Originally published in and now rediscovered to international acclaim, this taut and exquisitely structured novel by the Hungarian master Sandor Marai. Marai Sandor a Gyertyak Csonkig Egnek. 19 likes. Book. Márai Sándor. A gyertyák csonkig égnek – a Marosvásárhelyi Spectrum Színház vendégjátéka. Drama. CONTINUE TO TICKETS. Videó bezárása.
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A gyertyák csonkig égnek (Video ) – IMDb
This is the story of 2 childhood friends who had not seen each other for 41 years. This book has some eloquent truths: Facts are not truth; and friends can kill each other but death does not end a Very difficult to rate. The first part is exceptional in its descriptions and characterizations of people and situations many of which you would like to memorize. After this a long monologue of the In a secluded woodland castle an old General A Gyertyak Csonkig Egnek.
Originally published in and now rediscovered to international acclaim, this taut and exquisitely structured novel by the Hungarian master Sandor Marai conjures the melancholy glamour of a decaying empire and the disillusioned wisdom of its last heirs.
In a secluded woodland castle an old General prepares to receive a rare visitor, a man who was once his closest friend but who he has not seen in forty-one years.
Over the ensuing hours host and guest will fight a duel of words and silences, accusations and evasions. And they will return to the time the three of them last sat together following a hunt in the nearby forest–a hunt in which no game was taken but during which something was lost forever.
Embers is a classic of modern European literature, a work whose poignant evocation of the past also seems like a prophetic glimpse into the moral abyss of the present. Otras ediciones – Ver todo Embers: Embers Sandor Marai Vista previa restringida – He had gone there at first light, and it was past eleven o”clock before he had finished drawing off the wine and returned home. Between the columns of the veranda, which exuded a musty smell from its damp flagstones, his gamekeeper was standing waiting for him, holding a letter.
For years now, he had neither opened nor read a single letter. The mail went to the estate manager”s office, to be sorted and dealt with by one of the stewards. The General recognized the handwriting. Taking the letter and putting it in his pocket, he stepped into the cool of the entrance hall and, without uttering a word, handed the gamekeeper both his stick and his hat.
He removed a pair of spectacles from his cigar case, went over to the window where light insinuated itself through the slats of the blinds, and began to read.
He crumpled the letter into his pocket. The Landau, because there”s rain in the air. And he is to wear full-dress livery. You too,”he said with unexpected force, as if suddenly angered.
The carriage and harness are to be cleaned immediately. Then put on your livery, and seat yourself next to Kalman on the coachbox.
All you are to say is that I have sent you, and the carriage for the Captain is waiting. Then the General raised his hand, as if he csonkih just thought of something else, and he looked up at the ceiling but didn”t say anything and went upstairs to the second floor. The gamekeeper, still frozen to attention, watched him, unblinking, and waited until the thickset, broad-shouldered figure disappeared around the turn of the stone balustrade.
The General went into his room, washed his hands, and stepped over to gyrrtyak high, narrow standing desk; csoknig on its surface of unstained green felt were pens, ink, and a perfectly aligned stack of those notebooks covered in black-and-white-checked oilcloth commonly used by schoolchildren for their home- work.
In the middle of the desk stood a green-shaded lamp, which the General switched on, as the room was dark. On the other side of the closed blinds, in the scorched, withered garden, summer ignited a last blaze like an arsonist setting the fields on fire in senseless fury before making eghek escape. The General took out the letter, carefully smoothed the paper, set his glasses gyerytak his nose and placed the sheet under the bright light to read the straight short lines of angular handwriting, his arms folded behind his back.
There was a calendar hanging on the wall.
A gyertyák csonkig égnek – a Marosvásárhelyi Spectrum Színház vendégjátéka
Its fist-sized numbers showed August The General looked up at the ceiling and counted: He was calculating how much time had elapsed between that long-ago day and today. Recently he had been talking to himself even when he was alone in the room. His neck reddened and bulged over the maize-yellow collar of his jacket. Propping his elbows on gyertgak desk like a student at his studies, he went back to staring anxiously at the letter egnk its brief handwritten message. The room had a vaulted ceiling, supported by a central column.
It had once been two rooms, csonlig bedroom, and a dressing room. Many years ago–he thought only in decades, anything more exact upset him, as if he might be reminded of things he would rather forget–he had had the wall between the two rooms torn down.
Only the column holding up the central vault remained.
The castle had been built two hundred years earlier by an army supplier who sold oats to the Austrian cavalry and in course of time was promoted to the nobility. The General had been born here in this room.
In those days the room farthest back, the dark one that looked onto the garden and estate offices, had been his mother”s bedroom, while the lighter, airier room had been the dressing room. For decades now, since he had moved into this wing of the building, and torn down the gyerytak wall, this large, shadowy chamber had replaced the two rooms. Seventeen paces from the door to the bed.
Eighteen paces from the wall on the garden side to the balcony. Both distances counted off exactly. He lived here as an invalid lives within the space he has learned to inhabit. As if the room had been tailored to his body. Years passed without him setting foot in the other wing of the castle, in which salon after salon opened one into the next, first green, then blue, then red, all hung with gold gyeryyak.
The windows in the south wing gave onto the park with its chestnut trees that stood in a semicircle in front of protruding balustrades held up by fat stone angels, and bowed down over the balconies in spring in all their dark-green magnificence, lit with pink flowering candles.
When he went out, it was to the cellars or into the forest or–every morning, rain or shine, even in winter–to the trout pond. And when he came back, he went through the entrance hall and up to his bedroom, and it was here that he ate all his meals. Gyergyak swayed, then sat down in the leather armchair with its worn back.
On the little table within reach of his hand was a little silver bell, which he rang. And then, politely, “If she”d be so kind.