at my uncle and aunt s retreat in Paso del Rey, where my grandmother
lived. The place was enormous but more rustic than my
house. There were instructions about which things were off limits:
I mustn t chase after the hens, mustn t sit in the chairs on the
little patio as they could be rather dirty, mustn t touch Milonga
the dog too much. Milonga didn t belong to anyone; he was part
of the place and came and went with total autonomy, without
anyone sparing him a glance. But I liked to pet him, and I d sit
on the ground while he stood by my side, at peace.
He s a street dog! they d tell me.
I didn t understand the difference between street dogs and house
dogs, just as I didn t understand the difference between wild and
cultivated flowers; for me, those tiny flowers that look identical to
daisies belonged to the same family; my mother called them flores
de bicho colorado, red mite flowers. A few years later, when I was
around nine, my mother sent me on a bus to Paso del Rey to visit
Aunt María, whose house stood next door to my other aunt and
uncle s holiday home; they used to bring food for her. I brought
María whatever she asked for from Moreno: Rachel face powder,
hairpins, and a wonderful scented soap. Why she requested
these things I ll never know; her long white hair hung down past
her shoulders, the dress she wore was totally
... mehr
threadbare, and she
kept chickens, shut up inside a little room (that felt like a place
for storing junk) so that they wouldn t mingle with the chickens
from my aunt and uncle s coop. She d only let them out on very
rare occasions when she fancied it.When these chickens of hers
did get out, they were all crooked and unsteady, unable to walk
right. She did bathe a few of them; they were clearly wasting
away, but she didn t appear to acknowledge the fact. I d always
known she was off her rocker and accepted that, but by age seven
or so I wondered how it could be, given her state, that plants
sprouted for her just the same as they did for others. She had a
nice yard and even kept a sweetbriar rose, but I never caught her
watering a thing. The plants there were a little more unkempt
than those in other gardens, but I used to think that, since she
acted this way, so peculiar, she ought to have plants befitting her
condition, weird plants. Rain was common there, and I thought
it must have been a different sort of rain to suit her. Going there
to bring her the powder and soap was slightly unnerving for me,
since she received me warmly sometimes but other times kicked
me out, calling me a gossip, which was true, of course, since
I d go back to Moreno and tell my mom about all the goings-on
around there. I now suspect they were sending me as a spy.
However perplexing this errand was, there was something nice
about taking the bus to Paso del Rey on my own. But on the
way into María s house there was a little rustic wooden door, and
behind that door lay the southern screamer. A southern screamer
is like a kind of g
kept chickens, shut up inside a little room (that felt like a place
for storing junk) so that they wouldn t mingle with the chickens
from my aunt and uncle s coop. She d only let them out on very
rare occasions when she fancied it.When these chickens of hers
did get out, they were all crooked and unsteady, unable to walk
right. She did bathe a few of them; they were clearly wasting
away, but she didn t appear to acknowledge the fact. I d always
known she was off her rocker and accepted that, but by age seven
or so I wondered how it could be, given her state, that plants
sprouted for her just the same as they did for others. She had a
nice yard and even kept a sweetbriar rose, but I never caught her
watering a thing. The plants there were a little more unkempt
than those in other gardens, but I used to think that, since she
acted this way, so peculiar, she ought to have plants befitting her
condition, weird plants. Rain was common there, and I thought
it must have been a different sort of rain to suit her. Going there
to bring her the powder and soap was slightly unnerving for me,
since she received me warmly sometimes but other times kicked
me out, calling me a gossip, which was true, of course, since
I d go back to Moreno and tell my mom about all the goings-on
around there. I now suspect they were sending me as a spy.
However perplexing this errand was, there was something nice
about taking the bus to Paso del Rey on my own. But on the
way into María s house there was a little rustic wooden door, and
behind that door lay the southern screamer. A southern screamer
is like a kind of g
... weniger
Autoren-Porträt von HEBE UHART
Born in 1936 in the outskirts of Buenos Aires, Hebe Uhart is one of Argentina's most celebrated modern writers. She published two novels, Camilo asciende (1987) and Mudanzas (1995), but is better known for her short stories, where she explores the lives of ordinary characters in small Argentine towns. Her Collected Stories won the Buenos Aires Book Fair Prize (2010), and she received Argentina's National Endowment of the Arts Prize (2015) for her overall oeuvre, as well as the Manuel Rojas Ibero-American Narrative Prize (2017).Robert Croll is a writer, translator, musician, and visual artist from Asheville, North Carolina. He first came to translation during his undergraduate studies at Amherst College, where he focused on Julio Cortázar's short fiction. His translations include The Diaries of Emilio Renzi by Ricardo Piglia, published by Restless Books.
Bibliographische Angaben
- Autor: HEBE UHART
- 2021, 200 Seiten, Maße: 14,4 x 16,4 cm, Kartoniert (TB), Englisch
- Übersetzer: Robert Croll
- Verlag: Archipelago
- ISBN-10: 1939810922
- ISBN-13: 9781939810922
- Erscheinungsdatum: 05.08.2021
Sprache:
Englisch
Pressezitat
"Uhart, who died in 2018, was an utter master of the gentle observation. Her work combines unsentimental affection with endless curiosity about the details of everyday life . . . Animals is at once tender, bemused, informative, and deeply fun . . . It asks, through sweet, respectful attention, how we might best relate to animals; how we humans, so accustomed to seeing ourselves as nature's rulers, might adjust our attitudes." --Lily Meyer, NPR.org
"A brilliant writer . . . In a manner that is both playful and provocative, Uhart challenges us to imagine a world less concerned with our differences and to welcome the artistic freedom this could bring . . . Robert Croll s beautiful translation breathes a new life into Uhart s narrative while maintaining her warmth and sense of humor."
--Rose Bialer, Rain Taxi Review of Books
"The writer disappears and the reader becomes the observer, dropping in on a bench at the city zoo, dipping into Walden, and conversing with retired ornithologists and Polish playwrights. With each vignette lasting not more than five pages (not to mention the pleasurable shape and feel typical of Archipelogo s titles) it s the ideal book to just carry around and enjoy while say, sitting in a waiting room, or riding the bus, or waiting for the oven timer."
--Dan Carlisle, Literary Hub
"Less natural history and more wondrous secret kingdom, this book gestures to something more tender, more surprising, a place where humans glimpse animals eye to eye but the viewing is in reverse, as if we are being observed,not the other way around."
--Kerri Arsenault, Orion
"Beautifully translated by Robert Croll, the book blending together memoir, zoology and cultural history . . . Animals is a delightful, personal compendium, full of eccentricity and emotional depth."
--Francesca Carington, Tatler
"For Hebe Uhart, "looking" was the most authentic way of writing, as if
... mehr
her arrested and thoughtful gaze over characters was carried into the words that formed their stories." -- Edwin Madrid
"[Uhart] is one of the most singular and exciting female voices of recent decades in Latin America. Her unique body of work and her unforgettable voice lives on in many of today's younger generation of writers emerging on the continent."
--Morning Star
"Her short stories and vignettes from daily life shimmer with truth...Fans of writers from Alice Munro to William Trevor will find Uhart's work, whenever it appears in English, a delight."
--Samuel Rutter, The Arkansas International
"Hebe Uhart's characters are made of an almost palpable material. They are alive, and they seem to emerge from the page to tell us, 'This one here is me, that one over there could be you.' How we move, how we walk, how we keep quiet: that is what Uhart observes in each of us. But also how we pause, how we sneeze, what onomatopoeias we use, how our being is revealed through everyday gestures that at times can contradict the ideas we claim to hold. It's through these minute observations, and her repudiation of generalities, that the writer unfurls her tentacles to construct her characters."
--Alejandra Costamagna, The Paris Review
"Hebe Uhart is one of Argentina's finest storytellers."
--Asymptote Journal
"Poised somewhere between narrative and sense memory, Uhart's lens looks into sundry lives and renders the act of surveillance both venal and holy."
--Foreword Reviews
"(Uhart's stories) steadily, unobtrusively oxygenate the world around them ... Uhart helped shape a generation of writers in Argentina as both a teacher and a writer, her influence both diffuse and impossible to ignore."
--Sam Carter, Music & Literature
"Though I suspect Uhart would have raspberried at these words, we can learn from her not only in terms of technique but also in how we relate to our existence, and how we approach the self in the act of writing. Her work is thorough yet surprising, humble yet humorous, intelligent without intellectual posturing. The result is a defamiliarization, a casting aside of the automatic and assumed in order to see the world plants, animals, humans anew. After Uhart, things are in agreement. For all their differences, they hang together. They have form." Julia Kornberg, The Believer
"[Uhart] is one of the most singular and exciting female voices of recent decades in Latin America. Her unique body of work and her unforgettable voice lives on in many of today's younger generation of writers emerging on the continent."
--Morning Star
"Her short stories and vignettes from daily life shimmer with truth...Fans of writers from Alice Munro to William Trevor will find Uhart's work, whenever it appears in English, a delight."
--Samuel Rutter, The Arkansas International
"Hebe Uhart's characters are made of an almost palpable material. They are alive, and they seem to emerge from the page to tell us, 'This one here is me, that one over there could be you.' How we move, how we walk, how we keep quiet: that is what Uhart observes in each of us. But also how we pause, how we sneeze, what onomatopoeias we use, how our being is revealed through everyday gestures that at times can contradict the ideas we claim to hold. It's through these minute observations, and her repudiation of generalities, that the writer unfurls her tentacles to construct her characters."
--Alejandra Costamagna, The Paris Review
"Hebe Uhart is one of Argentina's finest storytellers."
--Asymptote Journal
"Poised somewhere between narrative and sense memory, Uhart's lens looks into sundry lives and renders the act of surveillance both venal and holy."
--Foreword Reviews
"(Uhart's stories) steadily, unobtrusively oxygenate the world around them ... Uhart helped shape a generation of writers in Argentina as both a teacher and a writer, her influence both diffuse and impossible to ignore."
--Sam Carter, Music & Literature
"Though I suspect Uhart would have raspberried at these words, we can learn from her not only in terms of technique but also in how we relate to our existence, and how we approach the self in the act of writing. Her work is thorough yet surprising, humble yet humorous, intelligent without intellectual posturing. The result is a defamiliarization, a casting aside of the automatic and assumed in order to see the world plants, animals, humans anew. After Uhart, things are in agreement. For all their differences, they hang together. They have form." Julia Kornberg, The Believer
... weniger
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