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Kaputt Paperback | Pages: 448 pages
Rating: 4.17 | 1547 Users | 195 Reviews

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Original Title: Kaputt
ISBN: 1590171470 (ISBN13: 9781590171479)
Edition Language: English
Characters: Hans Frank, Curzio Malaparte, Prince Eugene, Axel Munthe, Private Grigorescu, Colonel Merikallio, Brigitte Frank, Baron Wolsegger, General von Schobert, Kurt Franz, Josef Bühler
Setting: Finland Romania Russia
Literary Awards: Βραβείο Λογοτεχνικής Μετάφρασης ΕΚΕΜΕΛ for Ιταλόφωνη Λογοτεχνία (2008)

Narration Supposing Books Kaputt

Curzio Malaparte was a disaffected supporter of Mussolini with a taste for danger and high living. Sent by an Italian paper during World War II to cover the battle on the Eastern Front, Malaparte secretly wrote this terrifying report from the abyss, which became an international bestseller when it was published after the war. Telling of the siege of Leningrad, of glittering dinner parties with Nazi leaders, and of trains disgorging bodies in war-devastated Romania, Malaparte paints a picture of humanity at its most depraved.

Kaputt is an insider's dispatch from the world of the enemy that is as hypnotically fascinating as it is disturbing.

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Title:Kaputt
Author:Curzio Malaparte
Book Format:Paperback
Book Edition:Special Edition
Pages:Pages: 448 pages
Published:June 30th 2005 by NYRB Classics (first published 1944)
Categories:Fiction. Cultural. Italy. War. European Literature. Italian Literature

Rating Based On Books Kaputt
Ratings: 4.17 From 1547 Users | 195 Reviews

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Fabulous tales from the dark side of human nature... and in the same kind of overblown prose as that description, for the most part. The first chapter's hard to get through if you're not into adjectives, which I'm not. But after that the set pieces start to cohere pretty well, and the author's evident self-loathing becomes more and more justifiable. Not sure I'll ever forget the frozen horses, the King of Poland, or the young prostitutes.

I've written two prior reviews of this strange, revolting, macabre, beautiful book: some initial musings about fifty pages into it; a singularly outraged review at the midway point when I was all but ready to pack Malaparte and his sleazy manipulations in; and now thisfinalone, in which that previous fire of ire has been reduced to a bed of barely smoldering embers, quenched by Malaparte's less morally reprehensible second half of the book and, frankly, his wizardry with the written word, which

Well I made the mistake of reading other reviews before beginning my own and this one is so good, says much of what I wanted to say, and is even a bit more (better!) critical that I would have been, I can't help but link to it/il miglior fabbro: https://www.goodreads.com/review/show...As for my own two cents, yeah, there's something about the first person narrator here (in a kind of WWII preface to Ganzo journalism, in which a baroque--one reviewer calls it Proustian and references to Proust do

Kaputt is a book of opposites: high society and cabals of murderers, rude naturalism and celestial ideals, filthy squalor and divine art, brutal cruelty and abstract humanism all these become interconnected and interchangeable.The narration is sanguinarily metaphoric and tenebrously imaginative:Twisted tree roots broke through the crystal sheet like frozen serpents, it seemed as if the trees drew sustenance from the ice, that the young leaves of a more tender green took their sap from that

His descriptions are pretty fantastic. I was surprised at how beautifully written some of it was. Obviously the best parts, and what I think are the most factual of the entire narrative, are when he's at intimate events with upper echelon Nazi leaders. So evil!! but very indicative of the thought processes and beliefs that were rampant at the time. He sometimes seems to sort of paint himself as a better person than he really was...I think...some of the things he says I'm not sure he could've

It's hard to tell which parts of Kaputt are actually Malaparte's experience, which parts are fictional, and which parts are somewhere in between. But you don't care, because it's fucking transcendent.At the height of World War II, while his compatriots were variously enthusiastically goose-stepping, fighting guerrilla wars in the mountains, and hiding from Allied bombing campaigns and roaming bands of Nazis, Malaparte was traveling around Europe enjoying the high life even as the continent was

Poetic, hallucinatory, ironic, funny.