کتاب مرگ قسطی

اثر لویی فردینان سلین از انتشارات مرکز - مترجم: مهدی سحابی-دهه 1930 میلادی

Published in rapid succession in the middle 1930s, Journey to the End of the Night and Death on the Installment Plan shocked European literature and world consciousness. Nominally fiction but more rightly called "creative confessions," they told of the authors childhood in excoriating Paris slums, of service in the mud wastes of World War I and African jungles. Mixing unmitigated despair with Gargantuan comedy, they also created a new style, in which invective and obscenity were laced with phrases of unforgettable poetry. Célines influence revolutionized the contemporary approach to fiction. Under a cloud for a period, his work is now acknowledged as the forerunner of todays "black comedy."

Death on the Installment Plan is the story of young Ferdinands first 18 years. His life is one of hatred, of the grinding struggle of small shopkeepers to survive, of childhood sensations and fantasies – lusty, scatological, violent, but also poetic. There is a running battle with his ineffectual insurance clerk of a father, with his mother, who lives and whines around the junkshop she runs for the boys benefit; there is also the superbly funny Meanwell College in England where the boy went briefly, a Dickensian, nightmare institution. Always there is humiliation, failure, and boredom, at least until he teams up with the "scientist" des Pereires. This inventor, con-man, incorrigible optimist – whose last project is to grow enormous potatoes by electricity – rescues him, if only temporarily; for the reader he is one of the most lovable charlatans in literature.


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@description@
Firdînan: ez dinivîsim wekî ku ez hest dikim...rexne dikin ku ez dev pîsim, zimandirêjim...rexne lê bêrehmî û dilreqîya herheyî pirtûkê min dikin...çi bikim, bila ev cîhanê xwezayê xwe biguherine, ez jî qelema xwe bi awayek din diguherinim.

Ez û Birêz Silîn:

Rojek çû bume pirtûkxane…ho dihatim u ho diçûm...li navbera hezar pirtûkê nexwandî digerîyam...vextek min dît pirtûkek stûr dibirsqî û çawê min dikşand bu alîyê xwe…«Mort à crédit»…min rakir…donyayek pir li sê niqte…wa…çi karesatek…min digel xwe digot ev nivîskare kêye?...çend axaftinê weşartîy heye...disa min bera xwe kir stûrîya pirtûkê...bêdînê axaftinê wî yê gotî jî zor bûn...min wek soranîya got xwûwahafiz birêz Silîn...hişta em hind xwuyî û nêzîk nebûn ku gaz kemê firdînan...min pirtûk danî wir ku zêdetir toz bixwe...ez didu pêngav neçû bûm, zîvirîm...sê niqte...min dixwest bizanim çi nav ew hinde niqtene de heye.


Firdînan û ez:

Min pirtûk destpêkir...sê niqte bes sê niqte bû...firdînan çi tişt pişt sê niqta nedihila...dayikê wî digotê bêrehm...lê ew ne bêrehm ku mirovek rast bû...gel xwe derew ne dikir...xilas bûnê ez difikirîm ku gelek wexte naxwazim kesek din bim...lê tenê dixwazim wek firdînan bixwe bim...şerm nekîm û bêjîm...bêtirs...bê sê niqte.



آه، فردینان! غم انگیزست، غم انگیز! زندگی را نمی گویم، منظورم زمان است!...زندگی یعنی ما! یعنی هیچ...اما زمان! زمان یعنی همه چیز...آه! ای خدا، ای خدا!...فکرش را که می کنم، چه معرکه ی گهی

فردینان: آه! وحشتناک است جدا...هر چقدر هم که آدم جوان باشد...وقتی اول بار متوجه می شود که توی راه خیلی ها را از دست می دهد...رفقایی که آدم دیگر نمی بیند...هیچ وقت هیچ وقت...مثل خواب تمام شده ند و رفته ند...تمام...غیب...که خود آدم هم یک روز غیبش می زند...شاید خیلی بعد...اما به هرحال، ناچار...با همه ی سیلاب هولناک چیزها و آدم ها...روزها...شکل هایی که می گذرند...هیچوقت وا نمی ایستند...همه ی عوضی ها، آس و پاس ها، فضول ها، همه ی بنده خداهایی که زیر طاقی ها ول می گردند، با عینک، با چتر، با سگ توله های قلاده به گردن...همه شان، دیگر نمی بینی شان... دارند رد می شوند و می روند...توی خواب و رویایند با بقیه...باهم اند...بزودی تمام می شوند...غم انگیزست واقعا...نفرت انگیز!...آدم های بی گناهی که از جلوی ویترین ها رد می شدند...یکدفعه بی اختیار دلم می خواست کار عجیبی بکنم...تن خودم از وحشت به لرزه می افتاد از این که بالاخره بدوم و بپرم سرشان...جلوشان وایستم...که حرکت نکنند...یخه ی کتشان را بگیرم...فکر احمقانه ای بود البته...اما...نگهشان دارم...که دیگر از جا جُم نخورند!...همان جا، دیگر ثابت بمانند...بی حرکت، همیشه!...دیگر نبینی که می روند و پیداشان نمی شود

مشاهده لینک اصلی
‭‭‎Mort a Credit = Death on Credit = Death on the Installment Plan, Louis-Ferdinand Céline (1894 - 1961)
Death on Credit (French: Mort à crédit), US translation: Death on the Installment Plan, is a novel by author Louis-Ferdinand Céline, published in 1936. In Death on Credit, Ferdinand, Célines alter ego, is a doctor in Paris, treating the poor who seldom pay him but take every advantage of his availability. The action is not continuous but goes back in time to earlier memories and often moves into fantasy, especially in Ferdinands sexual escapades; the style becomes deliberately rougher and sentences disintegrate to catch the flavour of the teeming world of everyday Parisian tragedies, struggles to make a living, illness, venereal disease, the sordid stories of families whose destiny is governed by their own stupidity, malice, lust and greed.
تاریخ نخستین خوانش: روز یازدهم ماه اکتبر سال 2006 میلادی
عنوان: مرگ قسطی؛ لویی فردینان سلین؛ مترجم: مهدی سهابی؛ مشخصات نشر: تهران، نشر مرکز، 1385، 722 ص، شابک: 9643058263؛ 9789643058265؛ موضوع: داستانهای نویسندگان فرانسوی سده 20 م
روایت دوران کودکی، تا اعزام نویسنده به سربازی ست، روایت تلخ و گزنده‌ اى که ایشان، از زندگى شخصیت‌هاى طبقه متوسط در پاریس دارد؛ خوانشگر را به نقطه‌ اى مى‌رساند، تا به گزندگى زبان ایشان خو بگیرد، و به نویسنده حق دهد. انگار ایشان نیز، طاقت دروغ و رنگ و لعاب زندگی سده بیستم میلادی را نداشته است. در مرگ قسطی، رویداد ویژه ای رخ نمیدهد. خوانشگر با بدبیاریهای مدام شخصیت اصلی، در برابر دیدگان آزمند دنیای دور و بر درگیر میشود. در داستانهاى سلین؛ قهرمان داستان؛ هماره، نام و تکه ای از زندگى ایشان را، انگار به ارث میبرد. همان زندگى شهرى، که زیر چرخ دنده هایش، پدر، مادر «فردینان»، و کسبه ی پاساژ را، له میکند؛ مادرش میگوید: «دائم دچار بندبازى هستیم... این تکاپویى که دارد خفه مان میکند! تقلاى دائمى! مدام این چاله را پر کن، آن چاله را پر کن! جهنم است این! بالاخره جانمان را میگیرد!...» با این تصاویر تعریف سلین از جهنم؛ همین زندگى ست. روزگارى که فروشگاههاى بزرگ غول آسا، رشد میکنند؛ درست شبیه کابوس فردینان است: زنى غول آسا، که از روى پاساژها رد میشود، و آنها را له میکند. ا. شربیانی

مشاهده لینک اصلی
Bitti.. Yine bitti!.. Ah! Lanet olsun be!.. Hepsi Ferdinand piçinin suçu! Ya da Céline mi diyelim.. İkisinin de canı cehenneme! Kurtuldum ya sonunda! On gündür neler çektim bu pislik herifler yüzünden.. Tanrı bilir! Ah Ferdinand ah.. anlamıyorlar oğlum, anlamazlar, anlayamazlar zaten! Beyinsiz öküzler.. kusmuklarında boğulsunlar.. irinleriyle, öksürükleriyle, balgamlarıyla boğuşarak can versinler be! Ah! Ferdinand..
Céline! Söyle pislik herif! Bu kadar mı kötü olmak zorundalardı.. Hiç kimse göremez miydi Ferdinand’ı, anlayamaz mıydı! Edouard Dayı gerçekten var mıydı! Yoksa insanın her kötü zamanında.. zorluklar.. pislikler! içindeyken.. bu sefer içinden çıkamayacağına inandığı bir belanın tam ortasında.. yüreğimizden gelen, var olmasına imkan veremediğimiz umut ışığı mıydı!
Céline! o dünya.. o kadar kötü olmak zorunda mıydı?

Ne mutlu Céline i ilk defa okuyanlara.

مشاهده لینک اصلی
In Céline’s Death on the Installment Plan, scornful young Ferdinand unenthusiastically lugs readers along on the series of farcical (mis)adventures also known as his childhood. We encounter monstrously preposterous characters and stories with varying dimensions of outlandish implausibility. And through it all, we end up sympathizing completely with his disgust, contempt, frustration, and underlying disappointment. For although Ferdinand is emphatically vitriolic, bitter, pessimistic and snide, he is also scathingly, irresistibly funny.

And it is more for Ferdinand’s violently colorful personality than for the story itself that I found this book so engaging. This is not to say the plot is insignificant; far from it. Many of his tall tales are delightfully exuberant. They cannot sit still. They squirm and wriggle and smirk. But it’s Ferdinand’s singular voice that’s truly unforgettable. He has this weird undercurrent of vibrantly angry energy roiling and heaving (and occasionally bursting out irrepressibly) just beneath his smug, sneering, “I don’t give a shit” facade. He is viciously, unapologetically ALIVE under his brittle show of indifference. And though he claims that he “doesn’t know how to win friends and influence people,” he certainly won me over during this charming snot-fest of a book. But it’s possible I was just overly impressed by all those gorgeous little insults of his:
“They can all go shit in their hats!...They can rot with leprosy! They can stew in a million kettles full of snot and cockroaches…I’ll stir them myself! Let them pickle! Let them whirl in gangrene!”

Such a darling way with words! Oh, and he also has the best temper tantrums around:
“I outdid them all in violence…thanks to the intensity of my revolt! my sincerity! my destructive enthusiasm! my implacable tetanism! …my frenzy! … my anathematic writhing!...It was unbelievable what a paroxysm I could work myself up into in my total fury…I got all that from my dad…and the performances I’d been through…For temper tantrums I had no equal…The worst lunatics, the most delirious interpretive screwballs didn’t stand a chance if I decided to take a fling, if I really wanted to bestir myself…Young as I was…they all left with their asses dragging…absolutely bewildered by the intensity of my hatred…my indomitable fury, the eternal thirst for vengeance that I harbored in my flanks…”
                                                    .      .       .

Overall, this was funnier, dirtier, and yet also more moving than his more popular Journey to the End of the Night. If you’ve ever enjoyed sitting in dark corners at nauseating parties, mocking the more blatant displays of absurdity with a satisfyingly sarcastic friend, this may be the book for you. It made me want to be a more derisive person. It put the joy and vitality back into cynicism. And, most importantly, it got me to laugh, both at others and at myself.

What can I say? Céline is my homeboy.

مشاهده لینک اصلی
Relentless, unforgiving, morbid, histrionic, hilarious, insufferable, in permanent fear of a full clause, miserable, depressing, sick-minded . . . this pell-mell assault on taste and the universe pirouettes along its two billion ellipses and nine zillion exclamation points into a world of squalor and shit and the doldrums of being a French peasant at the dawn of modernism. Céline takes the kitchen-sink horror of Zola and reinstates the swear words Zola’s late-Victorian censors forbade him, adding a streak of misanthropic ranting and general disregard for the meaningless pigpen the author-stand-in has been dragged into. The most successful forbear of Céline’s method is Raymond Federman, who took the unapologetic street-talking swagger, added a splash of Sam Beckett’s gutter poetry, and forged his own unique and brilliant approach to literature.

مشاهده لینک اصلی
به نام او

یک رمانِ دیوانه‌یِ دیوانه‌یِ دیوانه، روایتی با نثری غریزی و وحشی.
شاید به مذاق افراد مبادی آداب خوش نیاید ولی خب شکر خدا این تعداد از افراد زیاد نیستند،
بخوانید و لذت ببرید

مشاهده لینک اصلی
If you havent been through that youll never know what obsessive hatred really smells like...the hatred that goes through your guts, all the way to your heart...Real hatred comes from deep down, from a defenseless childhood crushed with work. Thats the hatred that kills you. Therell be more of it, so deep and thick there will always be some left, enough to go around...It will ooze out over the earth...and poison it, so nothing will grow but viciousness, among the dead, among men.

Célines acerbic follow-up to the blistering Journey to the End of the Night is a rapid-fire, breathless, dialogue-strewn six-hundred page rant that belches forth the sordid, hilarious escapades of his fictional alter-ego Ferdinand from unhappy childhood to miserable late teendom. Raised under the relentlessly critical, money-obsessed eyes of his paranoid, blustering, bile-filled father and tormented, weary, and nagging mother, Ferdinand quickly develops a loathing for the parade of hypocrisy, vice, and work-filled chasing to put food on the table and keep the gas-lights burning that plays out before his cynical eyes in his bleak Parisian suburb. With virtually every soul - his parents uppermost - consumed by the need to eke out a living by any means - and terrified of losing their livelihood - whilst striving against natures lures to portray the model upright and moral petty bourgeois citizen, Célines endlessly disillusioned youth develops a deep nausea for the bitter games that life plays, the way it continually stacks the odds against you and torments with glimpses of freedom. No matter how Ferdinand may endeavor to please his uptight, anxious parents or miserly, skeptical employers, the end result is always verbal and phyical blows accompanying the inevitable letdown his actions bring about. The following exchange, as Ferdinand, fresh from school, prepares to enter into the world of business as an apprentice, is typical of this seesaw affair:

(My father) received me with open arms...He gazed at me affectionately. Id never seen him so moved...His whole moustache was trembling...

@Thats splendid, my boy! Youve given us a lot of trouble...But now I congratulate you...Now youll be starting out in life...The future lies open before you...If only you take the right course...the straight and narrow!...Work [email protected]

I begged his forgiveness for having always been bad. I hugged and kissed him with all my heart...Only I stank so bad he began to sniff...

@Ah! Whats [email protected] He pushed me away. @Oh, the stinker...the little pig!...Hes filled the whole place with shit! Ah, Clémence, Clémence! For Gods sake take him upstairs before I lose my temper! Hes [email protected] That was the end of his effusions.


Unlike in Journey, Death on the Installment Plan, with the exception of brief interludes over in England, takes place entirely in and around Paris and its environs. Célines capital is a city in decline, filled with vice, licentiousness, theft and cant; populated by hypocrites, swindlers, prostitutes and pimps. Every wretched soul that intrudes upon Ferdinands youth is a complex amalgamation of unfulfilled, perfervid desires and bitter, keenly-felt pain - including the enthusiastic, pseudoscientific scamp Courtial des Pereires, who rescues the lad when hes at his lowest point. In many ways Ferdinand, who silently takes most of the abuse dumped upon him and, as he puts it in the latter stages of the novel, has little taste for vengeance, is the most standup character in the tale. As was the case in Journey, Ferdinand, although often led astray by his bad judgement and tastes, rarely acts in a malicious or directly harmful manner towards those he encounters on his trouble-laden journeys, and is capable of a touching amount of loyalty and concern for his various patrons. If he had managed to escape the sledgehammer blows of his parents quotidian exasperation and disappointment, and the never-ending need to be bringing money into the household, who knows how he might have turned out. It is this touch of sympathy, this humanist emotion that underpins all of the bleak, savage misogyny, which makes Célines tales such a wonderful admixture of the profane and the poetic. For all of the hatred and disgust in Célines fictional biographies, there is also love and exuberance for the fathomless mysteries in the brief snippets of experience granted to us by life.

Although there is a definite repetitive pattern to Death, Céline is such a natural storyteller that the entertainment value never flags. Its like listening to a colorful wag at a local pub, fired up with a drink or three, spill one hilarious story after another; and there is plenty of black comedy in this book. The relentless pace of the novel has a feverish feel, accompanied by the wild, panoramic fantasies that Ferdinand slips into, the shimmering grotesqueries that unfold before him in lurid, neon shades. The book is utterly peppered with the three-dot punctuation style that he made his own, a perfectly realized effort to simulate the abrupt, stop-and-start rhythm of the Parisian dialect. Ralph Manheims translation is flat-out superb, expertly and easily catching the tone and cadence of Célines verbal stream and ably expressive of the elegance and coarseness that alternate throughout the book.

Having now completed Journey and Death I have become a big fan of Célines: the general crumminess of man has no finer detailer than the caustic Frenchman. I can see his influence on such later chroniclers as Thomas Pynchon and Joseph Heller: the silly names and the dark humor; the frantic pace and frenetic speechifying; the madcap pursuits of manic obsessions. After a bit of a break to clear the air, so to speak, I plan on tackling his trilogy of wartime-lunacy-on-the-run-with-Nazis-and-whores that consists of Castle-to-Castle, North and Rigadoon. Once bitten by the Céline bug, youll come to need more of his bleakly ribald fix.

مشاهده لینک اصلی
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