A review, and links to other information about and reviews of Fado by Andrzej Stasiuk. Andrzej Stasiuk is one of the most successful and internationally acclaimed contemporary Galician Tales, one of several works available in English (others include Nine, Dukla, Fado, and On the Road to Babadag), conveys an impression of. A fado is a plaintive song of yearning for a person or place that perhaps never was OR the natural title for Andrzej Stasiuk’s delicate, deeply-shadowed book of .
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Fado by Andrzej Stasiuk
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Preview — Fado by Andrzej Stasiuk. Fado by Andrzej Stasiuk. In this delightful collection of essays—by turns wry and reflective, wistful and witty—contemporary Polish writer Andrzej Stasiuk turns his attention to the villages and small towns of Romania, Hungary, Slovakia, Albania, and of course his native Poland. Stasiuk travels to places no tourist would think of visiting, and in his characteristically lyrical prose, lays out his In this delightful collection of essays—by turns wry and reflective, wistful and witty—contemporary Polish writer Andrzej Stasiuk turns his attention to the villages and small towns of Romania, Hungary, Slovakia, Albania, and of course his native Poland.
Stasiuk travels to places no tourist would think of visiting, and in his characteristically lyrical prose, lays out his own unique and challenging perspective on the fascinating, unknown heart of Central Europe. Above all, he describes with fascination how past, present, and future co-exist and intertwine along the highways and back roads of the region. Paperbackpages. To see what your friends thought of this book, please sign up. To ask other readers questions about Fadoplease sign up.
Lists with This Book. Aug 14, Monica Carter rated it really liked it. Since we are now waist-deep in the vast and rugged literary landscape of Eastern Europe, it’s appropriate to introduce a book that is the ultimate travelogue to accompany us on our journey.
Fado by the Polish writer Andrzej Stasiuk reads like a urban shepherd traversing the land around him not for answers to questions he has, but he goes out in search of questions themselves. He wanders and wonders, observing the pastiche of histories within the newly defined borders of Eastern Europe.
Stasiuk g Since we are now waist-deep in the vast and rugged literary landscape of Eastern Europe, it’s appropriate to introduce a book that is the ultimate travelogue to accompany us on our journey. Stasiuk gives us a wink-wink homage to Kerouac by calling his book the “Slavic On the Road ” which lets us know that although his observations may be in a melancholic tone, he doesn’t take himself too seriously. He enlightens by describing the many facet of Central and Eastern Europe, the essence of it’s geography and how it affects their way of life.
There is a chapter entitled, Bulatovic, about the Balkan writer Miodrag Bulatovic who deeply influenced him.
It leads him to some interesting musings on solitude: Oh, this Stwsiuk European solitude! This perpetual orphanhood for which there is no cure, because medicine doesn’t work retroactively and cannot bring back what has died. A perpetual, unrelenting solitude and abandonment.
Post-Great Moravian solitude, post-Jagiellonian solitude, post-Austro-Hungarian solitude, post-Yugoslavian solitude, post-communist solitude. The loop of history running through the button of the present.
What kind of story can be patched together in a language whose grammar has no future tense?
What comes out is always some kind of elegy, some kind of legend, a sort of circular narrative that has to return to the past because not only the future but also the present fills it with trepidation. Here the past is never at fault, it’s always in absolution. Old Kuznetsov may well have been right when he spoke of innocence.
Fado by Andrzej Stasiuk
Guilt is borne only by those who believe that their deeds will in some way continue to exist in the future. Memory staiuk the image of fate as an inevitability protect us from the cold touch of solitude. When all’s said and done, it’s only that which has passed truly exists, and at least partially corroborates our uncertain Central European existence. And this does give a non-European reader insight into an inherent question of andfzej do I belong?
I liked so many of Stasiuk’s perceptions of what he sees as he stsiuk from Ukraine to Albania. These are not insights of country soul tasting big-city life, but considerations of someone who wants to know the people around anfrzej, and how history has treated countries he visits.
Just read how he perfectly and honestly characterizes Romania: I’ve been there maybe a dozen times and I still haven’t had enough. Romania is a fairy tale. Past, present and future coexist there, and decay walks arm and arm with growth. The new is very much on the way, but the old survives equally well. This is what you and I can’t experience as a tourist per se. We can notice that like many places it has old and modern architecture yet we do not understand the essence of ‘a Romania’ in context to history – that each of these countries is trying to live up to its own expectations, to become an adult so-to-speak.
Because of this terrain that hovers staskuk of feet in the air, the boundaries of national fade: Though in fact, to live in the Carpathians is to remember that citizenship or stasouk were always of little importance here.
Andrzej Stasiuk – Wikipedia
At times, in my extravagant cosmopolitan dreams, I see the main ridge of the mountains. I leave my home and head east, then south, and I don’t stasouk any borders. On the way atasiuk are only flocks of sheep, shelters, sheepdogs–and in the winter even those things aren’t there. Across the ridge, along the deep valleys, there are several rail lines and several roads linking different countries.
Both the roads and the tracks look like a prank, like extraterritorial corridors leading to the other side of the mountains.
The noisy, restless flow of modernity passes through them, but the mountains themselves remain undisturbed. Not only does Stasiuk gives us first hand accounts of travels through Eastern Europe but there are poignant and nostalgic essays about memory, adolescence, grandparents and even a prison stint.
Fado refers to a type of song – a Portuguese mourning song. Stasiuk’s Fado is a song without the music, mourning the loss of what was or isn’t or won’t be. A writer with the nomadic mind of a gypsy holds up a a gargantuan mirror to reflect the image of Eastern Europe to the rest of the world, it’s difficult not to gaze at it. Like when we see our own reflection and notice the wrinkles and changes in our face as we age, Stasiuk hides nothing. He gives us a true dispatch from Eastern Europe with the heart of a bohemian: That’s right, best of all is night in a foreign country on the highway, because at those times foreignness extends across the entire earth and sweeps everyone up indiscriminately in its flow.
Somewhere on the horizon are the fires of human settlements, indistinguishable from andrzeej distant glimmer of adrzej stars. Oh, the flickering artery of nothingness, oh, the recollection of the ancient times when were homeless in the world, when space was terrifying in its immensity.
Now it irks us with its elusivenss. Jun adrzej, Amy rated it it was amazing. Translated by Bill Johnston. His essay collection, Fado, demonstrates this as he examines the peoples of stsiuk former Yugoslavia and the other regions that form Central Europe. In all, he writes with obvious affection for the human condition surviving in a complicated place and time. He fadk observes people and their activities: This is not a travel journal, told by a curious visitor.
Stasiuk resides there and his impressions are that much more knowledgeable and profound. It begins with a road trip, a car driving at night in the rain. It stasiu, out as almost a romance with the land, and he reflects on the dark houses he passes, and how no matter what ethnic heritage a person has, they are all the same when asleep in their beds. Andrsej map is essential to reading this, as he goes to a variety of cities and recounts what he sees as well as historical details and anecdotal stories from each individual place.
Much of his writing discusses the changes from Communism to newer political states, some still in their infancy Slovakia. Zndrzej past is complicated in Central Europe, and progress is equally difficult.
Of Montenegro, he writes: To a greater or lesser extent this applies to all postcommunist countries. He talks about the emptiness that is felt in places, where modernization has left many without a purpose.
Yet he uses almost poetic words to describe these impressions: That noble game, combining geometrical abstraction with kinetics, allows a person to forget the everyday. The men circled the tables like they were hypnotized. They moved back, moved forward, judged distances, stepped on tiptoe and held their breath as if afraid that the moving adrzej would change direction and the cosmic harmony of the game would be disturbed.
In Levoka, he observes the local police, who group together in anticipation of a rebellion by Gypsy residents.
The violence never occurs, but the image of the bored policemen, playing with their police dog and throwing snowballs, reveals a truism of the place: In earlier years, the images featured working men and women in simple settings.
The fadl meaning being hard work garnered money. Then as years passed, the illustrations became more abstract and conceptual, until they evolved into paper faces of famous heroes. There was a political meaning behind each image, and Stasiuk shows how the meaning of money changed too.
Change occurred yet again, during difficult economic times, to another theme: He never judges the people or even presumes to suggest a solution.
An especially fascinating scene was played out at the end of the day in Rasinari, when the cows, oxen, and goats returned from grazing loose into the village, all on their own. The whole village came out of its homes onto the road and watched the passage of the livestock.
Children, old women in headscarves, men in small groups smoking cigarettes-everyone watched as the animals unerringly found their way to their own farms and stood by the gate waiting to be let in.
This ritual had been repeated for centuries and everything in andrzje was self-evident, complete, and in its own way perfect. Jan 07, Mieczyslaw Kasprzyk rated syasiuk it was amazing Shelves: There are shades of Kapuczinski here and the “short story” style is absolutely right for Stasiuk.