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Mort à crédit por Louis-Ferdinand Céline
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Mort à crédit (original 1936; edição 1985)

por Louis-Ferdinand Céline (Auteur)

MembrosCríticasPopularidadeAvaliação médiaMenções
1,725207,666 (4.2)79
Death on the Installment Plan is a companion volume to Louis-Ferdinand Céline's earlier novel, Journey to the End of the Night. Published in rapid succession in the middle 1930s, these two books shocked European literature and world consciousness. Nominally fiction but more rightly called "creative confessions," they told of the author's childhood in excoriating Paris slums, of service in the mud wastes of World War I and African jungles. Mixing unmitigated despair with Gargantuan comedy, they also created a new style, in which invective and obscenity were laced with phrases of unforgettable poetry. Céline's influence revolutionized the contemporary approach to fiction. Under a cloud for a period, his work is now acknowledged as the forerunner of today's "black humor."… (mais)
Membro:Pokebowl
Título:Mort à crédit
Autores:Louis-Ferdinand Céline (Auteur)
Informação:Gallimard (1985), 622 pages
Colecções:A sua biblioteca
Avaliação:
Etiquetas:Nenhum(a)

Pormenores da obra

Death on the Installment Plan por Louis-Ferdinand Céline (1936)

  1. 10
    Journey to the End of the Night por Louis-Ferdinand Céline (psybre)
    psybre: For further education of the Parisian downtrodden and destitute population, and some of the avenues whereby they ply their sorrow.
  2. 10
    Hunger por Knut Hamsun (helio_)
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Inglês (13)  Holandês (4)  Francês (2)  Finlandês (1)  Todas as línguas (20)
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I enjoyed Journey to the End of the Night, the only other Céline I've read, but it frequently struck me as dry and cold at times. Not deliberately so, as in a Camus or Houellebecq novel, but in the kind of abstract way that marks an author who's not fully engaged with what he's putting on the page, or is a bit unsure what he's trying to communicate. Well, this pseudo-sequel is as far removed from that kind of literature as you could ask for - absolutely bursting with every kind of nasty, seedy, disgusting, abhorrent aspect of human behavior you could dream of. I haven't read a book that so revels in filth to the same degree in a long time, maybe ever. Reading it is less a process of bloodlessly analyzing the language/syntax/diction/tone like your high school English teachers tried to beat into you, and more about inhaling the impossibly appalling phantasmagoria of lust, greed, idiocy, malevolence, and every other ugly side of humanity there is, all layered under as many thick puddles of every gross bodily waste product Céline could think of (and as he was a doctor in real life, that's quite a lot). It's great.

However, as entertaining as it is to read about tumultuous sea passages where everyone vomits all over each other, numerous scenes about wallowing around in the mud, or lovingly detailed descriptions of oozing, pustulent venereal diseases, relayed in a breathless, ellipsis-ridden voice of urgency that Céline never managed in Journey to the End of the Night, the best aspect of the book to me is how unflinching his alter-ego narrator Ferdinand is in recounting all this stuff. The earlier book was a cool, detached intellectual peering at the world and finding it philosophically wanting; this one is a gleeful, enthusiastic misanthrope almost overjoyed at how much bitter pain and misery you can find in this ridiculous, insane world of cruelty and savagery. The first half of the book is nearly flawless in that respect, as Ferdinand bounces back and forth between terrible jobs, a miserable education, endless fights with his parents, his bailout by a relative, and above all his lacerating sense of shame at his own multitudinous character flaws. However, the second half steps back in intensity a bit and is dominated by a (relatively) slow-moving subplot about the one semi-stable job he's able to find, which doesn't move as fast and doesn't offer the same rapid parade of horrors that the first half did. As an example, here's an excerpt from when he's enduring a harangue about radishes from the hot air balloon/crackpot science enthusiast he's been the assistant to:

"Compare, Ferdinand, compare. I'm not trying to influence you. Decide for yourself ... I don't know what Madame des Pereires may have been telling you ... but just take a look ... Scrutinize them ... Feel their weight! ... Don't let anything cloud your judgment ... The big one is mine! Thanks to tellurism! Look at it. His, without tellurism, infinitesimal! Compare! That's all! I add nothing! Why confuse you? ... What interests me is conclusions! Conclusions! ... What can be done ... what must be done ... with tellurism ... And mark my words, in this field, so inhospitable in its texture, all I have to work with is a mere telluric auxiliary! ... Auxiliary, I repeat! ... Not the big 'Tornado' model ... Of course, I must add, there are certain all-important requirements ... The roots have to be bearing roots! Ah yes, bearing roots! And the soil has to be 'ferro-calcic' ... if possible with a certain magnesium content ... Otherwise you won't get anywhere ... So now judge for yourself ... You understand? No? ... You don't understand? ... You're like her ... You understand nothing! ... Yes, yes, exactly! You're blind, both of you! But what about that big radish? You see it, don't you? Right there in the palm of your hand? And the little one? You see it too, don't you? Stunted! Dwarfed! This miserable puny radish! ... A radish is a perfectly simple matter, isn't it? No, it's not simple? Ah, you disarm me! ... And a giant radish, Ferdinand? Imagine an enormous radish! ... Say as big as your head! ... Suppose I take this ludicrous little radish and blow it up to enormous size with telluric blasts ... Well? Like a balloon! Ah? And suppose I make a hundred thousand of them ... a hundred thousand radishes! More and more voluminous! ... And each year as many as I please ... Five hundred thousand ... enormous radishes! ... As big as pears! ... As big as pumpkins! ... Radishes such as nobody has ever seen! ... Why, it's automatic ... I eliminate the small radish ... I wipe small radishes off the face of the earth! ... I corner the market, I erect a monopoly! All your measly undersized vegetables are finished! Unthinkable! Through! All these baubles! These small-fry! No more tiny bunches! No more piddling shipments! If they keep, it's only by miracle ... It's wasteful, my friend ... anachronistic ... shameful! ... Enormous radishes, that's what I want to see! And here's our slogan: The future belongs to the radish ... my radish ... And what's going to stand in my way? ... My market? The whole world! ... Is my radish nutritious? Tremendously! ... Radish flour is fifty percent richer than the other kind ... 'Radicious bread' for the army! ... Far superior to all the wheat of Australia! ... The analyses bear me out! ... Well, what do you think of it? ... Is it beginning to dawn on you? You're not interested! Neither is she ... But I am ... If I devote myself to the radish ... I'm only taking the radish as an example, I might have chosen the turnip ... But let's take the radish! The shock value will be greater. So there you are! I'm going into it! To the hilt! ... to the hilt, do you hear ... You catch my meaning?"

The rant is sort of funny, even more so in context, but like I said, the real value in the book is in how absolutely bleak and nasty Céline's vision of humanity is, how the irredeemable majority's vices and bad character overwhelm even the best efforts of the well-intentioned minority, and the ultimate futility of everything. If you like reading about the greedy, lecherous, ignorant, ungrateful, disreputable side of humanity, in a style that's less a narration than an inundation, this is the book for you. ( )
  aaronarnold | May 11, 2021 |
Once again I'm left feeling a bit let down by Celine. Some of that is his fault, and some of it is not.

Not his fault: that he's billed as the great nihilist of modernism, but seems to me a good deal less nihilistic, or interesting, than any number of other modernists; that writing in everyday lingo is no longer shocking or interesting; that talking about fucking is no longer shocking or interesting; that Mannheim translates him--accurately, for all I know--to sound like the mildly grumpier brother of Holden "Golly Gee Mister" Caulfield.

His fault: that this thing is so massively over-long; that the repetition doesn't go anywhere.

Journey to the End of the Night was just dull, I thought, but DotIP has some genuinely fabulous portions: basically, anytime we're thrown into a truly hallucinatory 'depiction' of the world. The realism is just realism with ellipses; the hallucinatory passages are something else altogether. Occasionally Ferdinand will tell us a bit of cod medieval-romance, the parody of which isn't so fascinating, nor informative: if you don't pick up on the fact that this is a picaresque and that it is, like Don Quixote, taking aim at its contemporaries, reading about Gwendor won't bring it home to you.

Otherwise there are four main narratives--Ferdinand's time with his family; his time with the jeweler; his time at school in England; his time with the balloonist and inventor Courtial. Which you prefer will be largely a matter of taste. I found the father figures, whether biological or balloonist, boring. Others might not. The problem is that finding Courtial boring makes the second half of the book boring, and I really would have preferred to just re-read the first section here, where a middle-aged Ferdinand goes on his rounds and rants about the sink that is humanity. More ranting, less narrative, please. ( )
  stillatim | Oct 23, 2020 |
needles don't draw blood
they infect the lungs
and as childhood creeps
so does the ancient stone of memory
let me dress that injury
feel the trees as I hunger
and bless the soul of my dead body. ( )
  PeterS111 | Apr 8, 2020 |
Céline hates with the intensity, the narrowness, and the purity of the Large Hadron Collider's accelerated particles. It is not comfortable to encounter this in my old age; I was receptive to it in my own Age of Rage, though, and was well-served by reading the bitter and bilious thing then.

If you haven't been here before middle age, I wouldn't advise making the trip. ( )
  richardderus | Feb 18, 2020 |
This astonishing work, a neglected classic of high modernism, was urged on me by my friend Ron Kolm -- always a reliable guide when it comes to Continental literature. It is not like any other book I have ever read. Massive, sprawling, obscene, brutal, Death on the Installment Plan tells the loosely autobiographical story of the narrator's youth in the slums of Paris, his time at a boarding school in England, and his apprenticeship to a con man/scientist/inventor named Courtial des Pereires -- one of the great satiric creations of modern literature. Céline's narrative is essentially one immense 588-page outpouring of vitriolic, profane, often scatological inner dialogue, punctuated only by ellipses and infrequent space breaks, a stream-of-consciousness that rivals Joyce or Proust in its density and single-mindedness. Its nihilism and relentless energy would be deadening if it weren't for the streak of wild, irreverent humor that runs through even the most desperate and sordid passages of the book. A monumental affair, and not for the faint of heart. ( )
  MikeLindgren51 | Aug 7, 2018 |
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» Adicionar outros autores (13 possíveis)

Nome do autorPapelTipo de autorObra?Estado
Céline, Louis-Ferdinandautor principaltodas as ediçõesconfirmado
Aulanko, SirkkaTradutorautor secundárioalgumas ediçõesconfirmado
Bökenkamp, WernerTradutorautor secundárioalgumas ediçõesconfirmado
Hill, JamesArtista da capaautor secundárioalgumas ediçõesconfirmado
Hindus, MiltonIntroduçãoautor secundárioalgumas ediçõesconfirmado
Manheim, RalphTradutorautor secundárioalgumas ediçõesconfirmado
Marks, John H.P.Tradutorautor secundárioalgumas ediçõesconfirmado
Woerden, Frans vanTradutorautor secundárioalgumas ediçõesconfirmado
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Habillez-vous !
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Souvent trop court, parfois trop long.
Puis veste ronde !
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Nous voici encore seuls. Tout cela est si lent, si lourd, si triste... Bientôt je serai vieux. Et ce sera enfin fini. Il est venu tant de monde dans ma chambre. Ils ont dit des choses. Ils ne m’ont pas dit grand-chose. Ils sont partis. Ils sont devenus vieux, misérables et lents chacun dans un coin du monde.
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Wikipédia em inglês (1)

Death on the Installment Plan is a companion volume to Louis-Ferdinand Céline's earlier novel, Journey to the End of the Night. Published in rapid succession in the middle 1930s, these two books shocked European literature and world consciousness. Nominally fiction but more rightly called "creative confessions," they told of the author's childhood in excoriating Paris slums, of service in the mud wastes of World War I and African jungles. Mixing unmitigated despair with Gargantuan comedy, they also created a new style, in which invective and obscenity were laced with phrases of unforgettable poetry. Céline's influence revolutionized the contemporary approach to fiction. Under a cloud for a period, his work is now acknowledged as the forerunner of today's "black humor."

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