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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)

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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:Deluxe 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

Commentary Based On Books Kaputt
A tour de force in description that is both grotesque and horrifying, Kaputt brings us a candid view of the war behind the Axis lines from Finland to Naples and from Russia to Poland to Romania to Croatia. No bullets are spared, no scene is too extreme not to portray. Like if Proust was writing The Walking Dead and Catch-22 while drinking with Dostoyevsky and Himmler. That may sound like an absurd comparison, but everything in this book is terrifyingly absurd. Buckets of eyes, lakes of frozen

The manuscript for Malaparte's 'Kaputt' has a tale all of it's own. And I feel it's worth mentioning. It started life in a Ukrainian village in 1941, whilst he stayed with a Russian peasant. He had some unwanted neighbours, a detachment of S.S. men occupied the adjoining house. Whenever a trooper neared whilst Malaparte wrote, his friend, Suchena, gave a warning cough, and by the time Malaparte was called to the Eastern Front his manuscript was hidden in secret hole, in the wall of a pig-sty.

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

What amazes me about Malaparte is the beauty of his prose despite the fact that he's chronicling some of history's most horrifying events. Watching "Amarcord" concurrently further cements my belief that Eye-talians sure have a gift for this ironic balance.

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

Malaparte is an interesting guy. His residence was used in Jean-Luc Godard's "Contempt" and he was a Fascist as a young man but ended up as a Marxist. During the war years he covered the war via an Italian press and had the opportunity to hang out with top Nazis. And this is the interesting part of "Kaputt" where he dines and is entertained by top-level Nazi command. You can smell the evil off the dinner plate.

The sun was setting. For many months I had not seen a sunset. After the long northern summer, after the endless unbroken day without dawn or sunset, the sky at last began to fade above the woods, above the sea and the roofs of the city; and something like a shadow (it was perhaps only the reflection of a shadowthe shadow of a shadow) was gathering in the east. Little by little, night was being born, a night loving and delicate; and in the west, the sky was blazing above the woods and the lakes,

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