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Secret candent

Secret candent

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Secret candent

Bewertungen:
4.5/5 (8 Bewertungen)
Länge:
95 Seiten
1 Stunde
Herausgeber:
Freigegeben:
Apr 15, 2020
ISBN:
9788477276357
Format:
Buch

Beschreibung

"Es va quedar petrificat de la ràbia. Va anar de ben poc que no s'arrupís i els llancés una pedra. Així doncs, se li havien escapat, però amb quin engany més baix i més vil! Que la seva mare mentia, ho sabia des d'ahir. Però que pogués ser prou desvergonyida per no fer cas d'una promesa explícita feia a miques el seu últim vestigi de confiança. La vida sencera li resultava incomprensible, ara que veia que les paraules, darrere de les quals havia suposat que es trobava la realitat, només eren bombolles de colors, que s'inflaven i esclataven per dissoldre's en el no-res. Però quin secret més terrible devia ser aquell que feia que els adults arribessin fins i tot a enganyar-lo a ell, un nen, i marxessin d'amagat, com si fossin criminals!"
Herausgeber:
Freigegeben:
Apr 15, 2020
ISBN:
9788477276357
Format:
Buch

Über den Autor

Stefan Zweig (1881-1942) was an Austrian novelist, poet, playwright and biographer. Born into an Austrian-­Jewish family in 1881, he became a leading figure in Vienna's cultural world and was famed for his gripping novellas and biographies. At the height of his literary career, in the 1920s and 1930s, he was one of the most popular writers in the world: extremely popular in the United States, South America and Europe - he remains so in continental Europe - however, he was largely ignored by the British public. Zweig is best known for his novellas (notably The Burning Secret, The Royal Game, Amok, and Letter from an Unknown Woman; novels (Beware of Pity, Confusion, and the post­humously published The Post Office Girl); and his vivid psychological biographical essays on famous writers and thinkers such as Erasmus, Tolstoy, Balzac, Stendhal, Nietzsche, Dostoevsky, Dickens, Freud and Mesmer. In 1934, with the rise of Nazism, Zweig fled from Salzburg to London, then to New York, and finally to Brazil. Zweig's memoir, The World of Yesterday, was completed in 1942, one day before Zweig and his second wife were found dead, following an apparent double suicide.


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Buchvorschau

Secret candent - Stefan Zweig

STEFAN ZWEIG

SECRET CANDENT

TRADUCCIÓ D’ESTER CAPDEVILA

QUADERNS CREMA

BARCELONA 2020

TAULA

LA PARTENAIRE

AMISTAT RÀPIDA

TERCET

ASSALT

ELS ELEFANTS

PICABARALLA

SECRET CANDENT

SILENCI

ELS MENTIDERS

PETJADES A LA LLUM DE LA LLUNA

L’AGRESSIÓ

TEMPESTA

PRIMERA INTUÏCIÓ

FOSCOR DESCONCERTANT

EL DARRER SOMNI

LA «PARTENAIRE»

La màquina del tren va fer un xiulet enrogallat: havia arribat a Semmering. Els vagons negres es van aturar un moment sota la llum argentada del cel; van escopir una barrejadissa d’homes i van engolirne d’altres; algunes veus irritades van ressonar d’un cap a l’altre de l’estació. Després, la màquina, amb un altre rogall, va fer avançar la negra rastellera de vagons a través del forat del túnel. Sobre el fons nítid, sorgia de nou el paisatge pur i apacible, escombrat pel vent humit.

Un dels nouvinguts, jove, que resultava atractiu pel seu bon gust en el vestit i per la natural elasticitat del seu pas, va avançar-se als altres ràpidament per pujar a un fiacre que el dugués cap a l’hotel. Els cavalls, sense pressa, enfilaven la pujada al trot. En l’aire se sentia la primavera. Flotaven al cel uns núvols inquiets i blancs, típics de maig i juny: aquells companys blancs, encara joves i bellugadissos que, juganers, corren per la ruta blava i s’amaguen de sobte darrere les altes muntanyes; que s’abracen i s’esmunyen, que ara es rebreguen com mocadors, ara desfilen en formació per finalment, entre bromes, posar gorres blanques a les muntanyes. També els arbres, esprimatxats i encara molls de la pluja, s’agitaven inquiets en el vent, que els sacsejava amb tanta força que en feia cruixir dolçament les articulacions i esquitxar milers de gotes, com espurnes. De tant en tant, el perfum fresc de la neu semblava apropar-se des de les muntanyes i llavors es respirava alguna cosa dolça i tallant a la vegada. Tot en l’aire i en la terra era agitació i desfici latent. Els cavalls, precedits pel dringar dels seus cascavells, corrien per la baixada, mentre esbufegaven lleugerament.

En arribar a l’hotel, el jove es va dirigir primer a la llista dels hostes inscrits. La va resseguir amb la mirada i en va quedar ben aviat decebut. «¿Què hi he vingut a fer aquí?», començava a preguntar-se neguitós. «És més empipador estar tot sol aquí, a la muntanya, sense companyia, que no al despatx. Està vist que hi he vingut massa d’hora o massa tard. No tinc mai sort amb les vacances. No hi trobo cap nom conegut, entre tota aquesta gent. Si almenys hi hagués alguna dona amb ganes de tenir un petit flirt, del tot innocent, que m’estalviés passar aquesta setmana tan desconsolat...» El jove, un baró de poc relleu de l’aristocràcia austríaca que treballava a l’administració, s’havia pres aquest petit descans sense cap necessitat, només perquè tots els seus companys havien fet una setmana de vacances per primavera i ell no volia regalar a l’Estat la que li pertocava. Tot i que no li faltava certa capacitat per a la introspecció, tenia una naturalesa eminentment mundana i, per això, era apreciat i ben rebut en tots els cercles. Però, conscient que no podia estar sol ni enfrontar-se amb si mateix, evitava tant com li era possible aquesta mena d’encontre, perquè per res del món no es volia conèixer íntimament. Sabia que necessitava el frec amb els altres per revifar els seus dons, la calidesa i l’alegria del seu cor, i que tot sol se sentia fred i inútil, com un misto dins de la capsa.

De mal humor, anava amunt i avall pel vestíbul buit, i tan aviat fullejava indecís els diaris com, de nou a la sala de música, tocava un vals al piano, sense que els dits, però, n’arribessin a agafar el ritme. Finalment, va asseure’s fastiguejat i va contemplar com la foscor queia a poc a poc i la boira grisa sortia dels avets en forma de vapor. Va deixar passar una hora així, desvagat i intranquil. Després, es va refugiar al menjador.

Hi havia només algunes taules ocupades, que va resseguir amb un cop d’ull. Inútilment. No hi havia cap conegut, només allà—hi va deixar caure una salutació desmenjada—un entrenador i, més endavant, una cara de la Ringstrasse. Ni una dona. Res que prometés ni una simple aventura passatgera. Se li va accentuar el mal humor. Era un d’aquells joves que deuen molt al seu rostre agraciat; sempre a punt per a una nova relació, preparats per a una nova experiència, sempre alerta per llançar-se a una aventura desconeguda; a qui res no sorprèn, perquè en l’espera han previst totes les possibilitats; a qui no passa per alt res d’eròtic, perquè ja en el primer cop d’ull que fan a una dona, escrutador, han copsat allò que té de sensual, sense fer diferències entre la dona del seu amic i la cambrera que els obre la porta. Quan es fa un judici precipitat d’aquesta mena d’homes i se’ls titlla de «caçadors de dones» no s’és conscient de quanta veritat objectiva contenen aquestes paraules. Ja que, en realitat, tots els instints adelerats del caçador—el rastreig, l’excitació i la crueltat mental—s’hi agiten en un estat d’alerta infatigable. Són constants en l’espera, sempre a punt i decidits a seguir fins al fons el rastre d’una aventura. Sempre estan carregats de passió, però no la dels enamorats, sinó la dels jugadors, que és freda, calculadora i audaç. N’hi ha de perseverants, que des de la primera joventut i al llarg de tota la vida viuen pendents de l’eterna aventura. Divideixen un sol dia en centenars de petites experiències sensuals—una mirada fortuïta, una rialla caçada al vol, un genoll fregat en seure—i esmicolen l’any en centenars de dies com aquest, en els quals la vivència sensual és font de vida, sempre fluent, alimentada i encesa.

Allí no hi havia cap partenaire per a aquella mena de joc que en un tres i no res és percebut per qui el busca. I no hi ha situació més enutjosa que la del jugador que, amb els trumfos a la mà, convençut de la seva superioritat, s’asseu a la taula de joc i hi espera inútilment el contrincant. El baró va demanar un diari. De mala gana, feia córrer els ulls per les línies, però els pensaments, paralitzats, ensopegaven com borratxos amb les paraules.

Llavors va sentir darrere seu el fregadís d’un vestit i una veu que, lleument irritada i amb una certa afectació, deia:

Mais, tais-toi donc, Edgar!

Una faldilla de seda va fer fru-fru arran de la seva taula, mentre passava una silueta alta i exuberant. Al darrere, amb un vestit negre de vellut, la seguia un noi esquifit i pà

l·l

id, que el va mirar ple de curiositat. Tots dos van seure davant seu en la taula que hi havia reservada. El nen s’esforçava visiblement per comportar-se amb una correcció que contrastava amb la negra intranqui

l·l

itat dels seus ulls. La dama—el jove baró només s’havia fixat en ella—anava molt arreglada i vestia amb una elegància remarcable. A més, era el seu tipus: una d’aquelles jueves de formes lleugerament generoses, encara de bon veure, amb un temperament sens dubte apassionat, però experimentada a dissimular-lo darrere d’una malenconia distingida. De moment no li podia veure els ulls, i es meravellava amb l’arc ben dibuixat de les celles, delineat sobre un nas gràcil, arrodonit, que encara que en traís la raça amb la seva forma noble, li feia un perfil definit i interessant. Els cabells eren,

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4.3
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  • (5/5)
    A beautifully written novella about loss of innocence and the "burning secrets" of life and love. This is my first Stefan Zweig read and I am really impressed. Reading this novella started off a year long group read of Zweig works, and I eagerly anticipate the next books I will be reading. This book has everything I look for; great characters, a compelling plot, and above all, absolutely beautiful writing!
  • (3/5)
    Well, I enjoyed this more than 'Twenty-Four Hours in the Life of a Woman'. It was as corny as hell but insightful about the human condition nonetheless. The central conceit - a Lothario attempting to seduce a woman through befriending her son and how this backfires on him - is an entertaining one. It was light enough to fit into my work bag and not to tax me on my morning commute.
  • (4/5)
    A lonely twelve-year-old boy Edgar, befriended a charming,lady-killer baron.it was some time before the naive Edgar realizes the true motives behind the Baron's kindness and interest, When his adored friend meanly give up on his friendship and turns his seductive attentions to his mother, the boy's jealousy and insecurity feelings of betrayal become uncontrollable, Once Edgar recognizes the truth,he is invaded by new and previously unknown emotions and new behaviors.....
    It was painful for that boy, who progresses from his childish dreams into the adult world of Deception ,dishonest and evil in only a few days......

    Edgar's mother was at first resistant to the Baron charms......

    but after a while she was getting many mixed feelings of regretting having stayed faithful to a husband she never really loved,she is still young ,beautiful and desirable, an urgent choice between maternal and feminine love........her son was her inner voice of conscience...



  • (4/5)
    Five pretty powerful longish short stories.The title story tells of an experienced seducer on a boring holiday; he entertains himself by befriending a lonely twelve-year old boy, with the aim of getting to the mother through the son. As the child realises the man's overtures of friendship were nothing but a ploy, he sets out to ruin the developing relationship, which he barely understands...The other four stories all have a theme of madness or obsession:-The Royal Game tells of a chess match during a cruise. The main protagonist is a stolid world champion...but his rival developed a fixation with the intricacies of the game while in lengthy solitary confinement.-Amok also takes place on a ship, where the narrator encounters a doctor returning home from the colonies, after a tragedy This was for me the weakest of the collection, not ringing true at all.-Fear was a BRILLIANT evocation of a well to do wife facing blackmail and possible exposure from a meaningless liaison. The constant terror, temptation to confess...was wonderfully conjured up.-Letter from an Unknown Woman, while a tearjerker was, again, very OTT. A woman writes to an author- we must assume from the letter that she's already dead- and recalls their (brief) shared history. She was the young daughter of neighbours, adoring him from afar; later they had a brief liaison, meaning everything to her, while he never gave her another thought. The sadness of someone's entire life given up to a pretty worthless human being, while he has no recollection of her...Pretty gripping read.
  • (5/5)
    This is one of the best novella's I've ever read. A rather simple story of a visitor to a spa who finds himself attracted to a lady visitor and, to get her attention, befriends her young son. Soon after that, the story switches focus to the son, who initially is proud to have such an old friend, then feels betrayed and finally -- in a brilliant ending -- feels he has discovered the Adult's Secret.I love Zweig's clear prose and it's a shame he isn't more widely read (or more widely translated) as he used to be.
  • (4/5)
    Over the past months I've read a number of Zweig's short stories and novellas and I've been struck by a common pattern. Zweig's settings and characters are almost invariably old-world Mitteleuropean but, on the other hand, the author's quasi-Freudian approach to analysing the conflicting emotions of his protagonists is very modern for its time. Zweig was writing against the backdrop of the rapidly changing world of the inter-war years and it seems that his books, with their internal friction between setting and style, reflect a feeling of flux, of being on the cusp of great upheavals, a tug-of-war between the old and the new."Burning Secret" is no exception. It tells of a member of the minor aristocracy, "the Baron", who is a guest at an Austrian hotel/sanatorium and who attempts to seduce a beautiful and seemingly well-off woman who is staying there with her twelve-year old son. The Baron at first successfully manipulates the son to get to the mother. The boy however soon realises that he is being used, and although he is still sexually innocent, he realises that the drama unfolding before him is part of a secret adult world to which he has not yet gained access. He spends the rest of the novella playing the "terzo incomodo", as the Italians say, getting a perverse kick out of thwarting the adults' attempts to spend time together.The book is an often intense coming-of-age novella, a psychological study of an adolescent's roller-coaster of emotions and the mental turmoil which precedes young adulthood. Veteran translator Anthea Bell brilliantly conveys Zweig's highly-charged writing in this attractive Pushkin Collection edition.
  • (5/5)
    Really enjoyed this short one! Zweig was a fantastic writer, somehow in this story was able to make you feel sympathy for all three of the main characters, despite their different personalities and goals; an bon vivant serial seducer, a woman trapped in an unhappy and unfaithful marriage, and a pretty self absorbed immature pre teen.
  • (4/5)
    The Book Report: Wet, drippy little Edgar, his bored, would-be glam mama Mathilde, and the louche horndog Count Otto meet in an Austrian mountain resort. Otto takes a fancy to Mathilde, since she's a visibly bored Jewess of a certain age. He decides he'll lay siege to her virtue via befriending little larva Edgar, who mistakes his overtures for real friendship because it's never occurred to him that adults lie, cheat, and steal in pursuit of sex. After revolting Count Otto thinks he's about to achieve the leg-over, he drops Edgar, and his troubles begin. Hell hath no fury, apparently, like a barely pubescent boy disappointed in love. What this nasty little child dreams up to do to the perfidious, selfish adults is really quite impressive! In the end, his life is completely changed, and one rather trembles at the path his future will take...*cue Horst Wessel*....My Review: Peopled with deeply dislikable characters, and set in an anonymous vacation destination with no sense of permanence, it's a little hard to invest in the dramatis personae for a goodly stretch of time. I don't think I ever really did all the way. I don't care at all about anyone here, in that if each of them had fallen off an Alp I would've pursed my lips, tutted, and gone about my day.But the story is a very involving one, paradoxically, because the nature of love comes in for a pretty thorough and fairly damning examination, one that would have seemed very risky for Jewish Zweig to conduct so openly in 1913, the year it was published. The love of mother for son, of son for mother, and mother for sex is explicitly explored. The love of any one of these people for anything is revealed in all its unglory as deeply selfish and terribly destructive, as my cynical heart believes love always to be. (Want to screw up a friendship? Fall in love with your friend! *bang* goes any hope of remaining on good terms...but I digress.)A movie version of this novella, starring Faye Dunaway, appeared about 25 years ago. It wasn't very good. I am amazed at that, since Zweig's writing is so clear and simple that I'd think it was a shoo-in to have excellent dialogue come out of the characters' mouths. C'est la vie, as conventionally Francophile Mathilde would say...doubtless in a heavy Viennese accent.So, okay, the point is: Recommended to Zweigers, cynics, and those with pubescent boys at home. Romantics, leave on shelf. "Life is Beautiful" and "La Traviata" fans, turn your backs upon. Multi-eyed, part-alien cyborgs, read and learn...this is what humans are *really* like, and it's not a terribly pretty picture.