Kaddish for an Unborn Child by Tim Wilkinson (English) Paperback Book

Description: Kaddish for an Unborn Child by Tim Wilkinson, Imre Kertész The first word in this mesmerizing novel by the winner of the Nobel Prize for Literature is "No." It is how the novel's narrator, a middle-aged Hungarian-Jewish writer, answers an acquaintance who asks him if he has a child. It is the answer he gave his wife (now ex-wife) years earlier when she told him that she wanted one. The loss, longing and regret that haunt the years between those two "no"s give rise to one of the most eloquent meditations ever written on the Holocaust.As Kertesz's narrator addresses the child he couldn't bear to bring into the world he ushers readers into the labyrinth of his consciousness, dramatizing the paradoxes attendant on surviving the catastrophe of Auschwitz. Kaddish for the Unborn Child is a work of staggering power, lit by flashes of perverse wit and fueled by the energy of its wholly original voice.Translated by Tim Wilkinson FORMAT Paperback LANGUAGE English CONDITION Brand New Publisher Description The first word in this mesmerizing novel by the winner of the Nobel Prize for Literature is "No." It is how the novels narrator, a middle-aged Hungarian-Jewish writer, answers an acquaintance who asks him if he has a child. It is the answer he gave his wife (now ex-wife) years earlier when she told him that she wanted one. The loss, longing and regret that haunt the years between those two "no"s give rise to one of the most eloquent meditations ever written on the Holocaust. As Kerteszs narrator addresses the child he couldnt bear to bring into the world he ushers readers into the labyrinth of his consciousness, dramatizing the paradoxes attendant on surviving the catastrophe of Auschwitz. Kaddish for the Unborn Child is a work of staggering power, lit by flashes of perverse wit and fueled by the energy of its wholly original voice. Translated by Tim Wilkinson Back Cover The first word in this mesmerizing novel is "No." It is how the novels narrator, a middle-aged Hungarian-Jewish writer, answers an acquaintance who asks him if he has a child. It is the answer he gave his wife (now ex-wife) years earlier when she told him that she wanted one. The loss, longing and regret that haunt the years between those two "no."s give rise to one of the most eloquent meditations ever written on the Holocaust. As Kerteszs narrator addresses the child he couldnt bear to bring into the world he ushers readers into the labyrinth of his consciousness, dramatizing the paradoxes attendant on surviving the catastrophe of Auschwitz. Kaddish for an Unborn Child is a work of staggering power, lit by flashes of perverse wit and fueled by the energy of its wholly original voice. Author Biography Kertesz is one of Hungarys most successful postwar writers. Review "Condenses a lifetime into a story told in a single night . . . exhilarating for [its] creative energy." —World Literature"In his writing Imre Kertesz explores the possibility of continuing to live and think as an individual in an era in which the subjection of human beings to social forces has become increasingly complete. upholds the fragile experience of the individual against the barbaric arbitrariness of history." --The Swedish Academy, awarding the Nobel Prize in Literature 2002"Disturbing yet lyrical . . . a seamless burst of introspection that is painful in its intensity and despair." --Library Journal (starred review) "Stunning . . . resembles such other memorably declamatory fictions as Camus The Fall and Dostoyevskys Notes from Underground." —Kirkus Reviews Review Quote "Condenses a lifetime into a story told in a single night . . . exhilarating for [its] creative energy." -World Literature "In his writing Imre Kertesz explores the possibility of continuing to live and think as an individual in an era in which the subjection of human beings to social forces has become increasingly complete. upholds the fragile experience of the individual against the barbaric arbitrariness of history." --The Swedish Academy, awarding the Nobel Prize in Literature 2002 "Disturbing yet lyrical . . . a seamless burst of introspection that is painful in its intensity and despair." --Library Journal(starred review) "Stunning . . . resembles such other memorably declamatory fictions as CamusThe Falland DostoyevskysNotes from Underground." -Kirkus Reviews From the Trade Paperback edition. Excerpt from Book No!" I said instantly and at once, without hesitating and, virtually, instinctively since it has become quite natural by now that our instincts should act contrary to our instincts, that our counterinstincts, so to say, should act instead of, indeed as, our instincts--Im joking, if this can be regarded as a joking matter; that is, if one can regard the naked, miserable truth as a joking matter, is what I tell the philosopher approaching me, now that both he and I have come to a halt in the beech wood, beech coppice, or whatever they are called, stunted and almost audibly wheezing from disease, perhaps from consumption; I must confess to being a dunce about trees, I can recognize only pine trees instantly, on account of their needles--oh yes, and plane trees as well, because I like them, and even nowadays, even by my counterinstincts, I still recognize what I like intuitively, even if not with that same chest-thumping, gut-wrenching, knee-jerking, galvanizing, inspired, so to say, flash of recognition as when I recognize things I detest. "I dont know why it is that every time everything is different in every respect with me, or perhaps if I do know, its simpler that I know without knowing it. That would spare me a lot of explanations. But, it would seem, there is no getting around explanations, we are constantly explaining and excusing ourselves; life itself, that inexplicable complex of being and feeling, demands explanations of us, those around us demand explanations, and in the end we ourselves demand explanations of ourselves, until in the end we succeed in annihilating everything around us, ourselves included, or in other words explain ourselves to death," I explain to the philosopher with that compulsion to speak, to me so abhorrent and yet irrepressible, that always grips me when I have nothing to say for myself--and that, I fear, has roots in common with the stiff tips that I hand out in brasseries and taxis, or bribing, etc. official or semiofficial personages, along with my exaggerated politeness, a politeness exaggerated to the point of self-denial, as if I were continually apologizing for my existence, for this existence. For heavens sake! I had simply set off for a walk in the woods (even if it is only this meager oak wood) in the fresh air (even if the air is somewhat putrid) to blow the cobwebs away (let us put it that way since it sounds good, as long as we dont look too closely at the meanings of words, because if we do look, then the words have no meaning at all, do they? since I dont have any cobwebs that need blowing away, quite the contrary, I am exquisitely sensitive to drafts); I am (was) spending my time here, fleetingly (and I will not digress here on the digressions that this word offers), in the lap of this mediocre mid-Hungarian hill range, in a creative writers retreat--one might call it a holiday home, though it also does for a workplace (for I am always working, being driven to this not just by the need to make a living, but because if I were not working I would be existing , and if I were existing I dont know what that would drive me to, and it is better not to know, although my bones, my guts have their hunches, to be sure, since the reason I work incessantly is that as long as I keep working, I am, whereas if I didnt work, who knows whether I would be or not; so I take it seriously, and I have to take it seriously because a deadly serious association is sustained between my sustenance and my work, that is perfectly obvious); so anyway, in a house where I had gained the right of admittance into the illustrious society of intellectuals of my ilk, whose paths for that very reason I can in no way avoid crossing, for all my soundless lying low in my room--the secret of my hiding place betrayed at most by the muted tapping of my typewriter--and for all my scurrying about on tiptoe in the corridors, one has to have meals, yet then table companions surround me with their relentless presence, and one has to take strolls, yet, smack in the middle of the woods, who should I find coming the other way, in his very own stocky and incongruous self, in his brown-and-beige-checked cap and his loose-fitting raglan overcoat, with the narrow slits of his whey-colored eyes and his big, soft, kneaded and already risen dough face, but Dr. Obl Details ISBN1400078628 Edition Description Vintage Intl Language English ISBN-10 1400078628 ISBN-13 9781400078622 Media Book Format Paperback Year 2004 Short Title KADDISH FOR AN UNBORN CHILD Translator Tim Wilkinson Place of Publication New York Country of Publication United States Birth 1929 DOI 10.1604/9781400078622 AU Release Date 2004-11-09 NZ Release Date 2004-11-09 US Release Date 2004-11-09 UK Release Date 2004-11-09 Author Imre Kertész Pages 128 Publisher Random House USA Inc Series Vintage International Publication Date 2004-11-09 Imprint Vintage Books DEWEY 894.511334 Audience General We've got this At The Nile, if you're looking for it, we've got it. 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