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Veranda cu frangipani
In acest roman unic, scriitorul mozambican Mia Couto vorbeste despre cautarea neintrerupta a unor origini si a unei identitati nationale pierdute.
Puternic marcata de traditia africana, animata de legende, de scene fabuloase si de intelepciunea populara, aceasta poveste ciudata cu alura de fals roman politist este bantuita de o crima adevarata: a omori trecutul unui popor. Prin aventura lui Ermelindo Mucanga, care se reincarneaza pentru cateva zile, este evocata istoria plina de violenta a Mozambicului, in care un arbore de frangipani, crescut in mijlocul unei fortarete transformate in azil, este martorul tacut...
Puternic marcata de traditia africana, animata de legende, de scene fabuloase si de intelepciunea populara, aceasta poveste ciudata cu alura de fals roman politist este bantuita de o crima adevarata: a omori trecutul unui popor. Prin aventura lui Ermelindo Mucanga, care se reincarneaza pentru cateva zile, este evocata istoria plina de violenta a Mozambicului, in care un arbore de frangipani, crescut in mijlocul unei fortarete transformate in azil, este martorul tacut...
168 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1996
About the author
Mia Couto
100 books1,264 followersJournalist and a biologist, his works in Portuguese have been published in more than 22 countries and have been widely translated. Couto was born António Emílio Leite Couto.
He won the 2014 Neustadt International Prize for Literature and the 2013 Camões Prize for Literature, one of the most prestigious international awards honoring the work of Portuguese language writers (created in 1989 by Portugal and Brazil).
An international jury at the Zimbabwe International Book Fair called his first novel, Terra Sonâmbula (Sleepwalking Land), "one of the best 12 African books of the 20th century."
In April 2007, he became the first African author to win the prestigious Latin Union Award of Romanic Languages, which has been awarded annually in Italy since 1990.
Stylistically, his writing is heavily influenced by magical realism, a style popular in modern Latin American literature, and his use of language is inventive and reminiscent of Guimarães Rosa.
Português)
Filho de portugueses que emigraram para Moçambique nos meados do século XX, Mia nasceu e foi escolarizado na Beira. Com catorze anos de idade, teve alguns poemas publicados no jornal Notícias da Beira e três anos depois, em 1971, mudou-se para a cidade capital de Lourenço Marques (agora Maputo).
Iniciou os estudos universitários em medicina, mas abandonou esta área no princípio do terceiro ano, passando a exercer a profissão de jornalista depois do 25 de Abril de 1974. Trabalhou na Tribuna até à destruição das suas instalações em Setembro de 1975, por colonos que se opunham à independência. Foi nomeado diretor da Agência de Informação de Moçambique (AIM) e formou ligações de correspondentes entre as províncias moçambicanas durante o tempo da guerra de libertação. A seguir trabalhou como diretor da revista Tempo até 1981 e continuou a carreira no jornal Notícias até 1985.
Em 1983 publicou o seu primeiro livro de poesia, Raiz de Orvalho, que inclui poemas contra a propaganda marxista militante. Dois anos depois demitiu-se da posição de diretor para continuar os estudos universitários na área de biologia.
Além de ser considerado um dos escritores mais importantes de Moçambique, é o escritor moçambicano mais traduzido. Em muitas das suas obras, Mia Couto tenta recriar a língua portuguesa com uma influência moçambicana, utilizando o léxico de várias regiões do país e produzindo um novo modelo de narrativa africana. Terra Sonâmbula, o seu primeiro romance, publicado em 1992, ganhou o Prémio Nacional de Ficção da Associação dos Escritores Moçambicanos em 1995 e foi considerado um dos doze melhores livros africanos do século XX por um júri criado pela Feira do Livro do Zimbabué.
Na sua carreira, foi também acumulando distinções, como os prémios Vergílio Ferreira (1999, pelo conjunto da obra), Mário António/Fundação Gulbenkian (2001), União Latina de Literaturas Românicas (2007) ou Eduardo Lourenço (2012). Ganhou em 2013 o Prémio Camões, o mais importante prémio para autores de língua portuguesa.
He won the 2014 Neustadt International Prize for Literature and the 2013 Camões Prize for Literature, one of the most prestigious international awards honoring the work of Portuguese language writers (created in 1989 by Portugal and Brazil).
An international jury at the Zimbabwe International Book Fair called his first novel, Terra Sonâmbula (Sleepwalking Land), "one of the best 12 African books of the 20th century."
In April 2007, he became the first African author to win the prestigious Latin Union Award of Romanic Languages, which has been awarded annually in Italy since 1990.
Stylistically, his writing is heavily influenced by magical realism, a style popular in modern Latin American literature, and his use of language is inventive and reminiscent of Guimarães Rosa.
Português)
Filho de portugueses que emigraram para Moçambique nos meados do século XX, Mia nasceu e foi escolarizado na Beira. Com catorze anos de idade, teve alguns poemas publicados no jornal Notícias da Beira e três anos depois, em 1971, mudou-se para a cidade capital de Lourenço Marques (agora Maputo).
Iniciou os estudos universitários em medicina, mas abandonou esta área no princípio do terceiro ano, passando a exercer a profissão de jornalista depois do 25 de Abril de 1974. Trabalhou na Tribuna até à destruição das suas instalações em Setembro de 1975, por colonos que se opunham à independência. Foi nomeado diretor da Agência de Informação de Moçambique (AIM) e formou ligações de correspondentes entre as províncias moçambicanas durante o tempo da guerra de libertação. A seguir trabalhou como diretor da revista Tempo até 1981 e continuou a carreira no jornal Notícias até 1985.
Em 1983 publicou o seu primeiro livro de poesia, Raiz de Orvalho, que inclui poemas contra a propaganda marxista militante. Dois anos depois demitiu-se da posição de diretor para continuar os estudos universitários na área de biologia.
Além de ser considerado um dos escritores mais importantes de Moçambique, é o escritor moçambicano mais traduzido. Em muitas das suas obras, Mia Couto tenta recriar a língua portuguesa com uma influência moçambicana, utilizando o léxico de várias regiões do país e produzindo um novo modelo de narrativa africana. Terra Sonâmbula, o seu primeiro romance, publicado em 1992, ganhou o Prémio Nacional de Ficção da Associação dos Escritores Moçambicanos em 1995 e foi considerado um dos doze melhores livros africanos do século XX por um júri criado pela Feira do Livro do Zimbabué.
Na sua carreira, foi também acumulando distinções, como os prémios Vergílio Ferreira (1999, pelo conjunto da obra), Mário António/Fundação Gulbenkian (2001), União Latina de Literaturas Românicas (2007) ou Eduardo Lourenço (2012). Ganhou em 2013 o Prémio Camões, o mais importante prémio para autores de língua portuguesa.
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 128 reviews
July 20, 2014
A good dose of magic realism African style, set in post colonial Mozambique. A police inspector is sent to investigate a murder at a remote fort used as a hospital/refuge. Whilst he is there he is also inhabited by the shade/ghost of a worker buried under the frangipani tree in the fort (unknown to him). The residents of the fort are a group of older people waiting for death, their nurse, an elderly witch/wise woman and the wife of the deceased (who ran the fort). They all readily confess to the crime. There is magic, talking animals, the dead are all around and the whole story is rather surreal and chronology is pleasingly loose. It is a pleasing mix of thriller and parable which explores the spirit world and old beliefs and traditions. There is a message to the old colonial masters in the frontnote; "You will never rule this land". Short, sharp and remarkable.
June 25, 2017
O carte ţesută de spirite. O poveste spusă de un mort îngropat la rădăcina arborelui de frangipani. O urzeală nespus de frumoasă de cuvinte, o ţesătură de imagini desprinse parcă din vise şi coşmaruri şi mustind de înţelepciune.
"Eu şi copacul eram asemenea. Amândoi eram creaturi alăptate cu rouă."
"Şi visele sunt ca norii: nu le atingem decât umbra."
"În viaţă, doar moartea este exactă. Restul pendulează între cele două margini ale îndoielii."
O carte preafrumoasă. Prea frumoasă.
"Eu şi copacul eram asemenea. Amândoi eram creaturi alăptate cu rouă."
"Şi visele sunt ca norii: nu le atingem decât umbra."
"În viaţă, doar moartea este exactă. Restul pendulează între cele două margini ale îndoielii."
O carte preafrumoasă. Prea frumoasă.
May 6, 2021
Tăcerea făurește ferestre prin care lumea devine transparentă. Nu scrie, pune jos caietul. Poartă-te ca apa de pe sticlă. Cine e picătură se prelinge, cine e brumă se evaporă.
E de o frumusețe aparte scriitura lui Mia Couto; deși vocea narativă este una singură (contrar faptului că fiecare capitol este relatat din perspectiva unui alt personaj), mi-a plăcut foarte mult acțiunea, limbajul, premisa cărții.
Receniza o găsiți aici.
E de o frumusețe aparte scriitura lui Mia Couto; deși vocea narativă este una singură (contrar faptului că fiecare capitol este relatat din perspectiva unui alt personaj), mi-a plăcut foarte mult acțiunea, limbajul, premisa cărții.
Receniza o găsiți aici.
February 18, 2020
Cât de rău îmi pare de acei bătrâni!
"Gura vorbește, dar nu arată cu degetul."
"Și a explicat: cuvintele sunt chei care se frâng în ușile pe care le-au deschis. Nu se pot folosi decât o singură dată."
"Ce este bătrânețea dacă nu moartea adăstând în trupul nostru? Când ești bătrân, tot timpul e pentru conversație."
"Am clătinat din cap. Dor? De cine? Dimpotrivă, îmi place această singurătate. Jur, inspectore. Mă simt bine departe de ai mei. Să nu le aud văicărelile, bolile. Să nu-i văd cum îmbătrânesc. Și mai ales să nu văd murind pe nimeni dintre ai mei. Aici sunt departe de moarte. E mica bucurie care mi-a rămas. Avantajul de a fi departe, la asemenea distanță, este că nu ai familie. Părinții și vechii prieteni sunt acolo, dincolo de toată această mare. Cei care au murit dispar așa de departe, ca niște stele căzătoare. Cad fără zgomot, fără să aflu unde și când."
"Noi, cei vii și cei morți, punem umărul ca să scoatem la iveală miezul în care se ascund extraordinare minuni."
"Gura vorbește, dar nu arată cu degetul."
"Și a explicat: cuvintele sunt chei care se frâng în ușile pe care le-au deschis. Nu se pot folosi decât o singură dată."
"Ce este bătrânețea dacă nu moartea adăstând în trupul nostru? Când ești bătrân, tot timpul e pentru conversație."
"Am clătinat din cap. Dor? De cine? Dimpotrivă, îmi place această singurătate. Jur, inspectore. Mă simt bine departe de ai mei. Să nu le aud văicărelile, bolile. Să nu-i văd cum îmbătrânesc. Și mai ales să nu văd murind pe nimeni dintre ai mei. Aici sunt departe de moarte. E mica bucurie care mi-a rămas. Avantajul de a fi departe, la asemenea distanță, este că nu ai familie. Părinții și vechii prieteni sunt acolo, dincolo de toată această mare. Cei care au murit dispar așa de departe, ca niște stele căzătoare. Cad fără zgomot, fără să aflu unde și când."
"Noi, cei vii și cei morți, punem umărul ca să scoatem la iveală miezul în care se ascund extraordinare minuni."
January 8, 2023
زیر درختچهی یاسمن همون چیزی بود که از آفریقا توی ذهنم نقش بسته: جادویی، بیرحم و بکر. در مورد این کتاب هیچ چیز به شکلی که در نگاه اول به نظر میاد نیست. همونطور که یکی از مظنونین اعترافکننده به قتل به کارآگاه توصیه میکنه، جنایت اصلی چیزی نیست که او سعی در کشفش داره. قاتل جنگ و مقتول اصلی موزامبیک جنگزده و استثمار شده است که تمام سنتهای کهنش فراموش شده یا در معرض نابودی قرار گرفته
May 1, 2023
Original, interesting, different. Women have a strange use here, every single one is used for sexual pleasure in the story and every single one talks in a way where it is not evident if they are carrying some strange wisdom or are simply mad. But I could let this slide. It is truly interesting, language (at least the translation) is very poetic, and magic realism is mixing with crime story. I truly recommend this book.
June 20, 2020
How to live when you are dead inside or vice versa ...
When you have lived so long your tongue have nearly out-growed your mouth, as an anteater you clearly have some wisdom worth sharing.
A lovely trip into the supernatural of Mozambique traditions of old, which turns out to be not that supernatural at all.
When you have lived so long your tongue have nearly out-growed your mouth, as an anteater you clearly have some wisdom worth sharing.
A lovely trip into the supernatural of Mozambique traditions of old, which turns out to be not that supernatural at all.
July 8, 2016
This... I... You know what? I just didn't quite get it. I don't know if it was the translation, or the magic realism which I do honestly have a hot/cold relationship with. But I didn't really get the point, or half the book.
We start with our protagonist who is buried under a Frangipani tree. But he is about to get honoured by the state as a hero against the colonialists, so decides he has to leave this old fort he died at while building, in order to get some sense of self back. Luckily (?) there has been a murder at the fort and some detective is flown in to investigate, which is our spirit man's ticket out of the fort.
We end up with a lot of old people, who are apparently locked up in this old fort, rambling and telling stories. There's an anteater. I just don't really know what was going on.
We start with our protagonist who is buried under a Frangipani tree. But he is about to get honoured by the state as a hero against the colonialists, so decides he has to leave this old fort he died at while building, in order to get some sense of self back. Luckily (?) there has been a murder at the fort and some detective is flown in to investigate, which is our spirit man's ticket out of the fort.
We end up with a lot of old people, who are apparently locked up in this old fort, rambling and telling stories. There's an anteater. I just don't really know what was going on.
December 3, 2011
And now for something completely different...a magical mystery tour with one of Mozambique's leading novelists, Mia Couto. It is daft, but I shall attempt to outline briefly the plot of this phantasmagorical tale that makes the most ardent proponents of magical realism seem like champions of formal nineteenth-century European literary naturalism in comparison.
Most simplistically, one can view this novel as a "whodunit." A European-educated African police detective, Izdine Naita, arrives from Maputo at the site of a centuries-old Portuguese fortress, which has become a sort of refuge center for a handful of old people following the Mozambique liberation struggle and the subsequent civil war. Naita has been sent to investigate the murder of the local administrator, a man of brutal temperment, lascivious behavior, and corrupt practices. (In the words of Mark Twain's memorable Luigi Capello, "he needs killing.") During Naita's inquiry, he finds that he has no dearth of suspects, or for that matter, most willing confessors to the crime. The young officer is baffled and, as his time for departure nears, he is warned that his own impending death has been foretold. Alas, as one of the elderly suspects suggests to Naita, "the crime that's been committed here isn't the one you're trying to solve."
In spite of the above sketch, the actual murder, if it was a murder, is not the core of this tale and in fact is neither fully explained nor resolved. Instead we are introduced to a cosmology that astounds and befuddles not only the detective but the reader as well. To begin with, before his arrival a most unhappy ghostly soul buried near the fort's frangipani tree is set to inhabit (with the assistance of a wise anteater) Naita's body and share his adventure. Meanwhile, the small (and barely still alive) population of the site (with names like Little Miss No and the Old Gaffer) await the policeman so that they can regale him with magical tales and fill their confessions with all the spirits and incredible happenings of their unseen world. Their stories reveal aspects of African religious and philosophical belief systems, but to the Western-trained Naita they seem irrational. What is truth? Can these seemingly fanciful accounts provide any answers or are they merely the ravings of those suffering from senile dementia?
Couto's guiless prose (which reads well in this English translation) should not fool us about the complexity of this book. The author offers vivid descriptions of the region's traditional beliefs and symbols. Moreover, Couto demonstrates a sympathetic understanding of the African connection between humans and animals in the context of their environment as well as a perceptive sensibility to the conflict between custom (embodied by the elders) and the forces of modernity (represented by Naita and the contemporary political regime). In fact, the volume reveals much about corruption by both the earlier Portuguese colonizers and their currrent revolutionary African substitutes. Like truth, the answer is never simply black nor white. One must continue searching for it, sifting through and unearthing the lies that reveal what is true.
There are profound insights offered within this work's sometimes whimsical and comical assertions and ethereal descriptions. Possibly, however, because this is a translation, the voices of the characters sound remarkably alike and undifferentiated. Moreover, the use of the technique of magical realism in this novel seems less integrated with thematic elements than is evident with such practitioners as Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Toni Morrison, Isabel Allende, or Salman Rushdie. Nonetheless, there is much to appreciate with Mia Couto, who is, by the way, male, a Mozambican of European descent, and a biologist by training and profession. Like this book, nothing is quite what it appears to be.
Most simplistically, one can view this novel as a "whodunit." A European-educated African police detective, Izdine Naita, arrives from Maputo at the site of a centuries-old Portuguese fortress, which has become a sort of refuge center for a handful of old people following the Mozambique liberation struggle and the subsequent civil war. Naita has been sent to investigate the murder of the local administrator, a man of brutal temperment, lascivious behavior, and corrupt practices. (In the words of Mark Twain's memorable Luigi Capello, "he needs killing.") During Naita's inquiry, he finds that he has no dearth of suspects, or for that matter, most willing confessors to the crime. The young officer is baffled and, as his time for departure nears, he is warned that his own impending death has been foretold. Alas, as one of the elderly suspects suggests to Naita, "the crime that's been committed here isn't the one you're trying to solve."
In spite of the above sketch, the actual murder, if it was a murder, is not the core of this tale and in fact is neither fully explained nor resolved. Instead we are introduced to a cosmology that astounds and befuddles not only the detective but the reader as well. To begin with, before his arrival a most unhappy ghostly soul buried near the fort's frangipani tree is set to inhabit (with the assistance of a wise anteater) Naita's body and share his adventure. Meanwhile, the small (and barely still alive) population of the site (with names like Little Miss No and the Old Gaffer) await the policeman so that they can regale him with magical tales and fill their confessions with all the spirits and incredible happenings of their unseen world. Their stories reveal aspects of African religious and philosophical belief systems, but to the Western-trained Naita they seem irrational. What is truth? Can these seemingly fanciful accounts provide any answers or are they merely the ravings of those suffering from senile dementia?
Couto's guiless prose (which reads well in this English translation) should not fool us about the complexity of this book. The author offers vivid descriptions of the region's traditional beliefs and symbols. Moreover, Couto demonstrates a sympathetic understanding of the African connection between humans and animals in the context of their environment as well as a perceptive sensibility to the conflict between custom (embodied by the elders) and the forces of modernity (represented by Naita and the contemporary political regime). In fact, the volume reveals much about corruption by both the earlier Portuguese colonizers and their currrent revolutionary African substitutes. Like truth, the answer is never simply black nor white. One must continue searching for it, sifting through and unearthing the lies that reveal what is true.
There are profound insights offered within this work's sometimes whimsical and comical assertions and ethereal descriptions. Possibly, however, because this is a translation, the voices of the characters sound remarkably alike and undifferentiated. Moreover, the use of the technique of magical realism in this novel seems less integrated with thematic elements than is evident with such practitioners as Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Toni Morrison, Isabel Allende, or Salman Rushdie. Nonetheless, there is much to appreciate with Mia Couto, who is, by the way, male, a Mozambican of European descent, and a biologist by training and profession. Like this book, nothing is quite what it appears to be.
Read
August 2, 2019
AFRICAN BOOKS MARATHON
BOOK: 1
TITLE: Under the Frangipani (Portuguese Title: A Veranda do Frangipani)
AUTHOR: Mia Couto
COUNTRY: Mozambique
This was my first novel from Mozambique or from a Sub-Saharan African country in general. It was actually a 150 pages novella filled with magical realism or to be more precise animist realism, an African sub-category of magical realism.
From Wikipedia: Animism is the worldview that non-human entities—such as animals, plants, and inanimate objects—possess a spiritual essence.
Even from the title this was an unusual book, and I was wondering what was this frangipani; then I googled it and found that frangipani is a tree that I see every day from my house; we call it (ινδικό) φούλι in Cyprus. It has a similar smell with jasmine but it has a more intense fragrance.
From the first sentence of the book you are taken by surprise:
”I am the dead man. If I had a cross or a slab of marble, the name Ermelindo Mucanga would feature on it. But I passed away along with my name nearly two decades ago.”
So, the protagonist of the book is a dead man who died 20 years ago at a former Portuguese fort. A spirit in the form of halakavuma (see photo below),
tells him that he (Ermelindo) will possess the mind of a young police officer who arrived at this fort by the sea to investigate a murder. The people at the fort are all old and puzzling. A man-child cursed to grow old at the moment he was born, a witch that turns into water, a young nurse that sleeps stark naked in order to absorb the smell and the energy of the earth and many more.
So you understand this is not just magical (animist) realism but also something more, magical, and also political. The magical dominates the novel with spirits, shadows, a storm-serpent, a bottomless void, and more. The political is more subtle, it is somehow a protest against Portuguese colonialism in Mozambique.
But what makes this novel(la) beautiful is the language. It is poetic and magical. At the beginning you will get a little bit confused on what’s going on, but then you will get used to it. I’ll definitely read more by Mia Couto. 3.7 stars
You can see the complete list of my African Books here:
BOOK: 1
TITLE: Under the Frangipani (Portuguese Title: A Veranda do Frangipani)
AUTHOR: Mia Couto
COUNTRY: Mozambique
This was my first novel from Mozambique or from a Sub-Saharan African country in general. It was actually a 150 pages novella filled with magical realism or to be more precise animist realism, an African sub-category of magical realism.
From Wikipedia: Animism is the worldview that non-human entities—such as animals, plants, and inanimate objects—possess a spiritual essence.
Even from the title this was an unusual book, and I was wondering what was this frangipani; then I googled it and found that frangipani is a tree that I see every day from my house; we call it (ινδικό) φούλι in Cyprus. It has a similar smell with jasmine but it has a more intense fragrance.
From the first sentence of the book you are taken by surprise:
”I am the dead man. If I had a cross or a slab of marble, the name Ermelindo Mucanga would feature on it. But I passed away along with my name nearly two decades ago.”
So, the protagonist of the book is a dead man who died 20 years ago at a former Portuguese fort. A spirit in the form of halakavuma (see photo below),
tells him that he (Ermelindo) will possess the mind of a young police officer who arrived at this fort by the sea to investigate a murder. The people at the fort are all old and puzzling. A man-child cursed to grow old at the moment he was born, a witch that turns into water, a young nurse that sleeps stark naked in order to absorb the smell and the energy of the earth and many more.
So you understand this is not just magical (animist) realism but also something more, magical, and also political. The magical dominates the novel with spirits, shadows, a storm-serpent, a bottomless void, and more. The political is more subtle, it is somehow a protest against Portuguese colonialism in Mozambique.
But what makes this novel(la) beautiful is the language. It is poetic and magical. At the beginning you will get a little bit confused on what’s going on, but then you will get used to it. I’ll definitely read more by Mia Couto. 3.7 stars
You can see the complete list of my African Books here:
April 9, 2013
Acho que quantas vezes eu ler esse livro, as conclusões serão diferentes. O que chama a atenção primeiramente é que, diferente das narrativas policiais tradicionais, em que por meio de procedimentos metódicos e racionais, seremos conduzidos a uma "verdade" e o leitor vai acompanhando passivamente às descobertas do detetive, Mia Couto nos conduz a uma outra lógica: através dos depoimentos alegóricos dos personagens, focados na oralidade e consoantes com o modo ancestral do pensar africano. Entre os fios de discursos aparentemente sem nexo, vão escapando frases proverbiais e adivinhações cujos significados, além de reafirmarem valores da moral popularmente consagrada, questionam a ordem poética, moral e lógica. Ao mesmo tempo em que cada personagem tem sua especificidade própria, as narrativas vão se encaixando e servindo de argumento à narrativa englobante. A própria investigação vai sendo levada em outra direção que leva à denúncia de crimes maiores, como a morte das tradições moçambicanas.
Os conceitos de raça e mistura fogem ao maniqueísmo vicioso e cada personagem tem as ambiguidades e especificidades que lhe cabem. Se no período de nacionalismo pós-independência, o negro e o branco eram frequentemente colocados de lados opostos, aqui, ambos estão juntos tendo que lidar com desenraizamento. O asilo representa o espaço social onde se encontram representantes da nova e da velha geração, reproduzindo-se, numa espécie de microcosmos, a teia das relações sociais presente no Moçambique pós-colonial, onde tudo e todos se encontram desterritorializados. Mas Mia Couto deixa transparecer isso tudo sem que o romance seja áspero e cansativo, através de uma linguagem poética e deliciosa de ler. :)
Os conceitos de raça e mistura fogem ao maniqueísmo vicioso e cada personagem tem as ambiguidades e especificidades que lhe cabem. Se no período de nacionalismo pós-independência, o negro e o branco eram frequentemente colocados de lados opostos, aqui, ambos estão juntos tendo que lidar com desenraizamento. O asilo representa o espaço social onde se encontram representantes da nova e da velha geração, reproduzindo-se, numa espécie de microcosmos, a teia das relações sociais presente no Moçambique pós-colonial, onde tudo e todos se encontram desterritorializados. Mas Mia Couto deixa transparecer isso tudo sem que o romance seja áspero e cansativo, através de uma linguagem poética e deliciosa de ler. :)
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December 10, 2023A Different Postcolonialism
The strength of this book is the author's capacity to imagine what it might be like to be dead, if that were to mean resting comfortably, and somewhat sadly, underground. (A bit like Graveyard Clay or Lincoln in the Bardo. Nominally the book is written by a dead man; by itself that wouldn't be remarkable (The Third Policeman also comes to mind), but here the narrator is content. He tells us all sorts of things that aren't grisly, melodramatic, or macabre: he doesn't dream, but the frangipani tree above him sometimes dreams of him; he has a pet spiny anteater, which burrows down to him and speaks to him in a kind of inner monologue as if it were his dog; he doesn't remember much of his life, but that doesn't often bother him.
Partway through the novel -- which is a mainly unsuccessful series of vignettes framed as a detective story -- I realized why Couto feels so at home with the idea of being forgotten, buried, suspended in a state of more or less permanent amnesia. It's because he sympathizes with people who live, as he has, in an isolated and impoverished corner of an isolated and impoverished country. Their lives are mainly forgotten, and their sense of themselves is tenuous: they are linguistically and racially mixed, and they do not always have any good way of matching ideas to words (as one of Couto's characters says).
There are some good pages on the hopelessness of feeling at home in such a postcolonial world (pp. 41-46) but that theme is familiar: what's new is the way these characters are partly happy, mainly reconciled, slightly drifting, virtually isolated, somewhat dreamlike: it's the qualifiers, the lack of absolutes, that make Couto's way of thinking so distinctive. His sense of the postcolonial experience is the opposite of Frantz Fanon or any number of occasionally polemic or strident writers (Helon Habila, Chris Abani, Aminatta Forna) and theorists of hybridity and dislocation, and it is also miles from the usual ghost story in which the ghost pines for life. There's no passion and little introspection in this postcoloniality. This ghost likes his six days above ground, but in the end he is more or less as content in the earth, vaguely content, vaguely uncertain about what he has forgotten.
By the end it seems attractive to think of lying underground, with most of your memories gone, with no sense of smell, no light or color, and very little sound. Like the very similar life above ground.
The strength of this book is the author's capacity to imagine what it might be like to be dead, if that were to mean resting comfortably, and somewhat sadly, underground. (A bit like Graveyard Clay or Lincoln in the Bardo. Nominally the book is written by a dead man; by itself that wouldn't be remarkable (The Third Policeman also comes to mind), but here the narrator is content. He tells us all sorts of things that aren't grisly, melodramatic, or macabre: he doesn't dream, but the frangipani tree above him sometimes dreams of him; he has a pet spiny anteater, which burrows down to him and speaks to him in a kind of inner monologue as if it were his dog; he doesn't remember much of his life, but that doesn't often bother him.
Partway through the novel -- which is a mainly unsuccessful series of vignettes framed as a detective story -- I realized why Couto feels so at home with the idea of being forgotten, buried, suspended in a state of more or less permanent amnesia. It's because he sympathizes with people who live, as he has, in an isolated and impoverished corner of an isolated and impoverished country. Their lives are mainly forgotten, and their sense of themselves is tenuous: they are linguistically and racially mixed, and they do not always have any good way of matching ideas to words (as one of Couto's characters says).
There are some good pages on the hopelessness of feeling at home in such a postcolonial world (pp. 41-46) but that theme is familiar: what's new is the way these characters are partly happy, mainly reconciled, slightly drifting, virtually isolated, somewhat dreamlike: it's the qualifiers, the lack of absolutes, that make Couto's way of thinking so distinctive. His sense of the postcolonial experience is the opposite of Frantz Fanon or any number of occasionally polemic or strident writers (Helon Habila, Chris Abani, Aminatta Forna) and theorists of hybridity and dislocation, and it is also miles from the usual ghost story in which the ghost pines for life. There's no passion and little introspection in this postcoloniality. This ghost likes his six days above ground, but in the end he is more or less as content in the earth, vaguely content, vaguely uncertain about what he has forgotten.
By the end it seems attractive to think of lying underground, with most of your memories gone, with no sense of smell, no light or color, and very little sound. Like the very similar life above ground.
December 26, 2013
Uma história sobre como os homens estão a esquecer a maneira certa de se tratarem uns aos outros, e sobre como a maldade nem sempre vence.
Pelo meio temos toda uma série de personagens com características muito diversas, que acreditam no que hoje não julgamos ser verdade, e agem de acordo com isso, o que influencia a forma como os restantes acontecimentos se sucedem.
Um conto sobre ter paz na morte, e sobre as raízes que temos na nossa terra mas muitas vezes desconhecemos.
Mia Couto escreve de forma clara e corrente, quase como se estivesse sentado no café connosco, a falar "sem filtro", e de uma forma abrasileirada, num português que não é o português de Portugal, mas é talvez mais rico exactamente por isso.
Isto torna a história muito fácil de seguir, e mais interessante até. Pelo meio vai largando toda uma série de expressões tipicamente moçambicanas, que enquanto portuguesa desconhecia, mas que achei curioso aprender!
Ter um glossário no fim foi bom por estar tudo junto, como uma compilação de palavras de uma língua que desconhecemos, mas que, afinal, são parte da minha língua.
Mas uma nota de rodapé na própria página teria sido muito bom também, porque impediria que fosse preciso estar sempre a verificar se determinadas palavras apareciam ou não no glossário.
Gostei de tudo o que o autor foi debatendo na história, contudo, no final ficou a sensação de que não se saiu de nenhum lugar, de que quase tudo ficou na mesma. Esperava sentir mais pelas personagens, mais do que a mera curiosidade sobre elas.
Talvez aconteça no próximo romance que ler deste autor :)
Pelo meio temos toda uma série de personagens com características muito diversas, que acreditam no que hoje não julgamos ser verdade, e agem de acordo com isso, o que influencia a forma como os restantes acontecimentos se sucedem.
Um conto sobre ter paz na morte, e sobre as raízes que temos na nossa terra mas muitas vezes desconhecemos.
Mia Couto escreve de forma clara e corrente, quase como se estivesse sentado no café connosco, a falar "sem filtro", e de uma forma abrasileirada, num português que não é o português de Portugal, mas é talvez mais rico exactamente por isso.
Isto torna a história muito fácil de seguir, e mais interessante até. Pelo meio vai largando toda uma série de expressões tipicamente moçambicanas, que enquanto portuguesa desconhecia, mas que achei curioso aprender!
Ter um glossário no fim foi bom por estar tudo junto, como uma compilação de palavras de uma língua que desconhecemos, mas que, afinal, são parte da minha língua.
Mas uma nota de rodapé na própria página teria sido muito bom também, porque impediria que fosse preciso estar sempre a verificar se determinadas palavras apareciam ou não no glossário.
Gostei de tudo o que o autor foi debatendo na história, contudo, no final ficou a sensação de que não se saiu de nenhum lugar, de que quase tudo ficou na mesma. Esperava sentir mais pelas personagens, mais do que a mera curiosidade sobre elas.
Talvez aconteça no próximo romance que ler deste autor :)
April 17, 2018
A story about the pain and lost identity of a nation, about its dreams, superstitions and hopes, all narrated in a surreal note.
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October 20, 2014In ciuda aparențelor numelui, Mia Couto este nu o scriitoare, ci un scriitor mozambican, de origine portugheză, născut însă și crescut în Mozambic, țară pe care a îmbrățișat-o cu totul, cu realitățile sale de secol 20, cu războaiele civile și de independență, dar și cu mitologia și animismul secular.
Veranda cu frangipani (publicată în 1996, tradusă la noi în 2008) este un romănaș polițist care mi-a adus pentru o clipă fugară aminte de Mma Ramotswe, detectiva din seria No.1 Ladies’s Detective Agency, nu prin altceva decât prin faptul că o comunitate trebuie să accepte un detectiv băgându-și nasul prin treburile lor în căutarea adevărului oficial.
În cazul Verandei cu frangipani, comunitatea este un azil de bătrâni cam uitat de lume, într-o fortăreață înconjurată cu mine rămase de prin vreun război, unde au mai rămas câțiva bătrâni uitați și ei de viață. Acolo a avut loc o crimă, directorul azilului a fost ucis, și un polițai ferchezuit de la oraș vine cu elicopterul și rămâne o vreme acolo, să vadă ce se întâmplase.
Premisa cărții pornește însă, improbabil, de la un copac frangipani, care crește în curtea azilului, și la rădăcina căruia se cam plictisește un mort, un xipoco, un suflet care rătăcește între lumi pentru că nu a fost îngropat cum se cuvine. Mortul, Ermelindo Mucanga pe fostul său nume, are discuții lungi cu ‘animalul său de casă’, un pangolin, mai ales după ce află că somnul de sub frangipan îi va fi deranjat și oasele mutate, deoarece cuiva viu i s-a năzărit să își aducă aminte de numele său și să îl transforme în erou național decedat în război*. (continuarea cronicii: http://www.bookaholic.ro/veranda-cu-f...)
Veranda cu frangipani (publicată în 1996, tradusă la noi în 2008) este un romănaș polițist care mi-a adus pentru o clipă fugară aminte de Mma Ramotswe, detectiva din seria No.1 Ladies’s Detective Agency, nu prin altceva decât prin faptul că o comunitate trebuie să accepte un detectiv băgându-și nasul prin treburile lor în căutarea adevărului oficial.
În cazul Verandei cu frangipani, comunitatea este un azil de bătrâni cam uitat de lume, într-o fortăreață înconjurată cu mine rămase de prin vreun război, unde au mai rămas câțiva bătrâni uitați și ei de viață. Acolo a avut loc o crimă, directorul azilului a fost ucis, și un polițai ferchezuit de la oraș vine cu elicopterul și rămâne o vreme acolo, să vadă ce se întâmplase.
Premisa cărții pornește însă, improbabil, de la un copac frangipani, care crește în curtea azilului, și la rădăcina căruia se cam plictisește un mort, un xipoco, un suflet care rătăcește între lumi pentru că nu a fost îngropat cum se cuvine. Mortul, Ermelindo Mucanga pe fostul său nume, are discuții lungi cu ‘animalul său de casă’, un pangolin, mai ales după ce află că somnul de sub frangipan îi va fi deranjat și oasele mutate, deoarece cuiva viu i s-a năzărit să își aducă aminte de numele său și să îl transforme în erou național decedat în război*. (continuarea cronicii: http://www.bookaholic.ro/veranda-cu-f...)
May 17, 2014
It's short but I still found it a challenge to get through. Probably read it too disjointedly and it would have flown a bit better. I did enjoy Couto's lyrical language but I feel like there was a lot of symbolism that I missed and thus it ended up being a rather shallow read for me.
May 15, 2021
3,8 Ermelindo Mucanga je stolar koji je umro izvan svog sela/kraja, a po vjerovanjima mozambičkih naroda, on tada postaje xipoco, utvara osobe koje se nitko ne sjeća i koja je osuđena beskonačno lutati ovim svijetom. On je pak odlučio ponovno umrijeti i to u tijelu policijskog inspektora Izidinea Naitea ne bi li napokon našao svoj mir pod stablom frangipanija pokraj utvrde gdje je pokopan. Policijskom je inspektoru naime, preostalo samo 6 dana života (iako on to ne zna) kada dolazi u utvrdu koja je svojevrsni starački dom zbog slučaja ubojstva ravnatelja ustanove. Ravnatelj Vasto Excelencio je bio osoba mrska svima, svi su imali motiv za ubojstvo, štoviše, svatko od njih tvrdio je da ga je ubio. Inspektor se upliće u svijet tajanstvenih predaja i neobičnih vjerovanja te više ne zna što je istina, a što su od toga starci izmislili. Sve više osjeća frustraciju, dok mu prijeti stvarna opasnost. Kada se na kraju sva magla misterija razišla, ubojstvo je počinjeno iz sasvim prizemnog motiva u zemlji koja je jedva zašivena od rana dugog građanskog rata.
Mia Couto napisao je ovaj kratak roman upravo nakon tog rata, osjećajući posljedice koje je ostavio na narode Mozambika. Njegov jezik i stil pisanja imaju neki pjesnički štih koji posebno dočarava atmosferu te afričke mistike i usmenih predaja kojima je bio okružen cijeli život. Baš kao nekada kada su se priče pričale oko logorske vatre, a oči u mraku bile su veće od glave i u njima se odražavao plamen znatiželje. To je ono što mi se kod njega svidjelo na prvu. Iako mi je ovaj roman nešto slabiji od Mjesečarske zemlje i Lavičine ispovijedi, drago mi je da sam ga pročitala jer me još jednom približio Africi u koju rijetko putujem u knjigama, a oduvijek me intrigirala.
Mia Couto napisao je ovaj kratak roman upravo nakon tog rata, osjećajući posljedice koje je ostavio na narode Mozambika. Njegov jezik i stil pisanja imaju neki pjesnički štih koji posebno dočarava atmosferu te afričke mistike i usmenih predaja kojima je bio okružen cijeli život. Baš kao nekada kada su se priče pričale oko logorske vatre, a oči u mraku bile su veće od glave i u njima se odražavao plamen znatiželje. To je ono što mi se kod njega svidjelo na prvu. Iako mi je ovaj roman nešto slabiji od Mjesečarske zemlje i Lavičine ispovijedi, drago mi je da sam ga pročitala jer me još jednom približio Africi u koju rijetko putujem u knjigama, a oduvijek me intrigirala.
May 3, 2014
Why is it that you go for ages without a magic realist detective story and then two come along within a month? But Under the Frangipani is very different from Burning Angel. Couto plays with the detective story genre in this book, stretching it and distorting it. For starters the inspector has people queuing up to admit to murdering the oppressive Excellency Vatsome, but then many of the confessions include magic - such as a woman who turns to water at night and a man who will die if he cries - so can they be believed?.
Then there is who or what is murdered? As one of the elderly suspects says, the crime that's been committed here isn't the one you're trying to solve.
There is Vatsome's death of course. But there is also the death of the Ermelindo Mucanga, the dead narrator who takes up residence in a corner of the inspector's mind. As the detective uncovers something of the truth about Vatsome's murder, so Mucanga begins to remember how he too was murdered. And lastly there is the detective's death. We know that he is due to be murdered at the end of the book and so we are looking for the future murderer.
But as the nurse Marta points out what is being murdered is the old Mozambique, the Mozambique of magic, family and humanity. For this book is also an examination of the corruption of individuals, such as Vatsome, and of black society following the revolution. Vatsome fought against the white Portuguese colonists, but he is corrupted by the war. Again Marta puts her finger on the truth when she says: The culprit you seek, my dear Izidine, isn’t a person. It’s war. The war’s to blame for everything. The war killed Vatsome… War creates another cycle of time. Our lives are no longer measured by years or seasons. Or by harvests, famine or floods. War establishes the cycle of flood… War swallows up the dead and devours its survivors.
Although he is black the young detective is a city dweller and European trained. He is naive in this world, where traditional beliefs mix with the old people's mockery of him. He is naive too about what is to become of him - not analyzing the motives of his superiors in sending him there.
As has been noted so many times on this blog, magic realism often comes from two cultures rubbing up against each other. In a recent review in the Paris Review the author says: For an African writer it would be very difficult to think of realism and magic as two pillars of the same concept, because the way we feel and think results from the permanent crossing of those frontiers. This very African magic realist novel reminds me most of Pedro Paramo. Both are short, both have a dream-like and poetic quality. I am not sure that it works as well as Pedro Paramo, because I wanted more substance in the plotting and because Pedro Paramo has to be one of the most impressive books I have ever read. Nevertheless Under the Frangipani is impressive.
This review first appeared on the Magic Realism Books Blog http://magic-realism-books.blogspot.c...
Then there is who or what is murdered? As one of the elderly suspects says, the crime that's been committed here isn't the one you're trying to solve.
There is Vatsome's death of course. But there is also the death of the Ermelindo Mucanga, the dead narrator who takes up residence in a corner of the inspector's mind. As the detective uncovers something of the truth about Vatsome's murder, so Mucanga begins to remember how he too was murdered. And lastly there is the detective's death. We know that he is due to be murdered at the end of the book and so we are looking for the future murderer.
But as the nurse Marta points out what is being murdered is the old Mozambique, the Mozambique of magic, family and humanity. For this book is also an examination of the corruption of individuals, such as Vatsome, and of black society following the revolution. Vatsome fought against the white Portuguese colonists, but he is corrupted by the war. Again Marta puts her finger on the truth when she says: The culprit you seek, my dear Izidine, isn’t a person. It’s war. The war’s to blame for everything. The war killed Vatsome… War creates another cycle of time. Our lives are no longer measured by years or seasons. Or by harvests, famine or floods. War establishes the cycle of flood… War swallows up the dead and devours its survivors.
Although he is black the young detective is a city dweller and European trained. He is naive in this world, where traditional beliefs mix with the old people's mockery of him. He is naive too about what is to become of him - not analyzing the motives of his superiors in sending him there.
As has been noted so many times on this blog, magic realism often comes from two cultures rubbing up against each other. In a recent review in the Paris Review the author says: For an African writer it would be very difficult to think of realism and magic as two pillars of the same concept, because the way we feel and think results from the permanent crossing of those frontiers. This very African magic realist novel reminds me most of Pedro Paramo. Both are short, both have a dream-like and poetic quality. I am not sure that it works as well as Pedro Paramo, because I wanted more substance in the plotting and because Pedro Paramo has to be one of the most impressive books I have ever read. Nevertheless Under the Frangipani is impressive.
This review first appeared on the Magic Realism Books Blog http://magic-realism-books.blogspot.c...
June 28, 2021
A wonderful tale of murder infused with humour and African spiritualism which unveils itself as a biting social critique of post-war Mozambique. To grasp the layers of this book it helps to know a bit about the history of Mozambique, as there are many little references, jibes and wordplays in the text that are very context-specific. But I greatly enjoyed this book. It managed to convey so much in so few words (the book is only about 150 pages long).
April 27, 2018
This is one of those books that I'm sure would have been wonderful if I had understood it. I'm not sure if it was the translation, the folklore, or the magical realism, but I just didn't get it. I expected it to be plot-driven, seeing as it is a whodunit, but it was largely made up of symbolism and oppositions. It just wasn't for me.
May 1, 2017
Finally, a book that is truly different from previous experiences, a book that is unusual without being impossible to read, a new friend to begin a new year.
April 24, 2021
É a história de um fantasma, seu amigo pangolim e o mistério de um assassinato - escrita com a maestria de Mia Couro, então claro que é incrível!
July 22, 2023
کتاب بدی نبود
مشخصا اسطورهها و داستانهای بومی آفریقایی درونش زیاد بود که برای مخاطبی که از اون فضا دوره یکم فضا رو گنگ میکرد و نمیشد از کتاب لذت برد.
مشخصا اسطورهها و داستانهای بومی آفریقایی درونش زیاد بود که برای مخاطبی که از اون فضا دوره یکم فضا رو گنگ میکرد و نمیشد از کتاب لذت برد.
April 25, 2013
Mia Couto’s Under the Frangipani is a thin book. But condensed in its little more than 150 pages is an impressive narrative of a revolution betrayed as centered on the investigation of the death of Excellency Vatsome, Mozambique revolutionary war veteran turned sanatorium director and secret arms dealer.
Lurking everywhere in Under the Frangipani are the shadows of the Mozambique war of national liberation against Portuguese repression and its traumatic realities.
A genuine revolution is supposed to be waged for the people. It seeks to institute radical social changes to empower the greater majority of peasants and workers. But what if it fails to pursue its original aims after completing the seizure of power from the oppressors?
The question of what happens to guerrilla leaders who lose their ideological bearings is one of the dilemmas described in Couto’s novel. After all, the danger of mobilizing for war but without the adequate political and ideological education tends to breed a one-sided military mentality that fails to consider the political equation.
And all the worse if the struggle for national liberation takes the capitalist road after overthrowing the yoke of colonialism instead of pursuing a socialist perspective.
“Vatsome felt betrayed. He had given the best years of his life to the revolution. What was there left of that utopia?” With the idealism and enthusiasm of the revolutionary experience gone and without a thorough program for social transformation being undertaken, all that is left for Vatsome is money-making, power lust, and cynicism.
But we know all of this only by the end of the novel. Steeped in African oral tradition and deploying that folksy storytelling style familiar to all cultures, the novel is in the main about the life of Vatsome Excellency and his murder as uncovered by the investigation conducted by a police detective.
No ordinary detective spiel, the narrative is seen from a different vantage point. This point of view is that of the spirit of the dead man Ermelindo Mucanga, a martyr of the revolutionary war residing Under the Frangipani, who decides to reside in the body of the police investigator who examines the case of Vatsome’s murder.
Under the frangipani in the terrace of the former Portuguese tradepost is where the dead soul of the narrator resided. This is where we get glimpses of the soul’s past life intruding into the narrative of the present. This colonial fort turned jail for Mozambique revolutionaries turned sanotarium for the elderly after the war and of which Vatsome is director is the setting of the novel.
Of course, the spirit of Ermelindo Mucanga knows ahead that the investigator of Vatsome’s death will also die after six days. However, we learn of the details according to this marked man’s own pace.
Interspersed in the narrative are chapters that unravel the tales of the confessors, residents of the sanotarium who all claim that they killed Excellency Vatsome:
The first, Navaia, an old man-child claimed that he killed Vatsome with a knife because the director physically abused the old men performing a traditional ritual in the refuge.
The second, the old Portuguese expatriate Domingos Mourao, confessed to felling a large stone on Vatsome because the director allegedly abused his own wife Ernestina.
The third, Old Gaffer, said that he smashed Excellency’s face on the stonework and smothered him with a blanket because the director hurt the refuge’s nurse Marta.
The fourth, the “witch” Little Miss No, declared that she was the one who poisoned Excellency after the director hit her breast and raped her.
But it is in the letter of Excellency’s wife Ernestina that we actually begin to understand the seemingly senseless violence imposed by Excellency upon the old residents of the refuge, a brutality that arouses their hate and thirst for revenge:
“I was told that Vatsome showed no mercy on the field of battle, behaving just like the enemy he called devils. I listened to reports of massacres as if they had taken place in an another world.”
The testimony of the nurse Marta who at the beginning of this mystery seemed uncooperative to the investigator also sheds light to this question:
“The culprit you seek, my dear Izidine, isn’t a person. It’s war. The war’s to blame for everything. The war killed Vatsome… War creates another cycle of time. Our lives are no longer measured by years or seasons. Or by harvests, famine or floods. War establishes the cycle of flood… War swallows up the dead and devours its survivors.”
The novel clearly succeeds in subverting the conventions of the mystery genre. But like any other mystery, everything is still revealed in the end.
Nevertheless, this heavily textured novel requires effort to untangle all its threads and nuances. Under the Frangipani‘s deceptively small number of pages conceal a complexity that draws on Mozambique’s mystical world alongside its historical experience of colonization, poverty, and war. A must read.
Lurking everywhere in Under the Frangipani are the shadows of the Mozambique war of national liberation against Portuguese repression and its traumatic realities.
A genuine revolution is supposed to be waged for the people. It seeks to institute radical social changes to empower the greater majority of peasants and workers. But what if it fails to pursue its original aims after completing the seizure of power from the oppressors?
The question of what happens to guerrilla leaders who lose their ideological bearings is one of the dilemmas described in Couto’s novel. After all, the danger of mobilizing for war but without the adequate political and ideological education tends to breed a one-sided military mentality that fails to consider the political equation.
And all the worse if the struggle for national liberation takes the capitalist road after overthrowing the yoke of colonialism instead of pursuing a socialist perspective.
“Vatsome felt betrayed. He had given the best years of his life to the revolution. What was there left of that utopia?” With the idealism and enthusiasm of the revolutionary experience gone and without a thorough program for social transformation being undertaken, all that is left for Vatsome is money-making, power lust, and cynicism.
But we know all of this only by the end of the novel. Steeped in African oral tradition and deploying that folksy storytelling style familiar to all cultures, the novel is in the main about the life of Vatsome Excellency and his murder as uncovered by the investigation conducted by a police detective.
No ordinary detective spiel, the narrative is seen from a different vantage point. This point of view is that of the spirit of the dead man Ermelindo Mucanga, a martyr of the revolutionary war residing Under the Frangipani, who decides to reside in the body of the police investigator who examines the case of Vatsome’s murder.
Under the frangipani in the terrace of the former Portuguese tradepost is where the dead soul of the narrator resided. This is where we get glimpses of the soul’s past life intruding into the narrative of the present. This colonial fort turned jail for Mozambique revolutionaries turned sanotarium for the elderly after the war and of which Vatsome is director is the setting of the novel.
Of course, the spirit of Ermelindo Mucanga knows ahead that the investigator of Vatsome’s death will also die after six days. However, we learn of the details according to this marked man’s own pace.
Interspersed in the narrative are chapters that unravel the tales of the confessors, residents of the sanotarium who all claim that they killed Excellency Vatsome:
The first, Navaia, an old man-child claimed that he killed Vatsome with a knife because the director physically abused the old men performing a traditional ritual in the refuge.
The second, the old Portuguese expatriate Domingos Mourao, confessed to felling a large stone on Vatsome because the director allegedly abused his own wife Ernestina.
The third, Old Gaffer, said that he smashed Excellency’s face on the stonework and smothered him with a blanket because the director hurt the refuge’s nurse Marta.
The fourth, the “witch” Little Miss No, declared that she was the one who poisoned Excellency after the director hit her breast and raped her.
But it is in the letter of Excellency’s wife Ernestina that we actually begin to understand the seemingly senseless violence imposed by Excellency upon the old residents of the refuge, a brutality that arouses their hate and thirst for revenge:
“I was told that Vatsome showed no mercy on the field of battle, behaving just like the enemy he called devils. I listened to reports of massacres as if they had taken place in an another world.”
The testimony of the nurse Marta who at the beginning of this mystery seemed uncooperative to the investigator also sheds light to this question:
“The culprit you seek, my dear Izidine, isn’t a person. It’s war. The war’s to blame for everything. The war killed Vatsome… War creates another cycle of time. Our lives are no longer measured by years or seasons. Or by harvests, famine or floods. War establishes the cycle of flood… War swallows up the dead and devours its survivors.”
The novel clearly succeeds in subverting the conventions of the mystery genre. But like any other mystery, everything is still revealed in the end.
Nevertheless, this heavily textured novel requires effort to untangle all its threads and nuances. Under the Frangipani‘s deceptively small number of pages conceal a complexity that draws on Mozambique’s mystical world alongside its historical experience of colonization, poverty, and war. A must read.
September 3, 2016
Apesar de se tratar de um livro interessante, não gostei particularmente do mesmo, talvez por me ter deixado com uma sensação de tristeza e desencanto, e por ter ficado com a ideia, errada ou não, de se tratar de uma história que não foi terminada.
O livro inicia-se com a necessidade de se descobrir o autor da morte do administrador de um lar de idosos, situado numa antiga fortaleza mandada construir pelos portugueses na altura do colonialismo, e que se destinava a ser uma prisão para insurretos, a qual se localizava junto a uma costa íngreme, rochosa e inacessível no sul de Moçambique, junto ao Oceano Índico, tendo para isso sido enviado como investigador pelas autoridades, um polícia honesto de Maputo, que chegou ao local transportado por um helicóptero.
Logo de início, a narração da história faz-me lembrar o realismo mágico de escritores como Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Isabel Allende, Laura Esquivel, entre outros, pois a realidade aparece misturada com um mundo imaginário e cheio de misticismo da cultura tradicional moçambicana, já que uma das personagens da história é um morto, enterrado junto de uma frangipani (árvore tropical), o qual foi um operário que trabalhou na construção da fortaleza ao serviço dos portugueses e que também foi assassinado, sendo que, por ordem de um animal feiticeiro, passou a viver dentro do corpo do polícia que, no prazo de sete dias, também iria ser assassinado, o que não chegou a suceder.
As personagens da história, os idosos que vivem no lar em condições de extrema solidão, de abandono pelos familiares, de pobreza, de fome, de falta de condições de higiene, de cuidados médicos, de violência levada a cabo pelo ex-administrador do lar, um homem duro, agressivo, desonesto, que utilizava as suas funções para traficar armas, bem como a enfermeira que cuida dos mesmos, contam histórias sobre as suas vidas onde a realidade, o misticismo e o imaginário se misturam e se confundem.
Mas no meio de um mundo agreste e sem esperança de um país, onde após a independência e o fim da violência da guerra civil, emerge uma realidade mais pacífica mas com grandes índices de corrupção e outras formas de criminalidade, também abordada no livro, os idosos encontram a paz e o lugar que tanto anseiam debaixo da frangipani, situada num local belo com vista para o mar, escolhendo, no entanto, para isso, morrer.
O livro inicia-se com a necessidade de se descobrir o autor da morte do administrador de um lar de idosos, situado numa antiga fortaleza mandada construir pelos portugueses na altura do colonialismo, e que se destinava a ser uma prisão para insurretos, a qual se localizava junto a uma costa íngreme, rochosa e inacessível no sul de Moçambique, junto ao Oceano Índico, tendo para isso sido enviado como investigador pelas autoridades, um polícia honesto de Maputo, que chegou ao local transportado por um helicóptero.
Logo de início, a narração da história faz-me lembrar o realismo mágico de escritores como Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Isabel Allende, Laura Esquivel, entre outros, pois a realidade aparece misturada com um mundo imaginário e cheio de misticismo da cultura tradicional moçambicana, já que uma das personagens da história é um morto, enterrado junto de uma frangipani (árvore tropical), o qual foi um operário que trabalhou na construção da fortaleza ao serviço dos portugueses e que também foi assassinado, sendo que, por ordem de um animal feiticeiro, passou a viver dentro do corpo do polícia que, no prazo de sete dias, também iria ser assassinado, o que não chegou a suceder.
As personagens da história, os idosos que vivem no lar em condições de extrema solidão, de abandono pelos familiares, de pobreza, de fome, de falta de condições de higiene, de cuidados médicos, de violência levada a cabo pelo ex-administrador do lar, um homem duro, agressivo, desonesto, que utilizava as suas funções para traficar armas, bem como a enfermeira que cuida dos mesmos, contam histórias sobre as suas vidas onde a realidade, o misticismo e o imaginário se misturam e se confundem.
Mas no meio de um mundo agreste e sem esperança de um país, onde após a independência e o fim da violência da guerra civil, emerge uma realidade mais pacífica mas com grandes índices de corrupção e outras formas de criminalidade, também abordada no livro, os idosos encontram a paz e o lugar que tanto anseiam debaixo da frangipani, situada num local belo com vista para o mar, escolhendo, no entanto, para isso, morrer.
September 19, 2022
Mia Couto writes some of the most original and unique stories I've ever read but some of them border on bizarre. Under the Frangipani is, probably, the most bizarre book of his that I've read so far. It begins with a dead man, who is buried under a Frangipani tree, discussing his own death when he discovers that his body is to be dug up and he is to be displayed as a hero. His friend the anteater then helps him enter the body of a policeman who has been sent to investigate the murder of a supervisor at an old Portuguese fortress that is occupied by a collection of elderly people. The policeman interviews the elderly occupants and each confesses to the murder. Each of their confessions is full of mystical and magical tales, based on the local cultural beliefs and religion, and it becomes totally bewildering. It's a story that is difficult to follow and gets confusing at times but still a good read.
July 13, 2018
Leí esta novela a toda prisa porque las circunstancias me llevaron a tener un súbito interés en Mozambique, país del que hasta hace 24 horas no sabía casi nada. Creo que debí darle más tiempo, y tal vez la relea, porque a pesar de que tiene poco más de 100 páginas y un lenguaje aparentemente sencillo, es una obra compleja. Aborda, a mi entender, la necesidad de preservar la memoria histórica, no necesariamente desde la perspectiva de que todo pasado fue mejor, sino desde su complejidad: la oralidad, la hechicería, la medicina tradicional, la camaradería, la relación con la naturaleza, pero también el racismo, la guerra, la violencia, las armas, las minas antipersonales, el colonialismo; todo aquello que conforma el espíritu de Mozambique y que puede quedar perdido en la ilusión de progreso, modernidad y civilización.
La novela es... adorable: incluye un pangolín parlante, un árbol sagrado y un puñado de buenos personajes. Pero es también brutal: su ternura se entreteje con escenas muy violentas —especialmente contra las mujeres— y con recuerdos quizá demasiado vigentes de un pasado difícil.
La traducción (sin saber una palabra de portugués) me pareció buena; se adivina un trabajo cuidadoso para preservar los juegos de palabras y las libertades del original. Desafortunadamente, Elefanta no tiene buen cuidado editorial: hay erratas en abundancia y faltas de ortografía graves (Elefanta, ¡contrátame!). Es una editorial muy bonita, con títulos únicos; es una lástima que los errores de este tipo interrumpan la lectura a cada rato.
La novela es... adorable: incluye un pangolín parlante, un árbol sagrado y un puñado de buenos personajes. Pero es también brutal: su ternura se entreteje con escenas muy violentas —especialmente contra las mujeres— y con recuerdos quizá demasiado vigentes de un pasado difícil.
La traducción (sin saber una palabra de portugués) me pareció buena; se adivina un trabajo cuidadoso para preservar los juegos de palabras y las libertades del original. Desafortunadamente, Elefanta no tiene buen cuidado editorial: hay erratas en abundancia y faltas de ortografía graves (Elefanta, ¡contrátame!). Es una editorial muy bonita, con títulos únicos; es una lástima que los errores de este tipo interrumpan la lectura a cada rato.
March 10, 2015
Magical realism murder mystery/storytelling that straddles the worlds between the living & the dead, traditions vs. modern mores, colonization against freedom, & war facing off against peace. It was different & even a bit challenging to understand, at least for me. I do think there's real depth there, but I'm not completely sure that I even made it far below the surface. A better knowledge of traditional myths & tales, as well as the history of the area might have helped some of my understanding more. As it turns out, it is not a traditional murder mystery, but rather a philosophical & heartfelt examination of the things that kill a people, a country, a place. Distinct. Though I'd give it just 3 stars right now, I think this is one that could age better with rereading (now that I understand where the storytelling is leading), the experience probably richer with a revisit down the road....
January 9, 2019
A remarkable novel. It is very African in sensibility, style, substance and mood, but the story resonates on a deep universal level. It is a 'Magic Realist' detective story. As such perhaps it should be reminiscent of the works of Márquez, Carpentier and Rulfo, but to me it bears a stronger resemblance to the novels of Milorad Pavić in the extraordinary use of strange metaphors and similes, and its forging of highly original connections between objects, situations and ideas.
Izidine Naita is the main character, a police officer sent to investigate the murder of Vastsome Excellency, the Director of the old people’s refuge at the fort of Sao Nicolau. His investigations seem to lead him nowhere. He interviews several of the residents, who all claim responsibility for the crime. The process is complicated by the fact that Izidine is possessed by a ghost who has a paranormal anteater for a spirit guide.
Izidine Naita is the main character, a police officer sent to investigate the murder of Vastsome Excellency, the Director of the old people’s refuge at the fort of Sao Nicolau. His investigations seem to lead him nowhere. He interviews several of the residents, who all claim responsibility for the crime. The process is complicated by the fact that Izidine is possessed by a ghost who has a paranormal anteater for a spirit guide.
July 16, 2011
With a simple, but a strong and grave voice (which reminds me of Ismail Kadare), Mia Couto recreates in “Under the Frangipani” the history of his country, Mozambique: with its traditions, beauty and complexity, with its struggles across the centuries of occupation and years of weird freedom. Not only the whole story, but every sentence of this original micro-novel is a fable. The big truths, in all their deepness, are said within an amazing simple way that only can come from the wisdom of the already lived life; or, better, from the afterlife. In the Sao Nicolau fort is no time, and (almost) no life. There are only dead people and dead souls. Alive is only frangipani, the old big tree, which first has to lose his leaves, in order to blossom up again. And this is hope; the hope of life after the death.
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