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The latest addition to our Reviews section is a piece by Monica Carter on Robert Walser’s The Tanners, which was recently released by New Directions in Susan Bernofsky’s translation. (This is overly personal, but this review is a confluence of four of my favorite people, publishers, and authors. Monica + Susan + Walser + New Directions = Good Shit.)

Monica’s been reviewing for us for a while. She’s on the Best Translated Book Award fiction committee, and she runs while also working at

As is mentioned on the jacket copy of The Tanners, this is one of the year’s most anticipated books (at least among the literati, or everyone not currently reading Dan Brown) and was chosen by Time Out New York as its Top Summer Fiction Pick of 2009 and by the Village Voice as “a contender for Funniest Book of the Year.”

Based on the opening of Monica’s review, it sounds like both statements are absolutely true:

In the most recent translation of Swiss writer Robert WalserÌÇÐÄ´«Ã½™s work, The Tanners, we are reminded once again why Kafka and Musil were fans—his wit. And like everything in WalserÌÇÐÄ´«Ã½™s writing, it is nuanced and subtle. Instead giving us our melodrama straight with no chaser, he blends it with irony, insouciance and imagination so that it doesnÌÇÐÄ´«Ã½™t make us wince when gulp it down; instead, it smoothly sates our desire for a good story and leaves us wanting more. The Tanners, written in 1907, is the semi-autobiographical tale of the five children—four boys and one girl—of the Tanner family: Klaus, Kaspar, Simon, Hedwig, and a son who resides in a mental institution and merits only a mention in the book. Walser focuses the book around Simon, the young, aimless brother who is a bizarre combination of arrogance, self-entitlement, humility, humor, and love for all of mankind. ItÌÇÐÄ´«Ã½™s the words of Simon that at once bold and entertaining. His honesty woos the reader until you become smitten and want to hear anything that he has to say. He simply does not care what he is supposed to do as a young man in society; he cares only for his own happiness that he expresses slyly to the owner of a bookshop:

“You have disappointed me. DonÌÇÐÄ´«Ã½™t look so astonished, thereÌÇÐÄ´«Ã½™s nothing to be done about it. I shall quit your place of business this very day and ask that you pay me my wages. Please, let me finish. I know perfectly well what I want. During the past week IÌÇÐÄ´«Ã½™ve come to realize that the entire book trade is nothing less than ghastly if it must entail standing at oneÌÇÐÄ´«Ã½™s desk from early morning till late at night while out of doors the gentlest winter sun is gleaming, and forces one to scrunch oneÌÇÐÄ´«Ã½™s back, since the desk is far too small given my stature, writing like some accursed happenstance copyist and performing work unsuitable for a mind such as my own, I am capable of performing quite different tasks, esteemed sir, than the ones entrusted to me here. IÌÇÐÄ´«Ã½™d expected to be able to sell books in your shop, wait on elegant individuals, bow and bid adieu to the customers when theyÌÇÐÄ´«Ã½™re ready to depart. WhatÌÇÐÄ´«Ã½™s more, IÌÇÐÄ´«Ã½™d imagined I might be allowed to peer into the mysterious universe of the book trade and glimpse the worldÌÇÐÄ´«Ã½™s features in the visage and operation of your enterprise. But I experienced nothing of the sort.”

Click here for the full review.