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Andrzej Stasiuk, Petra Hardt

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Andrzej Stasiuk, PetraHardt : On the Road to Babadag: Travels in the Other Europebefore purchasing it in order to gage whether or not it would beworth my time, and all praised On the Road to Babadag: Travels inthe Other Europe:

5 of 5 people found the following review helpful. Lost in Space andTime - Stasiuk's On the Road to BabadagBy Robert T. OKEEFFEFirst,before all else, I must say that for anyone who has an interest inor has traveled through central and eastern Europe, this is awonderful book, an unconventional kind of travel writing informedby personal obsessions and downright manias (I sympathize with boththis kind of travel and its re-creation through writing, be itfiction or in essayistic form). Readers who might enjoy Stasiuk'sthree volumes of travel essays that have been translated intoEnglish will be equally impressed by his novels from the 1990s andearly 2000s ("White Raven", "Nine", and "Tales of Galicia"). Tosituate Stasiuk's travel essays (this is a terminologicalconvenience, because they are much more than that, includingnature-writing, philosophical rumination, and a parable or two) intime, readers should be aware that their English translations camein reverse order of their publication dates in Poland - in Polish"Dukla" was published in 1999, "Jadac do Babadag" in 2004, and"FADO" in 2006. All three refer to an extraordinary number of brieftrips taken over the course of a decade or so - I think of them as"raids" into the Carpathian mountains and basin, the Balkans, andobscure recesses of his native land and adjoining countries. In"Babadag" Stasiuk as reporter is on the road in Jack Kerouac style(a comparison he made explicitly in FADO), and, compared to hisother two travel works, his pace is unrelenting and the changes ofscene constant. At the outset of Babadag he has a detailed map inhand, the "Slovak 200", a reference to its scale. It's large,floppy, and suffers from the normal effects of age - wear at thecreases, occasional holes, and the gradual fading of both the gridand individual places marked upon it. In Stasiuk's mind theworn-out map is metaphorical of humanity's progress and eventualdestiny: we came, we saw, we settled or conquered, then we werevanquished by our own conquests, and soon we will be extinguishedby vast, impersonal forces and processes that we will never be ableto control, sharing the eventual fate of all forms of life on thisearth -- extinction. Stasiuk has been neither impressed nor fooledby the waves of political enthusiasm and propaganda that during thelast 200 years have swept over the regions he loves while they alsoperplex him - for him politics is mere foam riding on the outeredge of much deeper existential waves. In an area that has beencalled, for purely chauvinistic and political reasons, eithersoutheastern Poland or western Ukraine since 1918, Stasiuk choosesto use "Galicia", which allegedly vanished from both geography andhistory as a self-contained unit with the dissolution of the DualMonarchy at the end of World War I. "Galician stories" have a long,multilingual history: tales in Polish by Wyspiantilde;ski and thetwo Brunos, Schulz and Jasientilde;ski; in Ukrainian by I. Franko;in Yiddish by I. B. Singer; in Russian by Babel; in Hebrew by S. Y.Agnon; and in German by E. K. Franzos, Joseph Roth, and, of allunlikely people, the young Leopold von Sacher-Masoch, a German whostyled himself as a philosemitic Galician Ruthenian, quite anoxymoronic yoking of identities, to which his later role asadvocate of sexual fetishism was hitched. All of their tales arepervaded by the temporary verities and permanent conflicts of theHabsburg era, but Stasiuk's stories from the region (both in hisessays and his novels, "White Raven" and Tales of Galicia) reflectthe late life and afterlife of the more recent Polish dormitionunder communism. His travels are haphazard, improvised on the whimof a moment, and often punctuated by comical exchanges, but neverby melodramatic or high-cultural epiphanies. As a writer heundertakes his trips without the prop of an overarching narrativeor unifying meaning, unless it's the permanence of loss anderosion. He's reporting on places, people, and things usuallybeneath the notice of travel essayists. To Stasiuk these vignettesof the commonplace are mementi mori of things not valued highly bycivilization but things that create some kind of deep personalresonance in his mind. Still, even the fanciers of high cultureshould beware, because their beloved institutions and artifactswill also eventually be overturned by cosmic forces that create usand will some day digest us like a meal - space and time consumethemselves, and humans and their creations are their transitoryfodder. His frequent observations of crumbling stone or timberhomes that are literally sinking into the ground, pressed down byimmense skies and soon to be part of the natural landscape,illustrate the trend of these forces. Stasiuk is attracted tohistorical figures steeped in violence and its unintended,self-destructive consequences. Thus in "Babadag" we read hismusings on men (and in "Dukla", on women) who were involved inbloody events or who met brutally violent ends: Skanderbeg, GeorgheDoja, Corneliu Codreanu, the Ceaucescus, and that hobgoblin orharbinger of the Polish historical and literary imagination, JakubSzela. If the reader is unfamiliar with these men and their rolesin history, the side-exploration of their lives and deeds is worthundertaking - each one is a token of adventure or hope that endsbadly. The main difference between Babadag and Stasiuk's othercollection of travel reports is his open engagement with thequestion, "Why am I doing this?" His mania is examined throughintrospection about the effect an old photograph has had upon him(the photo is included in the book). Sometime in the 1920s theHungarian photographer Andre Kertesz took a shot of a blind fiddlercrossing the dusty road of a small town in Hungary, accompanied orled by a young boy, possibly his son. This photograph gripsStasiuk's soul and suggests to him not only a lost world but one inwhich the damaged and the powerless persist from day to day becausesuch persistence is the be-all of their existence; they areresigned to all kinds of limitations upon their lives, but keep upthe daily struggle, finding pleasure and joy amid meagercircumstances while occasionally erupting into displays of rage andhatred. Stasiuk has undertaken the mission of memorializing suchtransient souls and their habitations (it's akin to his admirationto the valiant commemoration of the dead by the living buildingbonfires in cemeteries on All-Soul's Eve, as described in "FADO").Babadag itself is a small town somewhere toward the mouth of theDanube, which becomes a vast, complicated, marshy estuary where itflows into the Black Sea. The area is the literal sump of much ofEurope, and its small towns, settlements, and isolated tumble-downhomes are situated upon flat spits and unstable sandbars, littlecolonies of social comfort that float only a few meters above aprodigious natural force that can overwhelm and punish them at anymoment. He admires how people hang on here and create little knotsof unlikely conviviality in unlikely places, though as he travelsfurther along the margins of Romania he is totally baffled by theexistence of its two most recent bastard offspring, Moldova andTransnistira, places he describes as parodies of modern states. Theone exception to Staiuk's normal avoidance of cities and bourgeoisambiences is his trip to Ljubljana in Slovenia, whose prosperousappearance and friendly citizens surprise him no end, but soonenough he "gets even" with the idea of sedate souls living acomfortable and socially constructive life by crossing the borderinto Hungary, where he can always find the rogues, the damagedsouls, and the eccentrics who delight him. But Hungary is Paradisecompared to Albania, which he presents as the shunned and avoidednightmare of Europe: "Yes, everyone should come here. At leastthose who make use of the name Europe. It should be an initiationceremony, because Albania is the unconscious of the continent. Yes,the European id, the fear that at night haunts slumbering Paris,London, and Frankfurt am Main. Albania is the dark well into whichthose who believe that everything has been settled once and for allshould peer." Along with the Gypsies whom he admires, Albania'stotally entropic, bereft and avaricious society points the way inhis mind to the condition which we will not be able to avoid, i.e.,joining the "losers of Europe" because we will brought low bynatural and social forces that we cannot rationally guide orcontrol. It's a strong and idiosyncratic point of view, and,whether his readers can accept it or not, Stasiuk's writingclarifies the possibilities and lays out the likely consequences ofour ineradicable human frailties. To his way of thinking thesebleak prospects rest upon neither cynicism nor skepticism, butrealism. On a final note I should comment on the quality of thetranslation. I do this as a reader whose knowledge of the Polishlanguage is very limited. "On the Road to Babadag" reads extremelywell in English, as do all of the translations of Stasiuk's fictionand non-fiction. Michael Kandel has done a very good job, and Ishould add that both the "mind" and "voice" of Stasiuk in thistranslation are consistent with those inferred from (andexperienced by the reader) the translations of his other two booksof travel essays ("Dukla" and "FADO"), which were done by theequally talented Bill Johnston. This leads me to believe thatlittle has been lost in bringing Stasiuk's writing over intoEnglish and that he has been well-served by those men and women whodevote themselves to this labor of love -- their praises should besung by readers who would otherwise remain blind and deaf to thequaility of Eastern and Central European literature.0 of 0 peoplefound the following review helpful. Best when read aloudByWitoldThe idea of a book about the "other" Europe is verycompelling. The book consists of what might call "travel vignettes"in no particular order. The author is traveling without an apparentplan; frequently, we don't even know exactly where we are. I wasable to relate to some of the places only because I had visitedthem, otherwise, honestly, I am not sure if I would survive morethan 50 pages.The language is beautiful but it remains constantlythe same throughout the book, which, by the end, when one expectsat least a hint of a conclusion, becomes a source of a slightdisappointment. The most serious issue is lack of clarity and therather unsettling feeling that we are going in circles. He wants usto get tired. What we do get is a uniquely lyrical poetic stylethat has its own pace. The book is truly at its best when readaloud. It sounds very musical and one feels, hears and "smells" thescenery. The translation, by the way, is absolutely superb.I amcurious about other books by Stasiuk. I wonder if all his books arethe same.1 of 1 people found the following review helpful. Go alongfor the ride. You will be glad you did.By Donna MillerStasiuk'stravels take you to places you may not necessarily want to book aroom at, but he teaches you about their history and present in anunforgettable way. I had my Atlas open the whole time.

Andrzej Stasiuk is a restless and indefatigable traveler. Hisjourneys take him from his native Poland to Slovakia, Hungary,Romania, Slovenia, Albania, Moldova, and Ukraine. By car, train,bus, ferry. To small towns and villages with unfamiliar-soundingyet strangely evocative names. ldquo;The heart of my Europe,rdquo;Stasiuk tells us, ldquo;beats in Sokolow, Podlaski, and in Husi,not in Vienna.rdquo; Where did Moldova end and Transylvania begin,he wonders as he is being driven at breakneck speed in an ancientAudimdash;loose wires hanging from the dashboardmdash;by a driverin shorts and bare feet, a cross swinging on his chest. In Comrat,a funeral procession moves slowly down the main street, the opencoffin on a pickup truck, an old woman dressed in black brushingaway the flies above the face of the deceased. On to Soroca, abaroque-Byzantine-Tatar-Turkish encampment, to meet Gypsies. Andall the way to Babadag, between the Baltic Coast and the Black Sea,where Stasiuk sees his first minaret, ldquo;simple and severe, apencil pointed at the sky.rdquo; A brilliant tour of Europersquo;sdark undersidemdash;travel writing at its very best.

"Stasiuk is one of Poland's best-known contemporary authors and Onthe Road to Babadag is a welcome addition to his growingEnglish-language corpus...Unfailingly stimulating and ablytranslated by Michael Kandel" -- Toby Lichtig Times LiterarySupplement "Stasiuk's journeys are vivid poetry... What formallyalso underpins Stasiuk's travels, and rather beautifully embodieshis resistance to the future, is how his prose communicates theworking of memory, mirroring its inconsequentiality. His accountsare fragmented, shuffled, continued later or not. Time breaks downas it is past; in his mind events cover space and time in an even,translucent layer" -- Julian Evans Prospect "Now English readerscan enjoy the rewards of Stasiuk's entrancing attempt to stand inthe way of progress. It's an exceptional writer who can rise tosuch an impossible challenge" Independent "A eulogy for the oldEurope, the Europe both in and out of time, the Europe now lost inthe folds of the map, On the Road to Babadag is valuable readingfor UK readers. If we can't read our way around Europe, how will weever find our place, our identity, within it?" Guardian "At oncepowerful, punkish, angry, and disorientating in its quest to probeinto Europe's dirty laundry" Scotland on SundayFrom the InsideFlapAndrzej Stasiuk is a restless and indefatigable traveler. Hisjourneys take him from his native Poland to Slovakia, Hungary,Romania, Slovenia, Albania, Moldova, and Ukraine. By car, train,bus, ferry. To small towns and villages with unfamiliar-soundingyet strangely evocative names. ldquo;The heart of my Europe,rdquo;Stasiuk tells us, ldquo;beats in Sokoloacute;w Podlaski, and inHusi, not in Vienna.rdquo; Stasiukrsquo;s journey is through thedark side of Europersquo;s moonmdash;the flip side that lies behindthe touristsrsquo; favorite destinations, and reveals a verydifferent and more sharply etched Old World. Where did Moldova endand Transylvania begin, he wonders, as he is being driven atbreakneck speed in an ancient Audimdash;loose wires hanging fromthe dashboardmdash;by a driver in shorts and bare feet, a crossswinging on his chest. As one funeral procession moves slowly downa main street, with an open coffin on a pickup truck, an old womandressed in black brushes away the flies above the face of thedeceased. From Byzantine-Tatar-Turkish encampments to Gypsymansions, from Byzantine churches to the first minaret between theBaltic Coast and the Black Sea, ldquo;simple and severe, a pencilpointed at the sky,rdquo; Stasiukrsquo;s journey brings to life astrange world just beyond the edge of the familiar. This is travelwriting at its very best. nbsp;From the Back CoverPRAISE FOR NINE:"An accomplished stylist with an eye for telling detail . . . Icaught a flavor of Hamsun, Sartre, Genet, and Kafka inStasiukrsquo;s scalpel-like but evocative writing." mdash;IrvineWelsh, New York Times Book "Stasiuk takes us into parts of Polishand post-Communist life whose day-to-day realities we might nothave otherwise imagined." mdash;Eva Hoffman, New York of Books "Akaleidoscopic view of Warsaw in transition and in chaos, followingthe collapse of Communism . . . The technique is masterly, and thecarefully calibrated atmosphere of dread and threat beautifullysustained." mdash;Kirkus s "A sobering vision of the new face ofcentral Europe in a narrative that is at once hallucinatory,haunting, and abject." mdash;Publishers Weekly (starred) "Ninestinks like cheap cigarettes and tastes like a busted lip but istenderly observant and elegantly translated." mdash;Booklist

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