The Evenings
A Winter's Tale
(Sprache: Englisch)
I work in an office. I take cards out of a file. Once I have taken them out, I put them back in again. That is it.'
Twenty-three-year-old Frits - office worker, daydreamer, teller of inappropriate jokes - finds life absurd and inexplicable. He lives with...
Twenty-three-year-old Frits - office worker, daydreamer, teller of inappropriate jokes - finds life absurd and inexplicable. He lives with...
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I work in an office. I take cards out of a file. Once I have taken them out, I put them back in again. That is it.'Twenty-three-year-old Frits - office worker, daydreamer, teller of inappropriate jokes - finds life absurd and inexplicable. He lives with his parents, who drive him mad. He has terrible, disturbing dreams of death and destruction. Sometimes he talks to a toy rabbit.
This is the story of ten evenings in Frits's life at the end of December, as he drinks, smokes, sees friends, aimlessly wanders the gloomy city streets and tries to make sense of the minutes, hours and days that stretch before him.
Darkly funny and mesmerising, The Evenings takes the tiny, quotidian triumphs and heartbreaks of our everyday lives and turns them into a work of brilliant wit and profound beauty.
Lese-Probe zu „The Evenings “
IIt was still dark , in the early morning hours of the
twenty-second of December 1946, on the second floor of
the house at Schilderskade 66 in our town, when the hero of
this story, Frits van Egters, awoke. He looked at the luminous
dial of his watch, hanging on its nail. "A quarter to six," he
mumbled, "it's still night." He rubbed his face. "What a horrible
dream," he thought. "What was it again?" Gradually it came
back to him. He had dreamt that the living room was full of
visitors. "It's going to be a glorious weekend," someone said.
At that same moment a man in a bowler hat walked in. No
one paid him any heed and no one greeted him, but Frits eyed
him closely. Suddenly the visitor fell to the floor with a thud.
"Was that it?" he thought. "What happened after that?
Nothing, I believe." He fell asleep again. The dream went on
where it had stopped. His bowler pressed down over his face,
the man was now lying in a black coffin that had been placed on
a low table in one corner of the room. "I don't recognize that
table," Frits thought. "Did we borrow it from someone?" Then,
peering into the coffin, he said loudly: "We'll be stuck with this
till Monday, in any event." "I wouldn't be so sure about that,"
said a bald, red-faced man with spectacles. "Would you care to
wager that I can arrange the funeral for this afternoon at two?"
Frits awoke once more. It was twenty minutes past six. "I've
had enough sleep," he said to himself, "that's why I woke up so
early. I still have more than an hour to go."
He dozed off eventually, and entered the living room for
the third time. There was no one there. He walked over to the
coffin, looked into it and thought: "He's dead, and starting to
rot." Suddenly the cadaver was covered in all kinds of carpenter's
tools, piled to the coffin's rim: hammers, drills, saws, spirit
levels, planes, pliers and little bags of nails. All that stuck out
was the dead man's right hand.
"There's no one here," he
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thought, "not a soul in the house;
what am I going to do? Music, that always helps." He leaned
across the coffin to turn on the radio, but at that same moment
saw the hand, bluish now and with long white nails, begin to stir.
He recoiled in fear. "I mustn't move," he thought, "otherwise
it will happen." The hand sank back down.
Later he awoke, feeling anxious. "Ten to seven," he mumbled,
peering at the watch. "I always have such horrible dreams." He
rolled over and fell asleep again.
Parting a pair of thick green curtains, he entered the living
room. The visitors had returned. The man with the red face
came up to him, smiled and said: "It didn't work out. It will
have to be Monday morning, at ten. We can put the box in the
study till then." "Study?" Frits thought. "What study? Do we
have a study? He means the side room, of course." Six men
lifted the coffin to their shoulders. He himself walked out in
front, to open the door for them. "The key's still in the lock,"
he thought, "good thing, too."
The coffin was extremely heavy; the bearers moved slowly,
with measured strides. Suddenly he saw that the bottom of the
box was beginning to sag and swell. "It's going to burst," he
thought, "that's hideous. The corpse is still intact on the outside,
but inside it's a thin, yellow mush. It will splatter all over the floor."
By the time they were halfway down the hall, the bottom
was sagging so badly that it had begun to crack. Slowly, out of
that crack, appeared the same hand from which he had recoiled.
Gradually the whole arm followed. The fingers groped about,
then crept towards the throat of one of the bearers. "If I scream,
the whole thing will fall to the floor," Frits thought. He watched
as the bottom sagged further and further and the hand drew
closer and close
what am I going to do? Music, that always helps." He leaned
across the coffin to turn on the radio, but at that same moment
saw the hand, bluish now and with long white nails, begin to stir.
He recoiled in fear. "I mustn't move," he thought, "otherwise
it will happen." The hand sank back down.
Later he awoke, feeling anxious. "Ten to seven," he mumbled,
peering at the watch. "I always have such horrible dreams." He
rolled over and fell asleep again.
Parting a pair of thick green curtains, he entered the living
room. The visitors had returned. The man with the red face
came up to him, smiled and said: "It didn't work out. It will
have to be Monday morning, at ten. We can put the box in the
study till then." "Study?" Frits thought. "What study? Do we
have a study? He means the side room, of course." Six men
lifted the coffin to their shoulders. He himself walked out in
front, to open the door for them. "The key's still in the lock,"
he thought, "good thing, too."
The coffin was extremely heavy; the bearers moved slowly,
with measured strides. Suddenly he saw that the bottom of the
box was beginning to sag and swell. "It's going to burst," he
thought, "that's hideous. The corpse is still intact on the outside,
but inside it's a thin, yellow mush. It will splatter all over the floor."
By the time they were halfway down the hall, the bottom
was sagging so badly that it had begun to crack. Slowly, out of
that crack, appeared the same hand from which he had recoiled.
Gradually the whole arm followed. The fingers groped about,
then crept towards the throat of one of the bearers. "If I scream,
the whole thing will fall to the floor," Frits thought. He watched
as the bottom sagged further and further and the hand drew
closer and close
... weniger
Autoren-Porträt von Gerard Reve
Gerard Reve (1923-2006) is considered one of the greatest post-war Dutch authors, and was also the first openly gay writer in the country's history. A complicated and controversial character, Reve is also hugely popular and critically acclaimed- his 1947 debut The Evenings was chosen as one of the nation's 10 favourite books by the readers of a leading Dutch newspaper while the Society of Dutch Literature ranked it as the Netherlands' best novel of all time.
Bibliographische Angaben
- Autor: Gerard Reve
- 2018, 320 Seiten, Maße: 12,8 x 19,8 cm, Kartoniert (TB), Englisch
- Übersetzer: Sam Garrett
- Verlag: Pushkin Press
- ISBN-10: 1782273018
- ISBN-13: 9781782273011
- Erscheinungsdatum: 18.09.2017
Sprache:
Englisch
Pressezitat
IPPY Literary Fiction Award Bronze MedalistAn Observer, Financial Times, and Irish Times Book of the Year
"Exceptional... a crisp and readable translation by Sam Garrett." - The Wall Street Journal
"Fascinating, hilarious, and page-turning. The publication of this novel marks the exciting introduction of a wonderful writer to an Anglophone audience." - Publishers Weekly
"Reviewers have compared it favorably to J .D. Salinger's The Catcher in the Rye, Albert Camus's The Stranger and Karl Ove Knausgaard's My Struggle. In The Irish Times, Eileen Battersby called it 'one of the finest studies of youthful malaise ever written,' and in The Guardian, Tim Parks described it as 'not only a masterpiece but a cornerstone manqué of modern European literature.' The Society of Dutch Literature ranked it as the country's best 20th-century novel and its third-best of all time." - The New York Times
"Diabolically funny... From the deep midnight of shattered Europe, Reve crafted not only an existential masterwork worthy to stand with Beckett or Albert Camus but an oblique historical testament." - The Economist
"A novel as funny as it is painful . . . A little masterpiece - a provocative reminder that life goes on even in the bleakest of circumstances." - Los Angeles Review of Books
"Captivating." - The Atlantic
"In this first English translation of a Dutch classic . . . The author's dry wit and ability to find humor and beauty in the banality of daily life are impressive."- Booklist
"Not only a masterpiece but a cornerstone manque of modern European literature... what can I say, in a world of hype, that will put this book where it belongs, in readers' hands and minds?... Reve's sparkling collage of acute observation, droll internal monologue and pitch-perfect dialogue keeps the reader breathless right through to the grand finale...huge respect to Pushkin Press." - Tim Parks, The Guardian
"One of the greatest post-war Dutch novels... [a] brilliant modern
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classic." - Tom Chalmers, Publishers Weekly
"Consistently simple, straightforward, pitch-perfect prose (translated splendidly by Sam Garrett)." - Weekly Standard
"a neurotic, darkly humorous and cynical treatise on youth in the Netherlands after World War II. . . the book is innovative in its use of language. Reve successfully evokes a strong sense of psychological unrest in the mind of reader." - Out and About Nashville
"drily amusing, suffused with angst and post-war malaise and -- at first blush -- very impressive." - BookFilter
"It's a testament to Reve's writing and imagination that the question of Frits will haunt the reader long after they're finished." - Pop Matters
"A classic of dry, dark humour... it captures a very specific flavour of ennui." - Herald
"I warmly recommend Gerard Reve's hilariously gloomy The Evenings... I see it as a Dutch version of Kafka's Metamorphosis." - Observer
"A Meursault-in-waiting, a blank Holden Caulfield, a precursor to the kid in Iain Bank's The Wasp Factory. Very good." - Evening Standard
"As a study of aimlessness in postwar Europe it is difficult, perhaps impossible to surpass." - Irish Times
"This much lauded book, finally available in English, [is] the perfect January read." - The Spectator
"The novel is dark, funny, unsettling and lingers vividly in the mind. Hats off to Pushkin Press and the outstanding translator, Sam Garrett, for making this odd, orphaned masterpiece available at last to an English-speaking readership." - Times Literary Supplement
"The Evenings is packed with the minutiae of life: luckily, the minutiae are fascinating...Reve isn't the kind of novelist to give you a straightforward answer but the journey is quite a ride." - The Times
"Reve's keen eye for absurdity manages to cast the mundane in a new, albeit macabre, light." - Financial Times
"This 1947 Dutch novel, considered the Netherlands' greatest in the twentieth century and now published in English for the
"Consistently simple, straightforward, pitch-perfect prose (translated splendidly by Sam Garrett)." - Weekly Standard
"a neurotic, darkly humorous and cynical treatise on youth in the Netherlands after World War II. . . the book is innovative in its use of language. Reve successfully evokes a strong sense of psychological unrest in the mind of reader." - Out and About Nashville
"drily amusing, suffused with angst and post-war malaise and -- at first blush -- very impressive." - BookFilter
"It's a testament to Reve's writing and imagination that the question of Frits will haunt the reader long after they're finished." - Pop Matters
"A classic of dry, dark humour... it captures a very specific flavour of ennui." - Herald
"I warmly recommend Gerard Reve's hilariously gloomy The Evenings... I see it as a Dutch version of Kafka's Metamorphosis." - Observer
"A Meursault-in-waiting, a blank Holden Caulfield, a precursor to the kid in Iain Bank's The Wasp Factory. Very good." - Evening Standard
"As a study of aimlessness in postwar Europe it is difficult, perhaps impossible to surpass." - Irish Times
"This much lauded book, finally available in English, [is] the perfect January read." - The Spectator
"The novel is dark, funny, unsettling and lingers vividly in the mind. Hats off to Pushkin Press and the outstanding translator, Sam Garrett, for making this odd, orphaned masterpiece available at last to an English-speaking readership." - Times Literary Supplement
"The Evenings is packed with the minutiae of life: luckily, the minutiae are fascinating...Reve isn't the kind of novelist to give you a straightforward answer but the journey is quite a ride." - The Times
"Reve's keen eye for absurdity manages to cast the mundane in a new, albeit macabre, light." - Financial Times
"This 1947 Dutch novel, considered the Netherlands' greatest in the twentieth century and now published in English for the
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