Despite these unpropitious signs, the two embark on a relationship that is aimless until they turn it into a narrative. 糖心传媒淲rite a story about me,糖心传媒� Agnes asks the narrator, 糖心传媒渟o I know what you think of me.糖心传媒� At first both enjoy the challenge she糖心传媒檚 set him. But what begins as a flirtatious parlor game soon turns darker. When tragedy strikes, the narrator turns to the story to reverse the past. But eventually he no longer writes their story; the story writes them.

Agnes is most affected by this turn of events. Having already expressed her difficulty with reading糖心传媒斕切拇綔It feels to me as though I糖心传媒檝e become the character in it, and the character糖心传媒檚 life ends when the books does . . . I didn糖心传媒檛 want books to have me in their power糖心传媒澨切拇綌she now becomes one with her character in the fiction within the fiction, leading to an ambiguous ending in which the end of Stamm糖心传媒檚 novel mirrors the end of his narrator糖心传媒檚 tale.

It糖心传媒檚 clear the novel糖心传媒檚 most important relationship is not between the characters, but between fiction and reality. But it糖心传媒檚 equally unclear what the nature of that relationship is supposed to be, especially because the novel regularly teases us with metaphors that promise but fail to tell us how to understand it.

At one point, for example, Agnes explains her research into the atomic structure of crystals in terms that seem to offer a key to understanding the narrative: 糖心传媒淎lmost everything is symmetrical at some level,糖心传媒� she tells the narrator, before adding, 糖心传媒渋t糖心传媒檚 asymmetry that makes life possible. The difference between the sexes. The fact that time goes in one direction.糖心传媒� This claim chimes with the narrator糖心传媒檚 belief that 糖心传媒渓ife doesn糖心传媒檛 go for endings, it goes on.糖心传媒� Does Agnes adhere to these ideas about form? Is the way the story and the story within the story are symmetrical a sign of its impossibility, to use Agnes糖心传媒檚 term? In offering an ending that loops around to the beginning, is the novel mimicking the narrator糖心传媒檚 idea of life, which doesn糖心传媒檛 go for endings, or only emphasizing how different narratives are from life?

Similar questions arise when, in the course of his research, the narrator studies the Pullman Strike of 1894, interpreting it not in political or economic terms, but as a reaction by workers against 糖心传媒渢he complete control of their lives by their employer,糖心传媒� who 糖心传媒渉ad planned for every contingency, except his workers糖心传媒� desire for freedom.糖心传媒� We could read the narrator糖心传媒檚 criticism of the patriarchal industrialist as an unintentional self-critique of his attitude to Agnes. Or we could understand it as a way to describe the author糖心传媒檚 relationship to his characters and his work. But in what way does this carefully controlled novel allow for anything like its characters糖心传媒� freedom?

The effect of these allegories for our reading糖心传媒攁t once so overt and so enigmatic糖心传媒攊s destabilizing, as if Stamm were proposing, through the very superfluity of these possible keys to understanding the text, the very failure of interpretation. Just as we are desperate for the control over life糖心传媒檚 contingencies promised by narrative, so too, Stamm teasingly suggests, we are similarly insistent, as readers of those narratives, on making sense of them. At its most interesting, Agnes hints that its readers might be as domineering as its narrator. But Stamm never explains what it would mean to let Agnes, or Agnes, be free. How can we read without interpreting? And why must the possibility that a text could exceed interpretation be offered through the clich茅d and misogynistic idea of woman as enigma?

Ultimately, Stamm糖心传媒檚 metafictional sleights of hand are more tiresome than vertiginous. Agnes has neither the balance between possibility and aimlessness of Stamm糖心传媒檚 early short stories about young people adrift, published in English as In Strange Gardens and Other Stories, nor the emotional impact of the two more recent collections combined in We糖心传媒檙e Flying. Its concerns are as airless as the narrator糖心传媒檚 climate-controlled apartment that Agnes, and ultimately readers, longs to escape. Agnes offers a writer whose cleverness hadn糖心传媒檛 yet been enriched by compassion.

Although Gillian survives an auto accident that kills her husband, the crash damages and permanently alters her face. As she convalesces, she recalls the weeks leading up to the accident, in particular her televised interview with Hubert, a local artist, and her post-interview request that he paint her portrait. Gillian shares with Hubert the hope that his painting of her will reveal truths to which she has been blind. All that she understands about herself is derivative of others糖心传媒� impressions and reactions, and she longs for Hubert to interpret and reveal to her, her true self. Instead, Hubert soon becomes frustrated with his subject. 糖心传媒淚 don糖心传媒檛 see anything in you. I糖心传媒檒l be pleased if I manage the exterior half decently,糖心传媒� he tetchily tells Gillian during a sitting. He accuses her of intentionally concealing her inner self, of 糖心传媒渁cting,糖心传媒� and of an unwillingness to reveal any vulnerability, an accusation that is not new to her.

With her post-accident convalescence complete, Gillian moves out of the city and relocates to a secluded mountain resort. No longer Gillian, she is simply known now as 糖心传媒淛ill.糖心传媒� She seeks to refashion her life, far from the television cameras, cocktail parties, and celebrity status that constituted her existence. Yet in this new world Jill糖心传媒檚 authentic self remains elusive. When Hubert re-enters her life, this time as an artist-in-residence at the resort, Gillian again looks to him and his art to 糖心传媒渇ind糖心传媒� her. But now Hubert is undergoing his own crisis. He has lost creative inspiration and self-confidence as an artist, and after succumbing to an emotional collapse finds that he is now able to create art only through the slow work of destruction:

As a boy he had often whiled away the hours like this, had pulled one thread after another from a piece of rough cloth, or picked away at a rope until there were just thin fibers left, broken up a blossom or a fir twig into its constituent parts, hatched and crosshatched a piece of paper with pencil till it made a shiny even surface.

Hubert even negates his many, previous sketches of Gillian through intricate, penciled cross-hatchings that cover his earlier markings, making the underlying picture unrecognizable. And when Jill finds the drawings of her that Hubert has destroyed, she begins to do the same to the ones that Hubert left untouched:

She started covering one of the sketches with her own hatchings, the one of her kneeling on the bed with her hands behind her back, as though chained. The pencil was too hard, so she took another one. She deleted the picture, as though burying her unprotected body under a layer of graphite, making a fossil that no one would ever discover.

This purposeful destruction of the sketches symbolizes Gillian糖心传媒檚 and Hubert糖心传媒檚 separate, existential battles, and for each it marks a turning point to finally acknowledge the unvarnished, imperfect reality of who they are.

Michael Hoffman糖心传媒檚 masterful translation retains the integrity of Stamm糖心传媒檚 crystalline prose糖心传媒攑recise, clean, and spare. While the writing is strong enough to keep the reader engaged, the novel糖心传媒檚 plot, really a pair of character explorations, is not entirely satisfying. It is difficult to empathize with two people so very self-conscious and yet not at all self-aware. And the aimless drift of Gillian糖心传媒檚 and Hubert糖心传媒檚 lives resounds (perhaps intentionally) in the indecisive meter of the novel as though Stamm himself is unsure how to find a narrative resolution for his two muses糖心传媒攍ost souls searching for the means to balance the created and the authentic.

Stamm糖心传媒檚 stories are surprisingly fleshed-out with minimum verbage. Like the artist in one of his stories, Stamm writes surgically: 糖心传媒淵ou paint what you see with the maximum of precision, but you don糖心传媒檛 care about the precision of the depiction . . . What counts is decisiveness.糖心传媒� His characters are quickly but sharply sketched; his story-world is modeled on the one at hand, but as though seen through a microscope, with fine-grained crystals of detail. Stamm shows, instead of tells—in 糖心传媒淪weet Dreams,糖心传媒� a newly-cohabiting girl reflects on the meaning of family while imagining an old black-and-white photo of relatives:

Lara could see the pictures, big family get-togethers in a garden in the north of Italy, pictures full of people she didn糖心传媒檛 know, even her mother didn糖心传媒檛 know some of the names. Thereafter the family had fallen apart . . . When Lara had visited Italy with her parents, there hadn糖心传媒檛 been any more big reunions, only visits in darkened homes with old people who smelled funny and served dry cookies and big plastic bottles of lukewarm Fanta.

Rather than directly stating Lara糖心传媒檚 isolation in her new romance, Stamm instead gives us vivid objects to evoke the feeling: a faded photograph. Dry cookies and lukewarm Fanta. Old people whose homes are lonely and 糖心传媒渇unny糖心传媒�-smelling. Later on, we get 糖心传媒渁 barely used coffee machine that Laura found on eBay, a chest for their shoes, a whole stack of yellow bath towels that were on offer糖心传媒�—objects that carry a false connotation of stability, but which are really as destructible and transient as her new relationship.

There糖心传媒檚 an uncanny equanimity and composure in Stamm糖心传媒檚 voice as he makes us privy to frequent scenes of psychological pain. When Angelika brings home a forgotten child from her daycare job, her boyfriend Benno is both warm and insensitive: he plays with the child, making droning noises like an airplane—糖心传媒淲e糖心传媒檙e flying!糖心传媒� he yells—but later begins to unbutton her blouse in front of the boy. 糖心传媒淚糖心传媒檓 not going to let that runt spoil my fun,糖心传媒� he snarls, engrossed in a cop show. After the boy糖心传媒檚 parents come to pick him up, Angelika is confronted with the reality of Benno糖心传媒檚 revealed selfishness and lack of care. 糖心传媒淪he freed herself and said she would have a quick shower too. She locked the bathroom but didn糖心传媒檛 undress. When Benno knocked on the door, she was still sitting on the toilet, with her face in her hands.糖心传媒�

Heavy, shocking endings like these cap off many of Stamm糖心传媒檚 stories, but not all of them are as tragic. In 糖心传媒淪even Sleepers,糖心传媒� a lonely vegetable farmer finds his first love; in 糖心传媒淭he Suitcase,糖心传媒� an elderly man surreptitiously slips a suitcase beneath his dying wife糖心传媒檚 hospital bed with her necessary items—and a bar of chocolate.

We糖心传媒檙e Flying is eerily readable—perhaps due to how much of ourselves we recognize in his characters. In a varied and colorful array of stories, Stamm manages to portray human life as the emotional mishmash that it really is, full of misery and beauty, full of falling and flying.

Peter Stamm has a number of books available in English translation, including Seven Years, which was on last year’s Best Translated Book Award fiction longlist.

Quantum Sarah was a spectacular summer intern who is not back in school, but will likely be reviewing for us again in the not-too-distant future. Here’s the opening of her review:

In his new collection We糖心传媒檙e Flying, Swiss author Peter Stamm weaves together a multitude of perspectives with the ghostly fiber of loss. This fascinating set of short stories centers around the general theme of the 糖心传媒渉uman condition糖心传媒�—joy and sadness, birth and death, couples and families, work and school. However, a generous majority of these tales unfold against a subconscious background of grief, whether real or imagined: the widow that learns posthumously of her husband糖心传媒檚 affair; the toddler abandoned by his parents at preschool; the frustrated artist. Yet the book isn糖心传媒檛 a blurred mess of sympathy; rather, it糖心传媒檚 a sharp analysis of life糖心传媒檚 chronic pain and beauty. Precise, disquieting, and high-impact, Stamm糖心传媒檚 new collection slices away surface tissue to reveal the downright messiness of human life

Stamm糖心传媒檚 stories are surprisingly fleshed-out with minimum verbage. Like the artist in one of his stories, Stamm writes surgically: 糖心传媒淵ou paint what you see with the maximum of precision, but you don糖心传媒檛 care about the precision of the depiction . . . What counts is decisiveness.糖心传媒� His characters are quickly but sharply sketched; his story-world is modeled on the one at hand, but as though seen through a microscope, with fine-grained crystals of detail. Stamm shows, instead of tells—in 糖心传媒淪weet Dreams,糖心传媒� a newly-cohabiting girl reflects on the meaning of family while imagining an old black-and-white photo of relatives.

Click here to read the entire review.

Click here for all past and future posts in this series.

by Peter Stamm, translated by Michael Hofmann

Language: German
Country: Switzerland
Publisher: Other Press

Why this book should win: Dismantled relationships FTW!

Today’s post is by Tom Flynn, bookseller and events coordinator at in Chicago.

Let’s get this bit out of the way first: Peter Stamm’s Seven Years is not a terribly pleasant novel. The characters—particularly the narrator, Alexander—are deeply flawed people who probably would have done better in their fictional lives had they never encountered one or another or, after meeting, run in opposite directions. But it is also an engrossing read with direct, clear prose that engages and eggs the reader on.

Alexander is a German architecture student who, at the end of his final year of school, becomes involved with a Polish woman, Ivona, whom he does not much like. She does not engage him intellectually, he finds her unattractive, and he feels her to be beneath him socially. Yet he finds himself unable to stop seeing her. While this is going on, he begins a relationship with a fellow student, Sonia, who possesses an ambition and drive completely absent from Alex. Sonia and Alex marry and open a firm but after several years (the seven year itch that the title can, perhaps, be understood to reference) of marriage Ivona reappears in his life and he takes up with her once again. The effect of this affair eventually lays bare the weakness of his and Sonia’s relationship, which, despite its solid presentation at the beginning of the novel, is doomed to crumble around them.

Architecture and its various metaphors prove an apt vehicle for exploring Sonia, Alex, and Ivona’s movement through life. Sonia wishes to build socially conscious structures that work toward the creation and fulfillment of an ideal human. She has very firm ideas on the type of life she and Alex ought to lead: their work, home, and family life are all clearly laid out. Alex, for his part, finds himself happiest designing buildings he can never build, nor wants to construct; he would rather explore space on the page than express it in the world what with all the compromises that accompany such efforts. He allows others to determine the shape and course of his life, effectively drifting from one event to the next. And Ivona is simply a dweller, moving from one small, unpleasant residence to the next with little regard for how much smaller the physical space she inhabits becomes along the way. Instead, she carves out a world within that houses her love—her mania, really—for Alex and Alex alone.

Much of the drama in the novel feels, well, anti-climatic. A sense of the inevitable pervades the novel. Alex is by no means a passionate character, nor is he anyone—in fiction or life—for whom one should feel much pity. The events of the novel plays out as they do because of his own inertia, his willingness to meander in whatever direction circumstances take him. He builds a life with Sonia because it’s what she wants and it seems he should want her. He returns to Ivona time and again not because he wants to, but because she is always reaching out to him, no matter how he treats her. Inertia is his natural state and by novel’s end his inability to act has yielded the life he sees laid out before him.

Really, I could go on at much greater length about Seven Years. There’s just something about the characters and Stamm’s understanding of human nature that causes the myriad issues the novel raises to jut out in my mind. Truly excellent novels—which in my estimation Seven Years is—worm their way into the reader’s mind, giving them something to gnaw on. The excellent novel also possesses a life of its own and, to turn the phrase somewhat, gnaws on the reader, too. Or creates an itch that the reader can’t help but scratch.