by Bruno Schulz
(Original Review, 1981-05-30)Why do I read? To learn, to experience worlds, emotions, interactions that I don't experience in my reality, to think, to be, to become.If not for Huxley - recommended by an English teacher at school - I'd have remained a working class racist, sexist homophobe, would nev...
Bruno Schulz had an imagination like no one else. His metaphors, similes, and personifications whirl the reader through a cosmos as vivid and surreal as Van Gogh’s “Starry Night.” His characters prophesy like the enigmatic beings that inhabit the pages of William Blake. At once fiction and nonfictio...
Street of Crocodiles is a very haunting book, and the author's life story is even more bizarre. He was an artist and writer living in a Poland in 1941 under the occupation of the Nazis. He was kept alive because a particular officer liked his art. However, he was murdered by another officer when he ...
Street of Crocodiles is a very haunting book, and the author's life story is even more bizarre. He was an artist and writer living in a Poland in 1941 under the occupation of the Nazis. He was kept alive because a particular officer liked his art. However, he was murdered by another officer when he ...
This book is either a novel, or more likely, a collection of semi-interconnected stories, some more connected than others. Joseph, his father, and sister Adela are recurring characters. In general people react with seemingly normal responses to things only to wander into surreal Shandean digressio...
I hate to abandon this with so many good reviews, but the writing was overly ornate to the point of distraction.
Admittedly, I only read the title story, about 1/3 of the entire collection, but I figured this counted as something. The language is lovely, especially at the beginning where it hit me like a sudden downpour. Schulz was an undisputed master of language. Despite the story's richness, it was a str...
This book is completely delirious. Every inanimate object is alive in some horrid, pulsing way: the night seethes with stars, the floriated wallpaper opens eyes and strains ears to spy on the family in their cavernous, dusty rooms, while what we think of as reality is an enormous empty theater. Only...
He dressed with care, but without haste, with long pauses between the separate manipulations. The rooms, empty and neglected, did not approve of him, the furniture and the walls watched him in silent criticism.He felt, entering the stillness, like an intruder in an underwater kingdom with a differen...
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