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Ebook ↠ Sklepy cynamonowe 160 pages Download Þ ❰Download❯ ➵ Sklepy cynamonowe Author Bruno Schulz – Horticulturetrader.co.uk The Street of Crocodiles in the Polish city of Drogobych is a street of memories and dreams where recollections of Bruno Schulz's uncommon boyhood and of the eerie side of his merchaTailors' dummies should be treated like people and whose obsessive fear of cockroaches causes him to resemble one Bruno Schulz a Polish Jew killed by the Nazis in 1942 is considered by many to have been the leading Polish writer between the two world warsBruno Schulz's untimely death at the hands of a Nazi stands as one of the great losses to modern literature During his lifetime his work found little critical reg Before Bruno Schulz was shot in the street in one of the many actions of Nazi Terror in 1942 he was a uniue human being with a beautiful sense of humour and a lightness that makes one feel sad Before Bruno Schulz fell victim to the absurdity of fascist hatred he was a writer of seemingly endless imagination who could find magic in the smallest of circumstances and even let a Tailor's Dummy have its rightsBefore Bruno Schulz lost his life and most of his writing to the worst criminal reign in European history he filled pages with sparkling life and sent them in envelopes to be received by his ONE FIRST READERBefore Bruno Schulz became one of the few known victims of the Nazis who stand as symbols for all those countless common people with eual rights to remembrance and love who were wiped out without a trace left he was a master of village life descriptionThe terror of tickling is vivid in the book that preceded the terror of mass murderImagine a world in which tickling is still a threat Imagine a world in which people can still live their boring lives in small towns without worrying that the big hatred may strike with the power of empathy free psychopathy turned epidemicImagine the world of The Street Of Crocodiles still intact in our hearts ImagineFor imagination and empathy are siblings that need to go hand in hand in our absurd worldTo Bruno Schulz lest we forgetThe Demiurge said my father has had no monopoly of creation for creation is the privilege of all spiritsDestruction is for those whose only privilege is that they have a weapon in their hand and jealousy in their hearts but no imaginative power of their own to create a world for themselves Thus the urge to destroy others

Bruno Schulz » Sklepy cynamonowe Book

Ard but word of his remarkable talents gradually won him an international readership This volume brings together his complete fiction including three short stories and his final surviving work Sanatorium Under the Sign of the Hourglass Illustrated with Schulz's original drawings this edition beautifully showcases the distinctive surrealist vision of one of the twentieth century's most gifted and influential writers PrefaceThis volume contains two collections of short stories and three additional stories that were originally published with Schulz's letters drawings and miscellaneous proseI'll review each of the collections separately under their GR titlesAfter only two or three stories I started having really vivid responses which I turned into a story I normally place any creative responses to a book at the end of my analytical review However this time I'll reverse the order so that the review doesn't pre empt what I was trying to achieve with the storyThe Manneuin in the HouseInspired by the Life and Works of Bruno SchulzMy grandfather and I were the first to awake that morning When I came down from my room he was already in the study reading the arts pages of the weekend newspaper My family were tailors but my grandfather loved to read He usually read the news and politics on Saturday and the arts pages on Sunday when he had timeI hadn't meant to wake up that early I uickly became restless It wasn't light yet and my grandfather had only turned on a reading light next to his chair He was always conscious of conserving energy and money His thrift had served him and our family well I supposeGrandfather saw that I was fidgety and went into the kitchen He gave me some coins from the old money tin and suggested I go to the bakery and buy some pastries for breakfast When I closed the front door behind me it was already starting to get light I remember the streetlights turning off as I rounded the corner Then I noticed a lot of vehicles and men in uniform I tried not to look at them I don't know how closely they looked at me but they didn't try to stop meBy the time I returned to the corner with our pastries they had blocked the street There were fire engines at the corner but they weren't letting them in The firemen were pointing down the street agitated but the men in uniform were holding them back When I got close enough to look down our street I could see that four houses on our side of the street were on fire They were all in the same block and one of them belonged to our family I strained to hear anything above the roar of the fire I thought I heard screams but nobody emerged from any of the buildings A few times I thought I heard gunshotsI didn't know what to do Nobody who passed me in the street looked me in the eye It was as if I wasn't there as if I too must have died in the fireI decided to walk to my uncle's home It was a kilometre awayWhen I arrived there he was already in his car with my aunt and my two cousins What's happening? I asked They're coming for us We have to leave immediately or they will kill us tooThey had a few possessions in the car with them but not manyWe had to go near our home to get out of the city I asked if I could have a look at it one last time My aunt and uncle discussed the risks on the way there As we got near the corner I realised that the men in uniform were nowhere to be seen The street was empty apart from the fire engines I was allowed to walk down to the remains of our home with my oldest cousin RudyThe houses had been three storeys high and each of them had fallen inwards Even before I thought about everything my family had lost including their lives I can still remember that my first reaction was how little is left of a home when it is destroyed by fire The pile of rubble didn't even come up to my headRudy started to tug at my hand and I realised that we had to go before it was too late I took one last look and it was then that I saw one of grandfather's manneuins Somehow it didn't seem to have been damaged at all I looked at it and it looked at me and we said our goodbyes for the time beingI think they had intended to clear the whole neighbourhood and rebuild new residences there but when I returned eighteen months later after the war had ended nothing had changed Even the manneuin was poking out of the top of the rubble looking at me I went up to it lifted it upright and brushed off the ash and dust It now stood proud above the rubbleI assume this was the moment it resumed its work for my familyThe men in uniform had never made their way to my aunt and uncle's home and I returned there with them Each day they let me visit our home I think they assumed that I would one day put it behind me They were as surprised as I was when I told them what had happened the following days Each day I returned a storey of our home seem to be re constructed by itself where previously there had only been rubbleBy the third day it seemed to be complete so for the first time I entered our home and discovered that it was exactly as I had left it It was as if this pile of rubble this empty space had memorised our home and given the opportunity it had rebuilt it from memoryBut that is only the first part of my storyI moved back into my room Rudy was allowed to join me as company But I always had a feeling that the house was watching us Now that it existed it was trying to reconstruct its life tooOne Saturday morning I came downstairs went to the bakery and when I returned I noticed somebody sitting in the study with a newspaper It was my grandfather He asked whether I had got him his usual rugelach I'm sure that I had only ordered enough pastries for Rudy and me but when I looked into the paper bag I realised I had enough food for the entire family I assembled it all on a plate on the dining tableThen as I waited one by one my whole family descended from above and said hello as if nothing had happenedI was only fourteen but I noticed that everybody looked to me for guidance I didn't know why or what for Soon I seem to have re established all of our family routines because it was expected of me One that mattered to all of us was evening supper No matter who had been home for dinner we all gathered for an hour or so before going to bed It was when we listened to everybody's stories about what they had done that day or in the pastThe first evening my grandfather asked Can you remember one of my stories? Well of course I could I had sat in his lap for years memorising his stories as if one day when I had grandchildren they might seem like my stories One by one over the next few weeks I told everybody's stories Initially they just nodded in agreement Occasionally somebody else said That's a good oneThen one day at supper nobody looked at me with their usual expectation Instead grandfather started by telling a story then my father said Funny that reminds me and he told one of his storiesAfter a while as I had become accustomed to I said OK it's time we all went off to bedEverybody looked at me with bemusement I was after all the youngest in the room Then they laughed I looked over to the corner of the dining room and noticed that even the manneuin was laughingTo this day we don't go to bed until each of us has told one of our storiesDarkness and LightI first became aware of Bruno Schulz when I read one of my favourite novels Nicole Krauss' The History of Love which I highly recommend By the time I got around to reading Schulz's book I was aware that its original Polish title had been Cinnamon Shops I didn't know much else about the subject matter of the bookFor me both alternative titles summon up exotic images of Jewish life between the wars I expected the stories to flesh out these images I had no idea how tho

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Sklepy cynamonoweThe Street of Crocodiles in the Polish city of Drogobych is a street of memories and dreams where recollections of Bruno Schulz's uncommon boyhood and of the eerie side of his merchant family's life are evoked in a startling blend of the real and the fantastic Most memorable and most chilling is the portrait of the author's father a maddened shopkeeper who imports rare birds' eggs to hatch in his attic who believes Imaginative Borges like fantasy and wildly descriptive writing in this collection of connected short stories that are semi autobiographical Who else can write fascinating paragraphs about bedclothes like this from the story “Uncle Charles”? “Since his wife’s departure the house had not been cleaned the bed not made Charles returned home late at night battered and bruised by the nightly revels to which he succumbed under the pressure of the hot empty days The crushed cool disordered bedclothes seemed like a blissful haven an island of safety on which he succeeded in landing with the last ounce of his strength like a castaway tossed for many days and nights on a stormy seaGroping blindly in the darkness he sank between the white mounds of cool feathers and slept as he fell across the bed or with his head downward pushing deep into the softness of the pillows as if in sleep he wanted to drill through to explore completely that powerful massif of feather bedding rising out of the night He fought in his sleep against the bed like a bather swimming against the current he kneaded it and molded it with his body like an enormous bowl of dough and woke up at dawn panting covered with sweat thrown up on the shores of that pile of bedding which he could not master in the nightly struggle Half landed from the depth of unconsciousness he still hung on the verge of night gasping for breath while the bedding grew around him swelled and fermented and again engulfed him in a mountain of heavy whitish dough”The book blurb gives a good summary The Street of Crocodiles in the Polish city of Drogobych is a street of memories and dreams where recollections of Bruno Schulz's uncommon boyhood and of the eerie side of his merchant family's life are evoked in a startling blend of the real and the fantastic Most memorable and most chilling is the portrait of the author's father a maddened shopkeeper who imports rare birds' eggs to hatch in his attic who believes tailors' dummies should be treated like people and whose obsessive fear of cockroaches causes him to resemble one For most of the remainder of the review I’ll let the author speak for himself Here’s a passage where the family housekeep takes him to the home of a maid who has a mentally challenged daughter “Once Adela took me to the old woman’s house It was early in the morning when we entered the small blue walled room with its mud floor lying in a patch of bright yellow sunlight in the still of the morning broken only by the frightening loud ticking of a cottage clock on the wall In a straw filled chest lay the foolish Maria white as a wafer and motionless like a glove from which a hand had been withdrawn And as if taking advantage of her sleep the silence talked the yellow bright evil silence delivered its monologue argued and loudly spoke its vulgar maniacal solilouy Maria’s time – the time imprisoned in her soul had left her and – terribly real filled the room vociferous and hellish in the bright silence of the morning rising from the noisy mill of the clock like a cloud of bad flour powdery flower the stupid flower of madmen”From the story “The Gale” “The gale blew cold and dead colors onto the sky – streaks of green yellow and violet – the distant vaults and arcades of its spirals The roofs loomed black and crooked apprehensive and expectant Those under which the wind had already penetrated rose in inspiration outgrew the neighboring roofs and prophesied doom under the unkempt sky Then they fell and expired unable to hold any longer the powerful breath which then moved farther along and filled the whole space with noise and terror And yet houses rose with a scream in a paroxysm of prediction and howled disaster”A description of his father’s tailor shop from “The Night of the Great Season” “The depth of the large shop became from day to day darker and richer with stocks of cloth surge velvet and cord On the somber shelves those granaries and silos the cool felted fabrics matured and yielded interest The powerful capital of autumn multiplied and mellowed It grew and ripened and spread ever wider until the shelves resembled the rows of some great amphitheater It was augmented daily by new loads of goods brought in crates and bales in the cool of the morning on the broad bearlike shoulders of groaning bearded porters who exuded an aura of autumn freshness mixed with vodka The shop assistants unpacked these new supplies and filled with their rich drapery colors as with putty all the holes and cracks of the tall cupboards They ran the gamut of all the autumn shades and went up and down through the octaves of color Beginning at the bottom they tried shyly and plaintively the contralto semitones passed on to the washed out grays of distance to tapestry blues and going upward in ever broader cords reached deep royal blues the indigo of distant forests and the plush of rustling parks in order to enter through the ochres reds tans and sepias the whispering shadows of wilting gardens and to reach finally the dark smell of fungi the waft of mold in the depth of autumn nights and the dull accompaniment of the darkest basses”The blubs also say that Bruno Schulz b 1892 a Polish Jew shot on the streets of Warsaw during a pogrom by the Nazis in 1942 is considered by many to have been the leading Polish writer between the two world wars His extreme shyness was almost a disability and he wrote most of these stories in correspondence with a woman who encouraged him to keep sending them A fascinating book that I am adding to my favorites for its literary value Top photo of Warsaw in the 1930's from vintagesJews arrested in Warsaw heading to Treblinka concentration camp from historyplacecomThe author from newyorkercom