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[Florestan]

The greatest and most famous German writer of novellas was the unhappy (suicidal) Heinrich von Kleist

You might have forgotten the Nobel laureate Paul Heyse. 

[Dry Brett Kavanaugh]

Just a thought.  Small kids read picture books, and picture books are universally considered to be childish. However, do you think picture books for adult readers with sophisticated illustrations, or literal works like Steppenwolf with a bunch of cool, artistic illustrations, would be great? Certainly the cost and price would increase, but I would be delighted to pay it for such a book.

[Pohjolas Daughter]

Like many people, I suspect, I was not familiar with the work of Louise Glück, who just won the Nobel Prize for Literature. A friend in Austin (also unfamiliar with her) posted this fine introduction. Like many fine writers, Glück deploys disarming simplicity.

* * * * *

The Denial of Death
Issue no. 226 (Fall 2018)

1. A Travel Diary

I had left my passport at an inn we stayed at for a night or so whose name I couldn't remember. This is how it began. The next hotel would not receive me. A beautiful hotel, in an orange grove, with a view of the sea. How casually you accepted the room that would have been ours, and, later, how merrily you stood on the balcony, pelting me with foil-wrapped chocolates. The next day you resumed the journey we would have taken together.

The concierge procured an old blanket for me. By day, I sat outside the kitchen. By night, I spread my blanket among the orange trees. Every day was the same, except for the weather.

After a time, the staff took pity on me. A busboy would bring me food from the evening meal, the odd potato or bit of lamb. Sometimes a postcard arrived. On the front, glossy landmarks and works of art. Once, a mountain covered in snow. After a month or so there was a postscript: X sends regards.

I say a month, but really I had no idea of time. The busboy disappeared. There was a new busboy, then one more, I believe. From time to time, one would join me on my blanket.

I loved those days! Each one exactly like its predecessor. There were the stone steps we climbed together and the little town where we breakfasted. Very far away, I could see the cove where we used to swim, but not hear anymore the children calling out to one another, nor hear you anymore, asking me if I would like a cold drink, which I always would.

When the postcards stopped, I read the old ones again. I saw myself standing under the balcony in that rain of foil-covered kisses, unable to believe you would abandon me, begging you, of course, though not in words—

The concierge, I realized, had been standing beside me. Do not be sad, he said. You have begun your own journey, not into the world, like your friend, but into yourself and your memories. As they fall away, perhaps you will attain that enviable emptiness into which all things flow, like the empty cup in the Daodejing—

Everything is change, he said, and everything is connected. Also everything returns, but what returns is not what went away.

We watched you walk away. Down the stone steps and into the little town. I felt something true had been spoken, and though I would have preferred to have spoken it myself, I was glad at least to have heard it.

2. The Story of the Passport

It came back but you did not come back.
It happened as follows:

One day an envelope arrived,
bearing stamps from a small European republic.
This the concierge handed me with an air of great ceremony;
I tried to open it in the same spirit.

Inside was my passport.
There was my face, or what had been my face
at some point, deep in the past.
But I had parted ways with it,
that face smiling with such conviction,
filled with all the memories of our travels together
and our dreams of other journeys—
I threw it into the sea.

It sank immediately.
Downward, downward, while I continued
staring into the empty water.
All this time the concierge was watching me.

Come, he said, taking my arm. And we began
to walk around the lake, as was my daily habit.

I see, he said, that you no longer
wish to resume your former life,
to move, that is, in a straight line as time
suggests we do, but rather (here he gestured toward the lake)
in a circle, which aspires to
that stillness at the heart of things,
though I prefer to think it also resembles a clock.

Here he took out of his pocket
the large watch that was always with him. I challenge you, he said,
to tell, looking at this, if it is Monday or Tuesday.
But if you look at the hand that holds it, you will realize I am not
a young man anymore, my hair is silver.
Nor will you be surprised to learn
it was once dark, as yours must have been dark,
and curly, I would say.

Through this recital, we were both
watching a group of children playing in the shallows,
each body circled by a rubber tube.

Red and blue, green and yellow,
a rainbow of children splashing in the clear lake.

I could hear the clock ticking,
presumably alluding to the passage of time
while in fact annulling it.

You must ask yourself, he said, if you deceive yourself.
By which I mean looking at the watch and not
the hand holding it. We stood awhile, staring at the lake,
each of us thinking our own thoughts.

But isn't the life of the philosopher
exactly as you describe, I said. Going over the same course,
waiting for truth to disclose itself.

But you have stopped making things, he said, which is what
the philosopher does. Remember when you kept what you called
your travel journal? You used to read it to me,
I remember it was filled with stories of every kind,
mostly love stories and stories about loss, punctuated
with fantastic details such as wouldn't occur to most of us,

and yet hearing them I had a sense I was listening
to my own experience but more beautifully related
than I could ever have done. I felt

you were talking to me or about me though I never left your side.
What was it called? A travel diary, I think you said,
though I often called it The Denial of Death, after Ernest Becker.
And you had an odd name for me, I remember.

Concierge, I said. Concierge is what I called you.
And before that, you, which is, I believe,
a convention in fiction.

--Bruce

Bruce,

I hadn't heard of her before now, but greatly enjoyed reading the above.   Have you read anything else by her since then?

PD

[bhodges]

Bruce,

I hadn't heard of her before now, but greatly enjoyed reading the above.   Have you read anything else by her since then?

PD

No, alas. (Not for not wanting to -- mostly preoccupied with the election!) But she has quite a bit out there, and now I'll look forward to exploring her output in more detail.

--Bruce

[Pohjolas Daughter]

No, alas. (Not for not wanting to -- mostly preoccupied with the election!) But she has quite a bit out there, and now I'll look forward to exploring her output in more detail.

--Bruce

Is the "The Denial of Death
Issue no. 226 (Fall 2018)"

the title of her poem (short story?)?  Or is it the name and date of a publication?

I googled "The Denial of Death" by Ernest Becker regarding the reference in it.

I stumbled across this poem which struck a nerve with me.  It's called "The Wild Iris"

At the end of my suffering
there was a door.

Hear me out: that which you call death
I remember.

Overhead, noises, branches of the pine shifting.
Then nothing. The weak sun
flickered over the dry surface.

It is terrible to survive
as consciousness
buried in the dark earth.

Then it was over: that which you fear, being
a soul and unable
to speak, ending abruptly, the stiff earth
bending a little. And what I took to be
birds darting in low shrubs.

You who do not remember
passage from the other world
I tell you I could speak again: whatever
returns from oblivion returns
to find a voice:

from the center of my life came
a great fountain, deep blue
shadows on azure seawater.

[bhodges]

Is the "The Denial of Death
Issue no. 226 (Fall 2018)"

the title of her poem (short story?)?  Or is it the name and date of a publication?

I googled "The Denial of Death" by Ernest Becker regarding the reference in it.

I stumbled across this poem which struck a nerve with me.  It's called "The Wild Iris"

At the end of my suffering
there was a door.

Hear me out: that which you call death
I remember.

Overhead, noises, branches of the pine shifting.
Then nothing. The weak sun
flickered over the dry surface.

It is terrible to survive
as consciousness
buried in the dark earth.

Then it was over: that which you fear, being
a soul and unable
to speak, ending abruptly, the stiff earth
bending a little. And what I took to be
birds darting in low shrubs.

You who do not remember
passage from the other world
I tell you I could speak again: whatever
returns from oblivion returns
to find a voice:

from the center of my life came
a great fountain, deep blue
shadows on azure seawater.

Wow.

Thanks, this is quite a find. Like many great poets, her use of language evokes impressions above and beyond the actual words on the page. If I can use an (untested) comparison to music, it's sort of like sensing the overtones in various instruments. Or to put it another way, how we sense the difference between the same note on a clarinet and a cello.

In any case, quite beautiful and evocative. I'm increasingly convinced that the Nobel committee made the right choice.

--Bruce

[Jo498]

You might have forgotten the Nobel laureate Paul Heyse. 

I am not the only one who forgot him

Besides (or maybe even before) Kleist and Hoffmann the most popular novellas in German is probably "Der Schimmelreiter" by Storm (who also wrote a whole bunch and several others also used to be common as school reading)
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Rider_on_the_White_Horse
Also two that (like Hoffmann's Scuderi/Cardillac) can count as crime stories, "Die Judenbuche" by Drose-Hülshoff who is better known as a lyrical poet and "Unterm Birnbaum" by Fontane who is better known for novels, usually about adultery (he wrote 5 or more variants of Emma Bovary, "Effi Briest" is the most famous and even shares the intials).

But you guys should really get to Buddenbrooks. It is understandably by far the most popular Mann novel in Germany, it has all the brilliant language, irony and fun without heavier themes than the decline of a bourgeois merchant family in 19th century Lübeck (that has a lot in common with Mann's own family).

[Mandryka]

I've read Doktor Faustus three times. I strongly identify with Serenus Zeitblom.

Is he the bloke who deliberately infected himself with syphilis, just for the craic?

[Florestan]

Is he the bloke who deliberately infected himself with syphilis, just for the craic?

Nope. That's Adrian Leverkuhn, the main character.

[Brian]

Currently reading three books in turns:

- Caste, by Isabel Wilkerson (a history of caste systems in India, the American South, and Nazi Germany)
- After Trump, by Bob Bauer and Jack Goldsmith (former lawyers for G.W. Bush and Obama proposing wonky reforms to patch all the legal loopholes Trump has uncovered)
- The Art of Fiction, by John Gardner (essentially thoughts on the proper/good writing of novels)

Up next, a novel:

- Homegoing, by Yaa Gyasi

[Dry Brett Kavanaugh]

But you guys should really get to Buddenbrooks. It is understandably by far the most popular Mann novel in Germany, it has all the brilliant language, irony and fun without heavier themes than the decline of a bourgeois merchant family in 19th century Lübeck (that has a lot in common with Mann's own family).

Great novel. Visconti's Damned was inspired by the novel.
I like Hoffmann a lot, but it seems to me that there is no philosophical question or social issue in his works. Still I like his works.

[André]

I am not the only one who forgot him

Besides (or maybe even before) Kleist and Hoffmann the most popular novellas in German is probably "Der Schimmelreiter" by Storm (who also wrote a whole bunch and several others also used to be common as school reading)
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Rider_on_the_White_Horse
Also two that (like Hoffmann's Scuderi/Cardillac) can count as crime stories, "Die Judenbuche" by Drose-Hülshoff who is better known as a lyrical poet and "Unterm Birnbaum" by Fontane who is better known for novels, usually about adultery (he wrote 5 or more variants of Emma Bovary, "Effi Briest" is the most famous and even shares the intials).

But you guys should really get to Buddenbrooks. It is understandably by far the most popular Mann novel in Germany, it has all the brilliant language, irony and fun without heavier themes than the decline of a bourgeois merchant family in 19th century Lübeck (that has a lot in common with Mann's own family).

One of the strengths of Buddenbrooks is that the portraits of the secondary characters (there's a lot of them) is filled with amusing, colourful details that immeasurably add to the novel's depth. Mann often uses some of their character traits as recurrent features - like a running gag - as anchors to the storyline. They are not accessories to the story, but an integral part of the family's fabric, its fortunes and failures. Sesemi Weichbrodt, Permaneder, the Langhals... A great novel inded.

[Florestan]

One of the strengths of Buddenbrooks is that the portraits of the secondary characters (there's a lot of them) is filled with amusing, colourful details that immeasurably add to the novel's depth. Mann often uses some of their character traits as recurrent features - like a running gag - as anchors to the storyline.

Leitmotive? 

[j winter]

Wow.

Thanks, this is quite a find. Like many great poets, her use of language evokes impressions above and beyond the actual words on the page. If I can use an (untested) comparison to music, it's sort of like sensing the overtones in various instruments. Or to put it another way, how we sense the difference between the same note on a clarinet and a cello.

In any case, quite beautiful and evocative. I'm increasingly convinced that the Nobel committee made the right choice.

--Bruce

Agreed, thanks to both of you for posting the above.     I'm now seriously considering this...

[Mandryka]

Nope. That's Adrian Leverkuhn, the main character.

That's a shame.

[T. D.]

[Pohjolas Daughter]

Wow.

Thanks, this is quite a find. Like many great poets, her use of language evokes impressions above and beyond the actual words on the page. If I can use an (untested) comparison to music, it's sort of like sensing the overtones in various instruments. Or to put it another way, how we sense the difference between the same note on a clarinet and a cello.

In any case, quite beautiful and evocative. I'm increasingly convinced that the Nobel committee made the right choice.

--Bruce

Glad that you enjoyed it.  And I like your musical analogy. 

Agreed, thanks to both of you for posting the above.     I'm now seriously considering this...

I did put a hold j winter on that book; needless to say, after winning that special prize, her books are in high-demand!  By the way, I happened to be in a B&N earlier today and ran across one of her books (rather surprised not to see more of them there).  The poem that I copied and pasted is from another book of hers that I'm tempted to get also called "The Wild Iris" and features other poems referencing nature and also human life.

PD

[vers la flamme]

Me too. Narcissus & Goldmund, as well as Crime & Punishment (D) and Red and Black (S), are my ultimate favorite works in my life time.

Post ed. Btw, as for Mann, can we call TK and Venice "short" story? It is kind of mid-size. Hard to describe them. Plus, the content is not like those of short stories.

No, I would rate them as novellas.

I was completely blown away by Narcissus & Goldmund reading it this year. A beautiful story. I related strongly with both the titular characters. I love Crime & Punishment too, but have not read it in years.

[vers la flamme]

I have to re-read Doktor Faustus. I read it at 19-20 and I am pretty sure a lot was over my head. (I had read Zauberberg right before and when I re-read that one at ca. 27 it was much more entertaining and rewarding). Faustus is a bit overambitious and probably the most challenging. I still haven't read the Joseph books (and neither the less famous "Lotte in Weimar" and Der Erwählte (The Holy Sinner) but I found that Der Zauberberg has the best balance of philosophical themes, characters and atmosphere although it can also be fairly "heavy" at times. Buddenbrooks is not as weighed down by more theoretical aspects and quite accessible. It was his debut (after some shorter prose pieces) at 25, an incredible achievement.

As for other German language authors from about the same time, there is Thomas' brother Heinrich (Christian Buddenbrook is based on him, I think) whose most famous novels today are "Der Untertan" and "Professor Unrat" (the 1930 movie "The blue angel" with Dietrich is based on the latter). He is not as deep, mostly sharp satire agains the pre WW I bourgeois class and values (Wilhelminian time, the German equivalent of late Victorian and Edwardian era).

A bit later and maybe the greatest picture of interwar Berlin (and the seedy underbelly more than the bourgeois) is "Berlin Alexanderplatz" by Döblin. This is also a German "Ulysses light" with collage-like scraps of advertisements, popular songs etc. glued together to capture the breathless and dirty atmosphere of that huge city.

I'm going to try and read Berlin Alexanderplatz. Sounds like a fascinating book. Reading Alex Ross's The Rest is Noise earlier this year, my favorite chapter was the one about Berlin in the '20s and '30s. Reading it made me realize I knew almost nothing about Berlin during the Weimar era, but it seems to have been a fascinating time and place.

[Mandryka]

I'm going to try and read Berlin Alexanderplatz. Sounds like a fascinating book. Reading Alex Ross's The Rest is Noise earlier this year, my favorite chapter was the one about Berlin in the '20s and '30s. Reading it made me realize I knew almost nothing about Berlin during the Weimar era, but it seems to have been a fascinating time and place.

The problem I had with Berlin Alexanderplatz is that the English translation didn't work for me. I eventually read it in French and that was much better. But the best, I think, is the video of Rainer Werner Fassbinder's television series. It is, IMO, unforgettable - a real summit of art film. The main actor, Günter Lamprecht, is totally committed and totally in his element: poor tortured soul! Everyman!