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"Contempt" is a brilliant and unsettling work by one of the revolutionary masters of modern European literature. All the qualities for which Alberto Moravia is justly famous--his cool clarity of expression, his exacting attention to psychological complexity and social pretension, his still-striking openness about sex--are evident in this story of a failing marriage. "Contempt" (which was to inspire Jean-Luc Godard's no-less-celebrated film) is an unflinching examination of desperation and self-deception in the emotional vacuum of modern consumer society.… (mehr)
giovannigf: Looking for pseudo-existentialist first-person narratives from paranoid misogynists consumed by jealousy? This is your lucky day! I'd recommend Sabato's novel over Moravia's because it's mercifully brief, but you should save yourself the grief and read Tolstoy's masterful "The Kreutzer Sonata" instead.… (mehr)
It is rare, anymore, to encounter, in the context of the 'psychological novel,' an uninsightful character who is not, at least implicitly, presented as such. If we can find this anywhere, it is perhaps in the product of the older, typically male, author who cannot sustain an --- idea.
Moravia is capable of writing. The characters and situation are adequately sketched, often humorously, and with an emotional clarity which is the mark of mastery; and perhaps the early expository section remains worthwhile for these reasons. However, the narrator's fixation on the single explanation, incapable of considering the additional possibility or playing one off of the other, never considering a subsequent movement, occasionally acting with cleverness but only by instinct, and the unshakable - to the last pages - belief/conceit that he could "prove [his] case" against the charge of contempt if given the opportunity, is bizarre. Not to mention the high-school-level Freudian interpretation of Ulysses presented as fracturing deep-brain-insight by one of Wager's operatic eponyms. ( )
De 1954 es esta novela que llevaría al cine con gran éxito Jean Luc Godard. Ricardo es un guionista que, conforme alcanza el éxito en su carrera, ve cómo se desmorona su matrimonio. Entre la amargura y la ironía, un agudo análisis de la rutina y el cansancio que puede sobrevenir en la sociedad burguesa.
An overbearing psychological first-person narrative where the protagonist's situation is compared obscurely to the relationship between Odysseus and Penelope. Have I read this before? Yes, I have: Bernhard Schlink uses a similar device in Homecoming. The finale is simultaneously dark and reassuring.
Thinly plotted as it is, I can't say I enjoyed Contempt. There is thinking, then some more thinking, then some thinking about thinking. The "feature" of this novel is the super-analytical mind of a writer whose relationships with his wife and work overlap and disintegrate. But it felt more a study of neurosis and depression; which, from a first-hand perspective, isn't comfortable reading. ( )
Die Informationen stammen von der englischen "Wissenswertes"-Seite.Ändern, um den Eintrag der eigenen Sprache anzupassen.
During the first two years of our married life my relations with my wife were, I can now assert, perfect.
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Die Informationen stammen von der englischen "Wissenswertes"-Seite.Ändern, um den Eintrag der eigenen Sprache anzupassen.
By which I mean to say that, in those two years, a complete, profound harmony of the senses was accompanied by a kind of numbness - or should I say silence? - of the mind which, in such circumstances, causes an entire suspension of judgment and looks only to love for any estimate of the beloved person.
The less one notices happiness, the greater it is. It may seem strange, but in those two years I sometimes thought I was actually bored. Certainly, at the time, I did not realize that I was happy. It seemed to me that I was doing what everyone did - loving my wife and being loved by her; and this love of ours seemed to me an ordinary, normal fact, or rather, to be in no way precious - just like the air one breathes, and there's plenty of it and it become precious only when it begins to run short.
I began therefore to live like one who carries within him the infirmity of an impending disease but cannot make up his mind to go to the doctor; in other words, I tried not to reflect too much either upon Emilia's demeanor towards me, or upon my work.
Why did Emilia no longer love me, and how had she arrived at this state of indifference? With a feeling of anguish in my heart, I foresaw that this first general conclusion, already so painful, would demand an infinite number of further, minor proofs before I became completely convinced - proofs which, just because they were of lesser importance, would be more concrete and, if possible, still more painful. I was, in fact, now convinced that Emilia could no longer love me; but I did not know either why or how this had come about; and in order to be entirely persuaded of it I must have an explanation with her, I must seek out and examine, I must plunge the thin, ruthless blade of investigation into the would which, hitherto, I had exerted myself to ignore.
She would have replied that it was not true, and - quite probably - she would have reminded me, with crude technical precision, or certain transports of sensuality on her own side, in which everything was included - skill, pursuit of pleasure, violent excitement, erotic fury - everything except tenderness and the indescribable abandonment of true surrender; and I should not have known what to say to this; and, into the bargain, I should have offended her with that insulting comparison, and thus have put myself in the wrong.
In order to take one single step, it seems, we displace an infinite number of muscles, and yet, thanks to this automatism, we are unaware of it. The same thing happens in our relations with other people. As long as I believed myself to be loved by Emilia, a kind of happy automatism had presided over our relations; and only the final completion of any course of conduct on my part had been illuminated by the light of consciousness, all the rest remaining in the obscurity of affectionate and unnoticed habit. But not that the illusion of love had faded, I discovered myself to be conscious of every one of my actions, even the smallest.
Letzte Worte
Die Informationen stammen von der englischen "Wissenswertes"-Seite.Ändern, um den Eintrag der eigenen Sprache anzupassen.
And I decided to write down these memories, in the hope of succeeding in my intention.
Literaturhinweise zu diesem Werk aus externen Quellen.
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▾Buchbeschreibungen
"Contempt" is a brilliant and unsettling work by one of the revolutionary masters of modern European literature. All the qualities for which Alberto Moravia is justly famous--his cool clarity of expression, his exacting attention to psychological complexity and social pretension, his still-striking openness about sex--are evident in this story of a failing marriage. "Contempt" (which was to inspire Jean-Luc Godard's no-less-celebrated film) is an unflinching examination of desperation and self-deception in the emotional vacuum of modern consumer society.
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