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Contos de Kolimá #1
Kolyma Tales
It is estimated that some three million people died in the Soviet forced-labour camps of Kolyma, in the northeastern area of Siberia. Shalamov himself spent seventeen years there, and in these stories he vividly captures the lives of ordinary people caught up in terrible circumstances, whose hopes and plans extended to further than a few hours.
This new enlarged edition combines two collections previously published in the United States as Kolyma Tales and Graphite.
This new enlarged edition combines two collections previously published in the United States as Kolyma Tales and Graphite.
508 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1966
About the author
Varlam Shalamov
69 books200 followersVarlam Tikhonovich Shalamov (Russian: Варлам Тихонович Шаламов; June 18, 1907–January 17, 1982), baptized as Varlaam, was a Russian writer, journalist, poet and Gulag survivor.
Alternate spellings of his name:
Варлам Шаламов
Varlam Chalamov
Warłam Szałamow
Warlam Schalamow
V. T. Shalamov
וארלאם שאלאמוב
Varlam Sjalamov
Alternate spellings of his name:
Варлам Шаламов
Varlam Chalamov
Warłam Szałamow
Warlam Schalamow
V. T. Shalamov
וארלאם שאלאמוב
Varlam Sjalamov
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 528 reviews
August 9, 2020
Kolyma Tales is a book in which every story is a dirge of sorrow…
Writing his book Varlam Shalamov was this man beating a road down through the virgin snow so the others could read it and follow in the footsteps of his memory.
Hunger, horror, fear, humiliation: everything was used to turn a thinking man into a stupid animal.
The main task of the communist state was to turn a sentient individual into a thoughtless slave blindly obeying the dictator’s will.
‘Martyr’ is derived from the Greek word ‘witness’… And Varlam Shalamov, among the millions of the silent victims, was a martyr of history too.
The main task of a human being in any inhuman conditions is to survive.
How is a road beaten down through the virgin snow? One person walks ahead, sweating, swearing, and barely moving his feet. He keeps getting stuck in the loose, deep snow. He goes far ahead, marking his path with uneven black pits. When he tires, he lies down on the snow, lights a home-made cigarette, and the tobacco smoke hangs suspended above the white, gleaming snow like a blue cloud. The man moves on, but the cloud remains hovering above the spot where he rested, for the air is motionless. Roads are always beaten down on days like these – so that the wind won’t sweep away this labor of man.
Writing his book Varlam Shalamov was this man beating a road down through the virgin snow so the others could read it and follow in the footsteps of his memory.
Supper was over. Slowly Glebov licked the bowl and brushed the breadcrumbs methodically from the table into his left palm. Without swallowing, he felt each miniature fragment of bread in his mouth coated greedily with a thick layer of saliva. Glebov couldn’t have said whether it tasted good or not. Taste was an entirely different thing, not worthy to be compared with this passionate sensation that made all else recede into oblivion. Glebov was in no hurry to swallow; the bread itself melted in his mouth and quickly vanished.
Hunger, horror, fear, humiliation: everything was used to turn a thinking man into a stupid animal.
Envy, like all our feelings, had been dulled and weakened by hunger. We lacked the strength to experience emotions, to seek easier work, to walk, to ask, to beg… We envied only our acquaintances, the ones who had been lucky enough to get office work, a job in the hospital or the stables – wherever there was none of the long physical labor glorified as heroic and noble in signs above all the camp gates.
The main task of the communist state was to turn a sentient individual into a thoughtless slave blindly obeying the dictator’s will.
The poet was dying. His hands, swollen from hunger with their white bloodless fingers and filthy overgrown nails, lay on his chest, exposed to the cold. He used to put them under his shirt, against his naked body, but there was too little warmth there now. His mittens had long since been stolen; to steal in the middle of the day all a thief needed was brazenness. A dim electric sun, spotted by flies and shackled in a round screen, was affixed to the high ceiling. Light fell on the poet’s feet, and he lay, as if in a box, in the dark depths of the bottom layer of bunks that stretched in two unbroken rows all around the walls of the room.
‘Martyr’ is derived from the Greek word ‘witness’… And Varlam Shalamov, among the millions of the silent victims, was a martyr of history too.
The main task of a human being in any inhuman conditions is to survive.
January 5, 2019
Kolyma Tales was my first used book purchase via Amazon. (I feel obligated to honor our benefactor at every turn now. I even touch my breast when I say Amazon.)
Emerging from a blue period, I truly had no idea how beautiful this harrowing account would be. I don't detect any tension between the sublime and Kolyma. Imre Kertész has taught me well. It is chance, it is human. Survival simply wasn't possible. Those that did emerge, were stripped of something. A loss occurred. Kolyma is a protean creation: it is a novel, a collection, a testament, an indictment, a discarded path towards something which couldn't be Hope.
Hungry men will always defend justice furiously (if they are not too hungry or too exhausted).
Consider my dilemma, I was so moved by this book over the last few days yet the events depicted are so alien and hostile as to defy comment. I kept reading, finding myself strangely hungry. I was spared the standard Kolyma dream of loaves of rye bread. Even while quaffing ale, I thought about those that drank medical alcohol at the expense of their patients. I thought repeatedly about the carpenter's puppy: that's all I can say about that particular anecdote. There are always foot rags to be adjusted, heels to be scratched time in the infirmary. There are innumerable others. I give Kolyma Tales my highest recommendation.
Emerging from a blue period, I truly had no idea how beautiful this harrowing account would be. I don't detect any tension between the sublime and Kolyma. Imre Kertész has taught me well. It is chance, it is human. Survival simply wasn't possible. Those that did emerge, were stripped of something. A loss occurred. Kolyma is a protean creation: it is a novel, a collection, a testament, an indictment, a discarded path towards something which couldn't be Hope.
Hungry men will always defend justice furiously (if they are not too hungry or too exhausted).
Consider my dilemma, I was so moved by this book over the last few days yet the events depicted are so alien and hostile as to defy comment. I kept reading, finding myself strangely hungry. I was spared the standard Kolyma dream of loaves of rye bread. Even while quaffing ale, I thought about those that drank medical alcohol at the expense of their patients. I thought repeatedly about the carpenter's puppy: that's all I can say about that particular anecdote. There are always foot rags to be adjusted, heels to be scratched time in the infirmary. There are innumerable others. I give Kolyma Tales my highest recommendation.
October 23, 2013
This was a tough read but one I am very glad to have read. This was a collection of stories about the conditions in Soviet forced-labour camps during the Stalinist regime. It definitely filled in many of the knowledge gaps I had of what happened in the Siberian gulags. Only someone who spent time in a Siberian labour camp could ever have come up with such a collection of short stories, stories that capture the abysmal conditions of the camps, describe what the camp does to the human psyche (both the prisoner’s and the officer’s), and the new codes the prisoners must adhere to. What I found astounding were the details included in each story. They were definitely not things most of us would consider.
“Nature in the north is not impersonal or indifferent; it is in conspiracy with those who sent us.”
The disease, hunger, violence and despair are all described in descriptive detail. The conditions beg the question: does anybody really deserve to be sent to such places, regardless of the crime they (allegedly) committed? Siberia is a place where winter temperatures are often around -60F, where temperatures of -13F was considered summery. Of course, what makes things even worse is the fact that most of the people sent to the camp weren’t even criminals, but innocent victims of the Stalinist regime. Plus, often their sentences were disproportionate to their supposed crimes.
“The arrests of the thirties were arrests of random victims on the false and terrifying theory of a heightened class struggle accompanying the strengthening of socialism.”
I liked the structure of the book; it was divided into several short stories, each dealing with different characters. Shalamov’s tone was also very matter-of-fact, so it was easier for me to handle the gruesome details.
This is definitely such an important work of literature. I can only imagine with his 17 years of living in Kolyma, Shalamov had to get everything out of his system.
To end with a quote I really liked : “Life repeats Shakespearian themes more often than we think.”
A big THANK YOU to Vera for recommending this book to me :)
“Nature in the north is not impersonal or indifferent; it is in conspiracy with those who sent us.”
The disease, hunger, violence and despair are all described in descriptive detail. The conditions beg the question: does anybody really deserve to be sent to such places, regardless of the crime they (allegedly) committed? Siberia is a place where winter temperatures are often around -60F, where temperatures of -13F was considered summery. Of course, what makes things even worse is the fact that most of the people sent to the camp weren’t even criminals, but innocent victims of the Stalinist regime. Plus, often their sentences were disproportionate to their supposed crimes.
“The arrests of the thirties were arrests of random victims on the false and terrifying theory of a heightened class struggle accompanying the strengthening of socialism.”
I liked the structure of the book; it was divided into several short stories, each dealing with different characters. Shalamov’s tone was also very matter-of-fact, so it was easier for me to handle the gruesome details.
This is definitely such an important work of literature. I can only imagine with his 17 years of living in Kolyma, Shalamov had to get everything out of his system.
To end with a quote I really liked : “Life repeats Shakespearian themes more often than we think.”
A big THANK YOU to Vera for recommending this book to me :)
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March 21, 2015
I’ve written before about the idea of an ‘irrational attachment to life,’ which means that no matter how awful, how painful and degrading existence is one cannot forsake it. Not only that but, with a miser’s spirit, one actively clings to it. Of course it is not true of all – otherwise there would never be any suicide – but it is certainly true of many, including me. I had a very difficult childhood, and I would fantasise a lot about getting away, but at no point did I ever not want to be here. Quite the opposite: I would often cry in bed at night because I was so scared of dying. There’s something very funny about that, in a way…some kid weeping…begging…please give me more of this excruciating, this horrible life!
Why do some of us cling to life, no matter how awful that life may be? You could argue that it is the masochistic impulse. I believe in that, certainly. I think we have both a sadistic and masochistic impulse [one of which may be more pronounced in some], and that these influence many of our behaviours. I’m not convinced, however, that the masochistic impulse is responsible in this case, because an attachment to life in awful circumstances need not involve actively seeking out those circumstances [which would be necessary for me to consider it masochistic]. I think the desire to stay alive is a more basic, primordial impulse. A few years ago my cat fell out of a window and smashed his legs and split the palette in his mouth in two, but rather than lie down and succumb to what must have been a strong desire to give in he actually managed to drag himself out of the way of immediate danger and under a car. His instinct for survival was, you might say, absurdly strong, but there it was, urging him to protect what was left of his pain-wracked body. It’s an extraordinary thing, although It’s not necessarily admirable.
Varlam Shalamov spent, in total, seventeen years in prison and labour camps or Gulags. After his final release he commenced work upon a collection of short stories that dealt with camp and prison life. This collection came to be called Kolyma Tales. Kolyma is the name of the region where the camp was located in which the author served ten years. As this book, and others, attest life in the Russian labour camps was extraordinarily grim, with arctic conditions, beatings, scurvy, meagre rations, and near-unendurable work being the norm; the prisons weren’t much better.
If there is a philosophical idea behind Shalamov’s work it is what I wrote about in the opening paragraphs. Most of his characters are survivors, as was the man himself, even though the desire to survive seems absurd. Another day of this? Of starvation, misery, exhaustion? Yes. Because what else is there but another day?
On numerous occasions the author is at pains to impress upon the reader that suffering, true suffering, does not engender camaraderie or ennoble the spirit. The consequence of life in the camps is that the prisoners become animalistic, their engagement with life is reduced to that of instinct. In many of his stories the most important thing to the characters is to get warm, or attempt to; many also steal from the dead in order to give themselves a better chance of survival. However, it is, once again, important to point out that for Shalamov this survival is absolutely not heroic, it just is. This is emphasised by the author’s dispassionate or matter-of-fact style. It is a style that is reminiscent of Imre Kertesz’s Fatelessness, yet lacks the Hungarian’s subtle irony. Shalamov plays it straight, without the hint of an upraised eyebrow.
I do not want to give the impression, however, that the Russian’s stories are thinly disguised autobiography, or that they are essentially a form of documentary or reportage. To see them in this way does the writer a huge disservice. What was most impressive, for me, aside from the incredible consistency, was the literary quality of each of Shalamov’s short tales. The structure and pacing, for example, are immaculate. There is one story, In the Night, in which two men set out along a path leading to a pile of rocks. One thinks, of course, that they have been put to work, especially when they start to move the rocks. Yet the conclusion of the story reveals that what they are actually doing is digging up a deceased comrade, in order to steal his clothes. There is no unnecessary exposition, no melodrama, just a great deal of control and a sharp, quick punch in the guts at the end. In the Night is one of the earliest stories in the collection, and I knew after reading it that Shalamov was a master of the form.
In the very best short stories there is a world both inside and outside of the narrative. This is true also of Shalamov’s work. Take In the Night again where there is the actual narrated action, but also a host of unanswered questions about who the dead man is, how he died, who the two men digging him up are, how they came to be incarcerated, and so on. In this way I was reminded strongly of Raymond Carver, whose snapshots are similarly restrained and yet suggestive of a more detailed narrative that is ultimately left to your imagination. Also like Carver, and Chekhov too, Shalamov is essentially apolitical and totally non-judgemental. For Carver and Chekhov that would have would been, one imagines, an easier feat than for this writer, whose tales all deal with people arrested [often on trumped up charges] under Stalin’s government. This refusal to fully engage with politics, the distance Shalamov maintains from the political climate of the time, serves to emphasise just how isolated, how cut off, his characters are from the outside world.
Shalamov does, however, make frequent references to literature. In certain stories he writes about Pushkin and Chekhov; in others he mentions a deck of playing cards that are made out of a Victor Hugo novel and discusses how inmates who can retell well-known or published stories are called novelists. More interestingly, some of the prisoners are named after famous Russian characters, such as Tolstoy’s Vronsky; and Andrei Platonov, a real life figure, and fellow writer, also makes an appearance, even though we know, of course, that he never served time in a prison. Russian writers, it has always struck me, are the most self-referential, but Shalamov, I imagine, wasn’t merely giving shout-outs. If you take Platonov as an example, he himself was a controversial figure, who Stalin apparently disliked, and so one might argue that he could easily, on this basis, have ended up in a camp, which were full of intellectuals anyway. I think in using Platonov and Vronsky and so on, he is saying that this could literally happen to anyone, that anyone, no matter what their status is, could find themselves in this horrific situation. Furthermore, by populating his tales with well-known Russians, in pointing to the country's golden past or literary heritage, one might argue that Shalamov, whether intentionally or not, is subtly saying: look how we have come from that to this.
Why do some of us cling to life, no matter how awful that life may be? You could argue that it is the masochistic impulse. I believe in that, certainly. I think we have both a sadistic and masochistic impulse [one of which may be more pronounced in some], and that these influence many of our behaviours. I’m not convinced, however, that the masochistic impulse is responsible in this case, because an attachment to life in awful circumstances need not involve actively seeking out those circumstances [which would be necessary for me to consider it masochistic]. I think the desire to stay alive is a more basic, primordial impulse. A few years ago my cat fell out of a window and smashed his legs and split the palette in his mouth in two, but rather than lie down and succumb to what must have been a strong desire to give in he actually managed to drag himself out of the way of immediate danger and under a car. His instinct for survival was, you might say, absurdly strong, but there it was, urging him to protect what was left of his pain-wracked body. It’s an extraordinary thing, although It’s not necessarily admirable.
Varlam Shalamov spent, in total, seventeen years in prison and labour camps or Gulags. After his final release he commenced work upon a collection of short stories that dealt with camp and prison life. This collection came to be called Kolyma Tales. Kolyma is the name of the region where the camp was located in which the author served ten years. As this book, and others, attest life in the Russian labour camps was extraordinarily grim, with arctic conditions, beatings, scurvy, meagre rations, and near-unendurable work being the norm; the prisons weren’t much better.
“We have to squeeze everything out of a prisoner in the first three months — after that we don’t need him anymore.” – Naftaly Frenkel, Camp commander [from Solzhenitsyn’s Gulag Archipelago].
конченый
Translation: ‘goner’ or ‘doomed.’
If there is a philosophical idea behind Shalamov’s work it is what I wrote about in the opening paragraphs. Most of his characters are survivors, as was the man himself, even though the desire to survive seems absurd. Another day of this? Of starvation, misery, exhaustion? Yes. Because what else is there but another day?
On numerous occasions the author is at pains to impress upon the reader that suffering, true suffering, does not engender camaraderie or ennoble the spirit. The consequence of life in the camps is that the prisoners become animalistic, their engagement with life is reduced to that of instinct. In many of his stories the most important thing to the characters is to get warm, or attempt to; many also steal from the dead in order to give themselves a better chance of survival. However, it is, once again, important to point out that for Shalamov this survival is absolutely not heroic, it just is. This is emphasised by the author’s dispassionate or matter-of-fact style. It is a style that is reminiscent of Imre Kertesz’s Fatelessness, yet lacks the Hungarian’s subtle irony. Shalamov plays it straight, without the hint of an upraised eyebrow.
I do not want to give the impression, however, that the Russian’s stories are thinly disguised autobiography, or that they are essentially a form of documentary or reportage. To see them in this way does the writer a huge disservice. What was most impressive, for me, aside from the incredible consistency, was the literary quality of each of Shalamov’s short tales. The structure and pacing, for example, are immaculate. There is one story, In the Night, in which two men set out along a path leading to a pile of rocks. One thinks, of course, that they have been put to work, especially when they start to move the rocks. Yet the conclusion of the story reveals that what they are actually doing is digging up a deceased comrade, in order to steal his clothes. There is no unnecessary exposition, no melodrama, just a great deal of control and a sharp, quick punch in the guts at the end. In the Night is one of the earliest stories in the collection, and I knew after reading it that Shalamov was a master of the form.
In the very best short stories there is a world both inside and outside of the narrative. This is true also of Shalamov’s work. Take In the Night again where there is the actual narrated action, but also a host of unanswered questions about who the dead man is, how he died, who the two men digging him up are, how they came to be incarcerated, and so on. In this way I was reminded strongly of Raymond Carver, whose snapshots are similarly restrained and yet suggestive of a more detailed narrative that is ultimately left to your imagination. Also like Carver, and Chekhov too, Shalamov is essentially apolitical and totally non-judgemental. For Carver and Chekhov that would have would been, one imagines, an easier feat than for this writer, whose tales all deal with people arrested [often on trumped up charges] under Stalin’s government. This refusal to fully engage with politics, the distance Shalamov maintains from the political climate of the time, serves to emphasise just how isolated, how cut off, his characters are from the outside world.
Shalamov does, however, make frequent references to literature. In certain stories he writes about Pushkin and Chekhov; in others he mentions a deck of playing cards that are made out of a Victor Hugo novel and discusses how inmates who can retell well-known or published stories are called novelists. More interestingly, some of the prisoners are named after famous Russian characters, such as Tolstoy’s Vronsky; and Andrei Platonov, a real life figure, and fellow writer, also makes an appearance, even though we know, of course, that he never served time in a prison. Russian writers, it has always struck me, are the most self-referential, but Shalamov, I imagine, wasn’t merely giving shout-outs. If you take Platonov as an example, he himself was a controversial figure, who Stalin apparently disliked, and so one might argue that he could easily, on this basis, have ended up in a camp, which were full of intellectuals anyway. I think in using Platonov and Vronsky and so on, he is saying that this could literally happen to anyone, that anyone, no matter what their status is, could find themselves in this horrific situation. Furthermore, by populating his tales with well-known Russians, in pointing to the country's golden past or literary heritage, one might argue that Shalamov, whether intentionally or not, is subtly saying: look how we have come from that to this.
"I’d like to have my arms and legs cut off and become a human stump – no arms or legs. Then I’d be strong enough to spit in their faces for everything they’re doing to us."
May 27, 2020
Burada hep açsın, yorgunsun, donuyorsun… Yaraların iyileşmiyor, kemiklerin ısınmıyor, bitler üzerinde geziniyor. Tüm gücünü sadece hayatta kalmak, sadece ayakta kalmak için harcıyorsun. Duygulara yer yok burada, kin tutamazsın ya da öfke duyamazsın, duygulara ayıracağın her enerji zerresine ihtiyacın var, ayakta kalamazsın yoksa. O nedenle umursamazsın. Daha önce öğrendiklerin burada geçersiz, entelektüel becerilerin seni daha zayıf kılıyor. Adi suçlular en güçlüler ve herkesin üstündeler, acımasız ve vahşiler. Oysa Dostoyevski onları nasıl da merhametle anlatıyordu!
Önce duyguların terk ediyor seni, sonra bilişsel yeteneklerin. Bilinçsiz kalmaya o kadar ihtiyacın var ki ölü gibi yatıyorsun, kemiklerine işleyen soğuğu, midenin boşluğunu, uğradığın haksızlıkları, gücünün çok üstünde çalıştırılmanın yorgunluğunu ancak bu şekilde unutabiliyorsun. Bir sonraki güne dek.
Öyle şeyler görüp yaşıyorsun ki buradan kurtulduğunda ailenin yanına dönmeyi hayal edemiyorsun. Elinde kalan azıcık ve çok önemli şeyleri anlayamayacaklarını biliyorsun. Hiçbir insan senin tanık olduğun şeyleri bilmemeli. Ruhun da bedenin de çok yorgun, artık dinlenmek istiyorsun.
Ama bir sedir ağacı var, umudun ağacı. Umutsuzluğun orta yerinde bu her daim yeşil ağaca bakıyorsun, cesaretiyle ve inatçılığıyla büyülenerek. Seni ölmeye gönderdikleri bu yerde, açlıktan 48 kiloya düşmüşken ve her yerin iltihaplıyken onun gibi doğrulamıyorsun belki ama bir şeyler yapıyorsun: Kendi yolunu seçiyorsun*.
Adi suçlulara hikaye anlatarak ve onların topuklarını kaşıyarak daha rahat bir kamp hayatı geçirebilirsin, yapmıyorsun, seni o kadar aşağılamalarına izin vermiyorsun. Oyun oynadığınız köpeği öldürüyorlar, etinden sana da veriyorlar bir parça, açlıktan ölsen de yemiyorsun. İktidarın nasıl bir güç ve acımasızlık getirdiğinin farkındasın, hiç kimseye zarar vermemek için sana en ufak bir yetki verecek tüm görevleri reddediyorsun. Kendinden başka kimseye minnet duymak istemiyorsun, tek başına çıkacaksın bu kamptan, kendi gücünle, kendi becerinle. Sözcükler seni terk ediyor, anılar da. Ama sevdiğin şiirler hâlâ duruyor. Bitkinliğin, soğuğun, açlığın, sonu gelmez aşağılamaların bastıramadığı o şiirler sana hayatta kalabilmek için güç veriyor.
Bir gün çoktandır unuttuğun kelimelerden birini hatırlıyorsun. Öyle korkuyorsun ki dönüşü olmayan bir yere gitmekten, tedirgin oluyorsun ama çoktandır unuttuğun bir his yokluyor seni: Yaşamak istiyorsun, eski hayatına dönmek istiyorsun.
Ve hayatta kalıyorsun. Binbir zorlukla geri getirdiğin kelimelerle tüm o anlatılamaz acıyı aktarıyorsun. Sana göre edebiyatçı kendi bildiği gerçeği anlatmalı zaten. Sen de öyle yapıyorsun, gördüğün, bildiğin şeyleri anlatıyorsun, kendini acındırmadan, mecaz kullanmadan, süslemeden, doğrudan. Cehennem de ancak böyle anlatılabilirdi zaten ve sen bunu başarıyorsun. Ne de olsa cehennemden döndün.
* Toplama kamplarında yaşayan bizler, o kamptan bu kampa koşan, ellerindeki son ekmek kırıntılarını vererek başkalarını teselli etmeye çalışan insanları anlayabiliriz. sayıları az olabilir, ama bu bile bir insandan bir şeyin dışında her şeyin alınabileceğini yeterince gösterir: İnsan özgürlüklerinin sonuncusu; yani, belli koşullar altında insanın kendi tutumunu belirlemesi, kendi yolunu seçmesi . (Victor Frankl -İnsanın Anlam Arayışı)
October 28, 2020
Il primo sentimento che questo libro suscita è rispetto per un uomo sopravvissuto a 17 anni di stenti, fatica, umiliazioni, fame, freddo, privazione della libertà. Man mano che la lettura procede, si innestano commozione per il livello di sopportazione e rabbia per il livello di crudeltà che esclude carcerieri - e spesso anche detenuti - dal genere umano, allontanandoli anche da quello animale, perché la ferocia gratuita non appartiene nemmeno alle belve.
Dal carcere duro, Šalamov e altri prigionieri vengono deportati nel grande Nord. Dopo l’iniziale sollievo generato dall’idea di abbandonare una cella per lavorare all’aperto, lo sconforto è immenso. Si aprono le porte di un inferno bianco, fatto di neve, ghiaccio e temperature estreme al di là dell’immaginazione. È un inferno popolato da esseri in via di trasformazione, sia fisica che mentale. Si perde peso, ci si ricopre di piaghe, la pelle cambia colore e l’espressione del viso diventa sguardo fisso perduto nel vuoto. Lo stesso vuoto si avverte all’interno, al posto dell’anima, che scompare per sempre, perché anche chi, come l’autore, riuscirà a rivedere il mondo non lo vedrà più come prima e sarà profondamente diverso.
Si perdono le parole, ridotte a un linguaggio essenziale che sa di fame, dolore e stanchezza. Si perdono i valori. Per quanto si lotti contro questa disumanizzazione, prima o poi ci si arrende, sentendosi ormai nell’anticamera della morte, che può sopraggiungere in ogni momento e per qualunque motivo, per mano delle guardie o dei compagni di pena, per un pezzo di pane o per un maglione, per una quota di lavoro non raggiunta o per sfinimento, malattia, fucilazione, suicidio.
La morte sembrerebbe in effetti preferibile, ma ci si aggrappa a qualunque cosa per sopravvivere.
Si continua a lavorare a qualunque temperatura e in qualunque condizione per una minestra acquosa e un pezzetto di pane.
I contatti con l’esterno sono interrotti, anche mentalmente. Si pensa al presente. Passato e futuro non hanno senso.
Quando Šalamov riconquisterà la libertà, avrà comunque perso tutto. Vivrà per scrivere della Kolyma e morirà solo, in un ospizio.
Ho letto soppesando le parole, riconquistate, con cui l’autore descrive l’inferno, denunciando la propria rabbia e il proprio odio, la vergogna per la perdita di dignità, le crudeltà subite e i pochi gesti di solidarietà ricevuti, importanti perché gli hanno salvato la vita, fedele alla regola tratta dalla sua esperienza:
“Prima di tutto bisogna restituire lo schiaffo e solo in un secondo tempo l’elemosina. Ricordare il male prima del bene. Ricordare tutto il bene ricevuto per cent’anni, e tutto il male per duecento”.
Dal carcere duro, Šalamov e altri prigionieri vengono deportati nel grande Nord. Dopo l’iniziale sollievo generato dall’idea di abbandonare una cella per lavorare all’aperto, lo sconforto è immenso. Si aprono le porte di un inferno bianco, fatto di neve, ghiaccio e temperature estreme al di là dell’immaginazione. È un inferno popolato da esseri in via di trasformazione, sia fisica che mentale. Si perde peso, ci si ricopre di piaghe, la pelle cambia colore e l’espressione del viso diventa sguardo fisso perduto nel vuoto. Lo stesso vuoto si avverte all’interno, al posto dell’anima, che scompare per sempre, perché anche chi, come l’autore, riuscirà a rivedere il mondo non lo vedrà più come prima e sarà profondamente diverso.
Si perdono le parole, ridotte a un linguaggio essenziale che sa di fame, dolore e stanchezza. Si perdono i valori. Per quanto si lotti contro questa disumanizzazione, prima o poi ci si arrende, sentendosi ormai nell’anticamera della morte, che può sopraggiungere in ogni momento e per qualunque motivo, per mano delle guardie o dei compagni di pena, per un pezzo di pane o per un maglione, per una quota di lavoro non raggiunta o per sfinimento, malattia, fucilazione, suicidio.
La morte sembrerebbe in effetti preferibile, ma ci si aggrappa a qualunque cosa per sopravvivere.
Si continua a lavorare a qualunque temperatura e in qualunque condizione per una minestra acquosa e un pezzetto di pane.
I contatti con l’esterno sono interrotti, anche mentalmente. Si pensa al presente. Passato e futuro non hanno senso.
Quando Šalamov riconquisterà la libertà, avrà comunque perso tutto. Vivrà per scrivere della Kolyma e morirà solo, in un ospizio.
Ho letto soppesando le parole, riconquistate, con cui l’autore descrive l’inferno, denunciando la propria rabbia e il proprio odio, la vergogna per la perdita di dignità, le crudeltà subite e i pochi gesti di solidarietà ricevuti, importanti perché gli hanno salvato la vita, fedele alla regola tratta dalla sua esperienza:
“Prima di tutto bisogna restituire lo schiaffo e solo in un secondo tempo l’elemosina. Ricordare il male prima del bene. Ricordare tutto il bene ricevuto per cent’anni, e tutto il male per duecento”.
August 21, 2021
It was with some trepidation that I picked this one off my shelf. I didn’t quite know what to expect. I found it remarkable! It’s a collection of short stories; my volume has well over fifty stories contained at slightly over 500 pages. They are under the titles of Kolyma Tales, The Left Bank, The Virtuoso Shovelman, Essays on the Criminal World, and Resurrection of the Larch.
Kolyma is in North-eastern Siberia and the author spent decades there as a political prisoner in forced labour camps. There are two types of prisoners – criminal and political. Political prisoners were at the bottom of the totem pole.
Conditions were atrocious and the stories reflect this – there is brutality, starvation, freezing cold, extreme isolation, and hard arduous work. This can make for relentlessly glum reading – but all the stories are different and some have a sardonic twist, albeit dark. Life was on a day-to-day basis.
One interesting story was on Russian prisoners of war who were “liberated” by Stalin’s armies – and then sent immediately to the Gulag (Siberia, Kolyma) to spend twenty or so years for having been captured by the Nazis. Soviet soldiers were not supposed to surrender.
Page 242 (my book) from short story Major Pugachov’s Last Battle
The arrests of the thirties were arrests of random victims on the false and terrifying theory of a heightened class struggle… The absence of any unifying idea undermined the moral resistance of the prisoners to an unusual degree. They were neither enemies of the government nor state criminals, and they died not even understanding why they had to die. Their self-esteem and bitterness had no point of support. Separated, they perished in the white Kolyma desert from hunger, cold, work, beatings, and diseases. They immediately learned not to defend or support each other. This was precisely the goal of the authorities. The souls of those who remained alive were utterly corrupted.
Page 242-43 from short story Major Pugachov’s Last Battle
New arrivals asked the surviving “aborigines”:
“Why do you eat your soup and kasha in the dining hall but take your bread with you back to the barracks? Why can’t you eat your bread with your soup the way the rest of the world does?”
Smiling with the crack of their blue mouths and showing their gums, toothless from scurvy, the local residents would answer the naïve newcomers:
“In two weeks each of you will understand, and each of you will do the same.”
How could they be told that they had never in their lives known true hunger, hunger that lasts for years and breaks the will? How could anyone explain the passionate, all-engulfing desire to prolong the process of eating, the surprise bliss of washing down one’s bread ration with a mug of tasteless, but hot melted snow in the barracks?
Page 413 from short story The Red Crisis
Physical force becomes moral force.
Kolyma is in North-eastern Siberia and the author spent decades there as a political prisoner in forced labour camps. There are two types of prisoners – criminal and political. Political prisoners were at the bottom of the totem pole.
Conditions were atrocious and the stories reflect this – there is brutality, starvation, freezing cold, extreme isolation, and hard arduous work. This can make for relentlessly glum reading – but all the stories are different and some have a sardonic twist, albeit dark. Life was on a day-to-day basis.
One interesting story was on Russian prisoners of war who were “liberated” by Stalin’s armies – and then sent immediately to the Gulag (Siberia, Kolyma) to spend twenty or so years for having been captured by the Nazis. Soviet soldiers were not supposed to surrender.
Page 242 (my book) from short story Major Pugachov’s Last Battle
The arrests of the thirties were arrests of random victims on the false and terrifying theory of a heightened class struggle… The absence of any unifying idea undermined the moral resistance of the prisoners to an unusual degree. They were neither enemies of the government nor state criminals, and they died not even understanding why they had to die. Their self-esteem and bitterness had no point of support. Separated, they perished in the white Kolyma desert from hunger, cold, work, beatings, and diseases. They immediately learned not to defend or support each other. This was precisely the goal of the authorities. The souls of those who remained alive were utterly corrupted.
Page 242-43 from short story Major Pugachov’s Last Battle
New arrivals asked the surviving “aborigines”:
“Why do you eat your soup and kasha in the dining hall but take your bread with you back to the barracks? Why can’t you eat your bread with your soup the way the rest of the world does?”
Smiling with the crack of their blue mouths and showing their gums, toothless from scurvy, the local residents would answer the naïve newcomers:
“In two weeks each of you will understand, and each of you will do the same.”
How could they be told that they had never in their lives known true hunger, hunger that lasts for years and breaks the will? How could anyone explain the passionate, all-engulfing desire to prolong the process of eating, the surprise bliss of washing down one’s bread ration with a mug of tasteless, but hot melted snow in the barracks?
Page 413 from short story The Red Crisis
Physical force becomes moral force.
March 31, 2021
This didn't have the same impact on me as Yevgenia Ginzburg's powerful and haunting 'Journey into the Whirlwind', but it is without question one of the greats of Gulag literature.
Not that the vast network of camps that spread like the plague across some of the most harsh and desolate regions of Russia were a walk in the park, but Kolyma was seen as the most extreme. We're talking temperatures so low that it was enough to squeeze a man’s temples like one had their head in a vice. Not to mention the lack of nutrition and lack of sleep. 17 years of that! - longer and more brutal than Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn's experiences - I'd gladly take a super-duper full on covid lockdown any day. The sort of book to put everything into perspective really. The sort of book that makes you feel physically exhausted without moving a muscle. Well, arms, and hands holding the book, obviously, but you get the picture. Shalamov wrote nearly 150 stories over a near 20 year period, and unless you read Russian, not all have been translated into other languages. While these stories obviously are autobiographical - making them hyper real -there is also interwined a more complex and surreal feel to some of them. This version came with the added bonus of a second collection called Graphite.
Read
August 7, 2017"La nostra epoca è riuscita a far dimenticare all'uomo che è un essere umano"
Salamov ci racconta quello che ha vissuto nei 17 anni trascorsi ai lavori forzati nell'inferno della Kolyma, ossia la Siberia orientale. Un luogo inospitale dove d'inverno si raggiungono i sessanta gradi sotto zero. Conosciamo così, tramite i suoi occhi, uno dei più terribili orrori dello scorso secolo: i campi di concentramento sovietici, organizzati da Stalin, dove tra gli anni trenta e cinquanta persero la vita impunemente quasi tre milioni di persone che stavano scontando pene per colpe che nella maggior parte dei casi erano inesistenti.
Sono stato all'isola di Sakhalin, in Siberia, che sta un pochino più a sud della Kolyma. Ricordo ancora i paesaggi, il cielo, la desolazione dei paesi, i 50 gradi sotto zero e il vento gelato che soffiava a cento chilometri orari. E non posso non immaginare cosa potesse significare passare vent'anni in quelle condizioni.
Nella giornata passata alla Kolyma c'è tempo solo per pensare a sopravvivere, anche se spesso si desidera la morte immediata come liberazione. Non c'è dignità umana. Ci sono solamente maltrattamenti, umiliazioni, fame, freddo, pidocchi, sputi che si ghiacciano prima di toccare terra, cancrene e malattia. I rapporti personali sono ridotti al lumicino, il pensiero è sempre alla quotidianità, alla soddisfazione per aver trovato una crosta di pane ammuffito, al freddo, al lavoro, al gelo. Ognuno cerca di arrivare a fine giornata senza pensare a cosa succederà il giorno seguente, perché non si sa se ci sarà un domani.
La vita interiore è azzerata; non si vive più, si vegeta. Non può non venire in mente, leggendo queste pagine, il libro di Primo Levi"Se questo è un uomo". La sofferenza è indipendente dalla nazionalità di detenuti e carcerieri.
Colpisce qui, come in altri racconti dai campi di concentramento, che anche nella disperazione e nella sfortuna alcuni individui tentino sempre di sopraffare gli altri. L'istinto di sopravvivenza fa emergere i lati peggiori delle persone. E purtroppo sono poi le persone più intellettualmente miserevoli a sopravvivere, perché senza scrupoli.
Il libro è costituto da una serie di racconti senza un apparente filo logico, dove a volte lo stesso personaggio o la stessa situazione si osserva in più d'un racconto, magari da prospettive diverse.
Purtroppo tanto dolore, tanta sofferenza porta assuefazione, vista la notevole mole del libro. Secondo me 1300 pagine son troppe, una maggiore sintesi avrebbe reso il libro molto più efficace.
Forse la cosa migliore è affrontare questa lettura impegnativa diluendola nel tempo.
Molto tragico, molto impegnativo, molto forte, molto angosciante.
Un altro libro da leggere per non dimenticare.
February 9, 2023
Έπος
⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️
⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️
January 4, 2022
Песента Ванинский Порт
https://youtu.be/Vn6MwNUfTks
В Колима от далечния Север хора не са останали. Само призраци на някогашни хора. И чудовища от древните легенди, които да ги пазят - на база детайлни заповеди и правилници. Субарктически климат. Норми за 16 часов работен ден. Таблици за храна, в които калориите в 1 литър вода са приравнени на калориите в маслото...
Шаламов просто разказва кое как е било, както сам го е изпитал из Колимските лагери между 1937 г.и 1953 г. Няма място за драма. Драмата е в отвъдния свят - този на живите. Ужасът не е никак драматичен, защото не е литературен жанр, създаден приятно да гъделичка нервите. Ужасът е ден след ��ен живот. И последната граница на личния Север.
Варлам Шаламов, подобно на своя италиански събрат по съдба и светоглед Примо Леви, успява да надхитри чудовището на съветската лагерна система, като просто оцелява. Като свидетелства. От първо лице. Човешки, стегнато и по същество.
”Ние — и четиримата — бяхме отлично подготвени за пътешествие в бъдещето — било то небесно или земно. Знаехме какво значи научнообоснована норма на хранене, какво е таблица за замяна на продуктите, според която излизаше, че кофа вода по калории замества 100 грама масло. Бяхме се научили на смирение, бяхме, се отучили да се учудваме. Нямахме гордост, себелюбие, самолюбие, а ревността и страстта ни се струваха марсиански понятия, при това пълна глупост. Много по-важно беше да се научиш да си закопчаваш гащите на студа, през зимата — възрастните мъже плачеха, когато понякога не можеха да го направят. Разбирахме, че да умреш не е никак по-лошо от това да живееш, и не се страхувахме нито от едното, нито от другото. Бяхме обладани от огромно равнодушие. Знаехме, че сме в състояние да прекратим този живот още утре, и понякога събирахме смелост, но всеки път ни пречеха някакви дреболии, от които се състоеше целият ни живот. Или ще вземат да раздават „брашненика“ — килограм хляб като награда — просто беше глупаво да се самоубиеш в такъв ден. Или дневалният от съседната барака ще обещае да ти даде цигара вечерта — да върне стар дълг.
Бяхме разбрали, че животът, дори най-лошият, се състои от редуване на радостта с мъката, на сполуките с несполуките и че човек не трябва да се плаши, че несполуките са повече от сполуките.
Бяхме дисциплинирани, слушахме началниците си. Разбирахме, че истината и лъжата са родни сестри, че на света има хиляди истини.
Смятахме се почти за светци — мислейки си, че с годините, прекарани в лагерите, сме изкупили всичките си грехове.
Бяхме се научили да разбираме хората, да предугаждаме постъпките им, да ги разгадаваме.
Бяхме разбрали — и това беше най-важното, — че нашите познания за хората не ни носят никаква полза в живота. Какво като разбирам, чувствам, разгадавам, предугаждам нечии постъпки? Нали не мога да променя своето поведение спрямо човека, няма да взема да доноснича срещу друг също такъв затворник, каквото и да направи. Няма да се домогвам до бригадирска длъжност, която дава възможност да останеш жив: най-лошото в лагера е да натрапваш своята (или нечия чужда) воля на друг човек — на арестант, какъвто съм и аз. Няма да търся „полезни“ познанства, да давам рушвети. И какво като знам, че Иванов е подлец, Петров — доносник, а Заславски — лъжесвидетел?
Невъзможността да използваме определени видове „оръжие“ ни прави слаби в сравнение с някои наши съседи по нар в лагера. Бяхме се научили да се задоволяваме с малко и да му се радваме.
Също така бяхме разбрали нещо много интересно — в очите на държавата и на нейните представители физически силният човек е по-добър, именно по-добър, по-нравствен, по-ценен от слабия, от онзи, който не може да изкопае двадесет кубометра скална маса през смяната. Първият е по-морален от втория. Той изпълнява „процента“, тоест изпълнява своя най-важен дълг пред държавата и обществото, заради което е уважаван от всички. С него се съветват и зачитат мнението му, канят го на съвещания и събрания, които по тематика са далеч от въпросите за изгребването на тежката, хлъзгава скална маса от мокрите, плъзгави ровове”.
https://youtu.be/Vn6MwNUfTks
В Колима от далечния Север хора не са останали. Само призраци на някогашни хора. И чудовища от древните легенди, които да ги пазят - на база детайлни заповеди и правилници. Субарктически климат. Норми за 16 часов работен ден. Таблици за храна, в които калориите в 1 литър вода са приравнени на калориите в маслото...
Шаламов просто разказва кое как е било, както сам го е изпитал из Колимските лагери между 1937 г.и 1953 г. Няма място за драма. Драмата е в отвъдния свят - този на живите. Ужасът не е никак драматичен, защото не е литературен жанр, създаден приятно да гъделичка нервите. Ужасът е ден след ��ен живот. И последната граница на личния Север.
Варлам Шаламов, подобно на своя италиански събрат по съдба и светоглед Примо Леви, успява да надхитри чудовището на съветската лагерна система, като просто оцелява. Като свидетелства. От първо лице. Човешки, стегнато и по същество.
”Ние — и четиримата — бяхме отлично подготвени за пътешествие в бъдещето — било то небесно или земно. Знаехме какво значи научнообоснована норма на хранене, какво е таблица за замяна на продуктите, според която излизаше, че кофа вода по калории замества 100 грама масло. Бяхме се научили на смирение, бяхме, се отучили да се учудваме. Нямахме гордост, себелюбие, самолюбие, а ревността и страстта ни се струваха марсиански понятия, при това пълна глупост. Много по-важно беше да се научиш да си закопчаваш гащите на студа, през зимата — възрастните мъже плачеха, когато понякога не можеха да го направят. Разбирахме, че да умреш не е никак по-лошо от това да живееш, и не се страхувахме нито от едното, нито от другото. Бяхме обладани от огромно равнодушие. Знаехме, че сме в състояние да прекратим този живот още утре, и понякога събирахме смелост, но всеки път ни пречеха някакви дреболии, от които се състоеше целият ни живот. Или ще вземат да раздават „брашненика“ — килограм хляб като награда — просто беше глупаво да се самоубиеш в такъв ден. Или дневалният от съседната барака ще обещае да ти даде цигара вечерта — да върне стар дълг.
Бяхме разбрали, че животът, дори най-лошият, се състои от редуване на радостта с мъката, на сполуките с несполуките и че човек не трябва да се плаши, че несполуките са повече от сполуките.
Бяхме дисциплинирани, слушахме началниците си. Разбирахме, че истината и лъжата са родни сестри, че на света има хиляди истини.
Смятахме се почти за светци — мислейки си, че с годините, прекарани в лагерите, сме изкупили всичките си грехове.
Бяхме се научили да разбираме хората, да предугаждаме постъпките им, да ги разгадаваме.
Бяхме разбрали — и това беше най-важното, — че нашите познания за хората не ни носят никаква полза в живота. Какво като разбирам, чувствам, разгадавам, предугаждам нечии постъпки? Нали не мога да променя своето поведение спрямо човека, няма да взема да доноснича срещу друг също такъв затворник, каквото и да направи. Няма да се домогвам до бригадирска длъжност, която дава възможност да останеш жив: най-лошото в лагера е да натрапваш своята (или нечия чужда) воля на друг човек — на арестант, какъвто съм и аз. Няма да търся „полезни“ познанства, да давам рушвети. И какво като знам, че Иванов е подлец, Петров — доносник, а Заславски — лъжесвидетел?
Невъзможността да използваме определени видове „оръжие“ ни прави слаби в сравнение с някои наши съседи по нар в лагера. Бяхме се научили да се задоволяваме с малко и да му се радваме.
Също така бяхме разбрали нещо много интересно — в очите на държавата и на нейните представители физически силният човек е по-добър, именно по-добър, по-нравствен, по-ценен от слабия, от онзи, който не може да изкопае двадесет кубометра скална маса през смяната. Първият е по-морален от втория. Той изпълнява „процента“, тоест изпълнява своя най-важен дълг пред държавата и обществото, заради което е уважаван от всички. С него се съветват и зачитат мнението му, канят го на съвещания и събрания, които по тематика са далеч от въпросите за изгребването на тежката, хлъзгава скална маса от мокрите, плъзгави ровове”.
May 12, 2020
Ova knjiga je jedno veliko NE Dostojevskom i cijeloj književnoj tradiciji "patnje kao iskupljenja" . Ovdje patnja ne donosi nikakvo iskupljenja niti za istu postoji odgovarajuća nagrada osim razaranja čovjeka i njegove ličnosti. Šalamov ne daje nikakve moralne putokaze, izbjegnuta je svaka patetika , a sarkazam je jedini autorov komentar. Nema ovdje nikakvog sažaljenje i suosjećajnosti , pred nama je samo užas, dno ljudskog života i postojanja. Svjedoci smo jednog paklenog svijeta kolimskih logora na dalekom sjeveru Sibira, u pričama ispunjenih atmosferom jeze i užasa, ali i nevjerice ; ovo nije fikcija nego svjedočanstvo jednog logoraša! Priče su prepuno opsesivnih motiva poput gladi, zime, izmorenosti, beznađa ( ne, nema nade, nema budućnosti ni prošlosti, nema Boga, nema vjere kao kod npr. Solženjicina), gladi, rada, zime , fizičke iznemoglosti i opet gladi.... I zime.
I jedan citat koji se provlači više puta kroz cijelu knjigu: " Rad stvar časti i slave, pitanje smjelosti i herojstvo."
I jedan citat koji se provlači više puta kroz cijelu knjigu: " Rad stvar časti i slave, pitanje smjelosti i herojstvo."
February 8, 2022
Il terribile universo concentrazionario sovietico visto in prima persona. Una breve antologia che raccoglie alcuni episodi dell'odissea di sofferenze vissuti dall'autore. Che dire! Si fatica, leggendo, anche solo a immaginare cosa si dovesse provare trovandosi nelle situazioni descritte. Per quanto riguarda invece l'aspetto piu' strettamente letterario, si alternano pagine di struggente lirismo e altre francamente un po' ripetitive. Quello che conta pero' e' senza dubbio la denuncia, la testimonianza dell'orrore. Orrore se possibile ancora maggiore perche' seminato da chi tante speranze aveva suscitato negli ultimi di tutto il mondo.
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January 2, 2022DNF
Varlam Shalamov é um excelente exemplo de que não basta ter histórias terríveis vividas na primeira pessoa para se ser bom escritor.
Varlam Shalamov é um excelente exemplo de que não basta ter histórias terríveis vividas na primeira pessoa para se ser bom escritor.
April 15, 2020
“açlıktan parlayarak yanan gözler”
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October 30, 2015Every now and then you read one of those books describing tough circumstances where the reader is almost inevitably forced to think "what would I do in this situation?" Kolyma Tales is most definitely one of those. When you're thinking of Russian prison literature, most people think of Solzhenitsyn. For my money, Shalamov was as good a literary craftsman, but rather than trying to impose an ideology-- which in Solzhenitsyn's case, was a rather nasty Orthodox conservatism-- he seemed more content to tell simple stories. Which, in a situation as difficult as the Gulag, is enough.
April 12, 2022
Os “Contos de Kolimá” e “Gulag” de Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn, são dois dos poucos testemunhos do inferno que eram os campos de concentração estalinista, onde qualquer pessoa, criminosa ou não, poderia ser encarcerada conforme as arbitrariedades do regime.
O presente livro só tem um “defeito”, ser demasiado curto.
O presente livro só tem um “defeito”, ser demasiado curto.
November 30, 2021
"If you are about to read the stories of Varlam Shalamov for the first time, you are a person to be envied, a person whose life is about to be changed, a person who will envy others once you yourself have forded these waters."- John Glad.
Rest of the review to follow.
Rest of the review to follow.
January 30, 2019
It's remarkable this book isn't better known and more widely read. Connects with you on a visceral level and instructs about life in the Gulag in a way Gulag Archipelago does not.
December 5, 2018
Durísimo, pero necesario para no olvidar.
May 22, 2022
Padarė didelį įspūdį, ypač dėl to, kad buvo parašyti žmogaus, kuris pats išgyveno visą tą pragarą.
March 26, 2024
έπος! μόνο τρεις μήνες μου πήρε 😱 57 ώρες 🎧 το άξιζε όμως 😎
October 22, 2020
Dark, bleak, and soul-crushing. I have a hard time reviewing books like this, and they always leave me with questions of whether there is a limit to the horrible things humans will do to each other, and how do we let these things happen?
"Friendship is not born in conditions of need or trouble. Literary fairy tales tell of ‘difficult’ conditions which are an essential element in forming any friendship, but such conditions are simply not difficult enough. If tragedy and need brought people together and gave birth to their friendship, then the need was not extreme and the tragedy not great. Tragedy is not deep and sharp if it can be shared with friends."
"He didn't want to die here in the frost under the boots of the guards, in the barracks with its swearing, dirt and total indifference written on every face. He bore no grudge for people's indifference, for he had long since comprehended the source of that spiritual dullness. The same frost that transformed a man's spit into ice in mid-air also penetrated the soul. If bones could freeze, then the brain could also be dulled and the soul could freeze over. And the soul shuddered and froze - perhaps to remain frozen forever."
May 24, 2016
stunning book about a convicts 17 years in a Siberian death camp. The author who was In the camp writes some short stories of his time there. Think a day in the life of Ivan denisovic x 100 times worse. In fact Solzhenitsyn held shalamov in very high regard. This book is one of the biggest magnifying glasses into the human psyche that I have ever read. Some incredible truths in this book that feel so out of place in normal society. Some of the most interesting short stories were: shock therapy, major pugachovs last battle, my first tooth, condensed milk and the train. Some incredible hints and tips on how to survive both physically and mentally and most importantly, spiritually in a place like that if u were ever put there god forbid.
March 19, 2010
Powerful, unsettling, triumphant. The best of the Gulag literature--- darker and more precise even than "Ivan Denisovich". Tales of survival, violence, hope, revolt, resistance, love, and death there in the world of the Gulag. Sharp, concise, etched in ice and steel, and with a deep sense of human worth and the human heart. You can't do 20th-c. Russian lit without reading this book. Yes, Solzhenitsyn--- yes: read "First Circle" and "Ivan Denisovich". But read this. Just go get a copy. Shalamov's stories will stay with you the rest of your life.
May 2, 2009
Disturbing. In some ways, this book is actually better than Solzhenitsyn's stuff. Shalamov writes such short, concise stories that carry so much emotional punch. There is even one story that is only one paragraph long that is more disturbing than an entire novel. I love Shalamov, especially for his aesthetics.
August 27, 2022
Wonderfully depressing short stories. Devastating. Hard to believe he was able to create art out of Soviet forced labor camp hell. Solzhenitsyn is equally great, but it’s his nonfiction rather than the fiction that equals the power of Shalamov’s Tales.
April 29, 2013
Qualcosa di più di un semplice libro-un'avventura dello spirito.
In una lunghissima sequenza di racconti,l'autore ci accompagna in quell'orrore senza fine che fu la Siberia dei Lager.
Non è un libro facile nè leggero, perchè non ambisce ad intrattenere: suo unico obiettivo è esorcizzare la malvagità umana, che alla Kolyma negli anni trenta ha trovato la sua massima espressione, nel solo modo possibile, il ricordo.
In un'epoca di facili revisionismi, in cui da ogni parte si cerca di inquinare lo sguardo al passato con ogni sorta di propaganda, l'esperienza di venti anni di dannazione che Salamov ci offre con il cuore in mano, è qualcosa con cui è esperienza preziosa fare i conti.
Sconsigliato per quanti cercano nella lettura solo un confertevole passatempo.
In una lunghissima sequenza di racconti,l'autore ci accompagna in quell'orrore senza fine che fu la Siberia dei Lager.
Non è un libro facile nè leggero, perchè non ambisce ad intrattenere: suo unico obiettivo è esorcizzare la malvagità umana, che alla Kolyma negli anni trenta ha trovato la sua massima espressione, nel solo modo possibile, il ricordo.
In un'epoca di facili revisionismi, in cui da ogni parte si cerca di inquinare lo sguardo al passato con ogni sorta di propaganda, l'esperienza di venti anni di dannazione che Salamov ci offre con il cuore in mano, è qualcosa con cui è esperienza preziosa fare i conti.
Sconsigliato per quanti cercano nella lettura solo un confertevole passatempo.
April 12, 2012
I dare you to find a literary genre more depressing than prison literature – go on, think about it for a bit, I'll wait. Kolyma Tales is a collection of short stories set in the various mines, dormitories, and work camps that made up the vast Siberian "human sewage disposal system" that Alexander Solzhenitsyn so famously chronicled in The Gulag Archipelago. Based on an unimaginable seventeen years of the author's own personal experience with the Gulag system, this is an unforgettably bleak look at one of the absolute worst places in the world. One of the most striking things about the stories here is the nearly complete absence of moralizing, which is very different from Solzenitsyn's angry polemics; the icy detachment of the author as he recounts these horrific conditions and even more horrific human beings who live in such a wasteland of the spirit is subtly unsettling in a way that's almost impossible to describe but unforgettable as you're reading it. Think of the descriptive fatalism of Jack London's To Build a Fire over and over again, with scores of protagonists shuffling through endless permutations of fellow prisoners and guards whose humanity has been gradually frozen out of them over decades of isolation in a hellish world that the American prison system is unfortunately trying to recreate right here at home. I would recommend detoxing with Harry Potter or something after this; it's pretty soul-crushing.
March 18, 2024
Kolıma Öyküleri hakkında ne desem az. Bundan sonra benden kitap tavsiye etmemi istediklerinde (bu durumu çok sevmesem de) üç kitaptan biri Kolıma Öyküleri olur büyük ihtimalle. Ama tavsiye ettiğim kişi bundan ne derece memnun olur, bilemiyorum. Çünkü bu kitaptaki öyküler herkese göre değil. Her yüreğin kaldıramayacağı öyle öyküler var ki bazılarından sonra bir saat kendime gelemediğim oldu. Bu yüzden görece (kendi hızıma göre) yavaş okudum, okuyabildim kitabı.
Kitapta Nazi zulmü kadar gerçek ve onun kadar acımasız Stalin zulmünün yarattığı Sovyet çalışma kamplarından Kolıma'da yaşananlar var tüm çıplaklığıyla. Kitap hakkında yazılanları okuduğumda öykülerde anlatılanların çoğunun gerçek olaylar ve kitabın da aslında otobiyografik bir kitap olduğunu, Şalamov'un bunları bizzat yaşadığını öğrendim. Kitabın çevirmeni Gamze Öksüz'ün "Kamp Esaretinden Edebiyata: Şalamov ve Kolıma Öyküleri" adlı bir kitabı var, onu da eşzamanlı okudum. Bu kitapla birlikte onu da okumanızı tavsiye ederim. Gamze Öksüz bu çalışmasında hem Şalamov'un hayatı ve kamplar hakkında bilgiler veriyor hem de Kolıma Öykülerini analiz ediyor, sayesinde öyküleri çok daha iyi anlıyorsunuz.
"Kamp edebiyatı" ve Sibirya coğrafyası, tarihi özel ilgi alanım, o yüzden tekrar tekrar okuyacağım bir kitap Kolıma Öyküleri. Fakat bunun yanında Şalamov'un yalın, abartısız, süssüz, dümdüz üslubu, hikayeleri kurgulaması da (ah o son cümleler...) beni çok etkiledi. Bence çok iyi bir öykücü Şalamov. Kamp edebiyatı olsun olmasın başka öykülerini de okumak çok isterim ve Jaguar Kitap çevirip basarsa çok sevinirim.
Kitapta Nazi zulmü kadar gerçek ve onun kadar acımasız Stalin zulmünün yarattığı Sovyet çalışma kamplarından Kolıma'da yaşananlar var tüm çıplaklığıyla. Kitap hakkında yazılanları okuduğumda öykülerde anlatılanların çoğunun gerçek olaylar ve kitabın da aslında otobiyografik bir kitap olduğunu, Şalamov'un bunları bizzat yaşadığını öğrendim. Kitabın çevirmeni Gamze Öksüz'ün "Kamp Esaretinden Edebiyata: Şalamov ve Kolıma Öyküleri" adlı bir kitabı var, onu da eşzamanlı okudum. Bu kitapla birlikte onu da okumanızı tavsiye ederim. Gamze Öksüz bu çalışmasında hem Şalamov'un hayatı ve kamplar hakkında bilgiler veriyor hem de Kolıma Öykülerini analiz ediyor, sayesinde öyküleri çok daha iyi anlıyorsunuz.
"Kamp edebiyatı" ve Sibirya coğrafyası, tarihi özel ilgi alanım, o yüzden tekrar tekrar okuyacağım bir kitap Kolıma Öyküleri. Fakat bunun yanında Şalamov'un yalın, abartısız, süssüz, dümdüz üslubu, hikayeleri kurgulaması da (ah o son cümleler...) beni çok etkiledi. Bence çok iyi bir öykücü Şalamov. Kamp edebiyatı olsun olmasın başka öykülerini de okumak çok isterim ve Jaguar Kitap çevirip basarsa çok sevinirim.
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