Mysterious there prowl at the walker糖心传媒檚 heels all kinds of thoughts and notions, such as make him stand in his ardent and regardless tracks and listen, because, again and again confused by curious impressions, by spirit power, he suddenly has the bewitching feeling that he is sinking into the earth, for an abyss has opened before the dazzled, bewildered eyes of the thinker and poet. His head wants to fall off. His otherwise so lively arms and legs are as benumbed. Countryside and people, sounds and colors, faces and farms, clouds and sunlight swirl all around him like diagrams; he asks himself: 糖心传媒榃here am I?糖心传媒�

Elsewhere in the speech the narrator lays out the argument that walking is his way to observe, experience the world, gather 糖心传媒渞eports糖心传媒� and scenes which will serve as fodder for his other occupation. The above paragraph is a good example of the rhetorical gusto that is frequent in Walser糖心传媒檚 work, usually in the service of irony. In a preface, Bernofsky describes the 糖心传媒渟traight-faced and earnest糖心传媒� quality of this and other works of the later-period Walser, as a contrast to the 糖心传媒渢hickly layered ironies of the Berlin period that preceded it;糖心传媒� in The Walk, such bravado is actually part of the narrator糖心传媒檚 personal conflict. Early in the story he declares, 糖心传媒淥n account of this haughty bearing, this domineering attitude, I shall soon, as will be learned, have to take myself to task.糖心传媒� But, despite his verbose and aggrandized tone, the writer and walker narrating The Walk is, the reader feels, sincere in his belief that one cannot write if one does not walk, and that the writing justifies the walking.

Unfortunately, a writer cannot be writing while he is walking, and vice versa. When he wants to take a break, to stop writing, what does he do? 糖心传媒淩elax in brief respite,糖心传媒� says the narrator. 糖心传媒淲riters who understand their profession at least a little take the same as easily as possible. From time to time they like to lay their pens aside a while.糖心传媒� The novel begins at the start of his walk: 糖心传媒淚 put my hat on my head, left my writing room, or room of phantoms, and ran down the stairs to hurry out into the street.糖心传媒� Writing and walking, however codependent, are to some extent irreconcilable pursuits. And one may have one糖心传媒檚 preference: our narrator 糖心传媒渓oves to walk as well as he loves to write; the latter of course perhaps just a shade less than the former.糖心传媒� (The pun on 糖心传媒渟hade,糖心传媒� intended or not, seems to wink at the reader by alluding to the 糖心传媒減hantoms糖心传媒� of the writing room. Whether or not a similar pun occurs here in the German I cannot say, but that need not matter for my enjoyment of it in the English I am reading. More, again, on this, in a moment.)

It糖心传媒檚 time to say a bit more about Bernofsky糖心传媒檚 preface, because most of what I focused on in my reading are themes to which she explicitly directs attention. She describes the unusual history of the book: Der Spaziergang was first published in 1917, but Walser revised and published it again a few years later. In 1955, Christopher Middleton translated the first version into English, unaware that a revised version existed. For the present edition, Bernofsky updated Middleton糖心传媒檚 translation (糖心传媒渁n English text I . . . greatly admire,糖心传媒� she calls it) according to Walser糖心传媒檚 own revisions, which were significant at the level of sentence, but minor in terms of plot and theme. Bernofsky糖心传媒檚 intention is 糖心传媒渢o give the English-language reader the opportunity to peer over Walser糖心传媒檚 shoulder as he revises himself.糖心传媒�

In his revisions, Bernofsky suggests, Walser 糖心传媒渕inimiz[ed] the divide between the writing protagonist and the walking protagonist.糖心传媒� But the divide remains, at least at the beginning, and throughout the novel, though the two personalities merge, a metaphysical struggle persists between them. The two roles are introduced separately in the opening pages, as the narrator refers to himself in the third person as first one糖心传媒斕切拇綔With a kind face, a bicycling town chemist cycles close by the walker糖心传媒�; and then the other糖心传媒斕切拇綔The writer is nonetheless very humbly asked to be a bit careful to avoid jokes as well as other superfluousnesses.糖心传媒� (Happily, as the latter example shows, Walser didn糖心传媒檛 leave all of his thickly layered ironies behind when he left Berlin. The Walk might be read, I think, as a tragicomedy of the tension between irony and sincerity as played out by the contenders, walker and writer.)

The walker and writer, being phases of the one narrator, exist in separate narrative times: the writer is presumably recording the experience of the walk only after having completed it. Gradually, the two activities become indistinguishable, occurring simultaneously: when he declares 糖心传媒淚 have two or three important commissions to execute, as well as several utterly insuperable arrangements to make,糖心传媒� is he referring to the errands of the walk, or the writing tasks presently before his pen? At another point, 糖心传媒渨ith a bound I enter the charming situation in question,糖心传媒� it is not clear whether the bound is literally an energetic step or metaphorically setting out to describe the scene.

Would I have noticed and paid so much attention to these distinctions had I skipped the preface? Perhaps not. A preface or introduction offers context for the work about to be presented, which may or may not be helpful. My enjoyment of the book was no less for having read Bernofsky糖心传媒檚 preface, my grasp of the philosophical and emotional complexity of the narrator no more certain (The Walk is, to be sure, a difficult book, for all of its 90 pages). But糖心传媒攍ess enjoyable, more certain, than what? I only read the novel and its preface in the one order. I leave it to the reader to decide whether or not to save the preface till afterwards. But I will also warn the reader that in detailing some of Walser糖心传媒檚 revisions, Bernofksy spoils the ending of the book, the power of which is partly (not entirely) thanks to a delayed reveal. The spoiler doesn糖心传媒檛 ruin the experience糖心传媒擨 still read the book twice in one weekend, to my increasing pleasure and puzzlement糖心传媒攂ut it might have been omitted, or the Preface relocated to an Afterword.

There糖心传媒檚 more to be said about this book as a translation and as a novel. Concerning the latter, Walser糖心传媒檚 humor is unrelenting, which makes the inward-turning ending all the more poignantly sad. Among the narrator糖心传媒檚 hilarious apostrophes to dogs, or to no one in particular concerning the heavenliness of children, there糖心传媒檚 a weird scene in which the narrator is threatened with force-feeding by a matronly Frau Aebi. That this turns out to be Frau Aebi糖心传媒檚 joke is, to me, actually more disturbing than the forcefeeding itself would have been, which reinforces my sense that Walser is deliberately experimenting with irony and sincerity.

As a translation, this may become an important book for the unusual case which the text presents. Depending on its reception by critics better qualified than I, perhaps it will help to advance or complicate the ongoing debate concerning reading and review practices for translated works. On May 3, Bernofsky contributed to a panel discussion on the very subject in the PEN World Voices Festival, in which she expressed her opinion that translations ought to be judged according to their success as a piece of writing in the target language, to an extent independent of the original. Her respect for Middleton糖心传媒檚 text of The Walk, without which one imagines she would have retranslated the work entirely on her own, further demonstrates her position.

Lorin Stein, a translator and editor of the Paris Review, was also on the panel at PEN. He took the very different view that translators ought to be less visible and 糖心传媒渕inimize the damage糖心传媒� to the original which all translation must necessarily cause, perhaps in that it strips from the work its original sound. Stein also posited that translation adds an apparatus to a work, which publishers, editors, and translators ought to minimize (for instance, Stein insists on not printing his own name on the jacket of his published translations) in order to deliver the work and its author unadorned to the reader. Bernofsky糖心传媒檚 preface, including the revision and translation history of The Walk, is an elaborate and complicated apparatus to be sure. But, to reiterate, the jury is out as to whether I think it enriched or detracted from my experience of the book. I糖心传媒檝e had one experience of The Walk for which I am very glad. Other readers will, I hope, have theirs.

Phil was an intern here way way back, and is now working at the Plutzik Foundation, where one of his tasks is to run the foundation’s blog, If you’re not familiar with Hyam Plutzik, I highly recommend checking out that Phil wrote for The Paris Review. And while you’re reading Phil’s writing, be sure and check out his personal blog, where he recently wrote Antigonicks, Anne Carson’s rendition of Sophokles糖心传媒檚 Antigone. (Since when did we start spelling “Sophocles” as “Sophokles”? This is disorienting. Not sure I approve. Although, “Cyklops” is a pretty rad spelling. Ikarus. Hmm.)

Here’s a bit from Phil’s review:

It糖心传媒檚 time to say a bit more about Bernofsky糖心传媒檚 preface, because most of what I focused on in my reading are themes to which she explicitly directs attention. She describes the unusual history of the book: Der Spaziergang was first published in 1917, but Walser revised and published it again a few years later. In 1955, Christopher Middleton translated the first version into English, unaware that a revised version existed. For the present edition, Bernofsky updated Middleton糖心传媒檚 translation (糖心传媒渁n English text I . . . greatly admire,糖心传媒� she calls it) according to Walser糖心传媒檚 own revisions, which were significant at the level of sentence, but minor in terms of plot and theme. Bernofsky糖心传媒檚 intention is 糖心传媒渢o give the English-language reader the opportunity to peer over Walser糖心传媒檚 shoulder as he revises himself.糖心传媒�

In his revisions, Bernofsky suggests, Walser 糖心传媒渕inimiz[ed] the divide between the writing protagonist and the walking protagonist.糖心传媒� But the divide remains, at least at the beginning, and throughout the novel, though the two personalities merge, a metaphysical struggle persists between them. The two roles are introduced separately in the opening pages, as the narrator refers to himself in the third person as first one糖心传媒斕切拇綔With a kind face, a bicycling town chemist cycles close by the walker糖心传媒�; and then the other糖心传媒斕切拇綔The writer is nonetheless very humbly asked to be a bit careful to avoid jokes as well as other superfluousnesses.糖心传媒� (Happily, as the latter example shows, Walser didn糖心传媒檛 leave all of his thickly layered ironies behind when he left Berlin. The Walk might be read, I think, as a tragicomedy of the tension between irony and sincerity as played out by the contenders, walker and writer.)

The walker and writer, being phases of the one narrator, exist in separate narrative times: the writer is presumably recording the experience of the walk only after having completed it. Gradually, the two activities become indistinguishable, occurring simultaneously: when he declares 糖心传媒淚 have two or three important commissions to execute, as well as several utterly insuperable arrangements to make,糖心传媒� is he referring to the errands of the walk, or the writing tasks presently before his pen? At another point, 糖心传媒渨ith a bound I enter the charming situation in question,糖心传媒� it is not clear whether the bound is literally an energetic step or metaphorically setting out to describe the scene.

Click here to read the entire piece.

Yet despite all the excitement, somehow I got through my three months at N.D. without reading a single one of Marias’s many books. It was my summer of Bolano, I suppose糖心传媒攎y infatuation with 2666 would give no place whatsoever to another international titan anytime soon. So here I am, two years later, finally reading Marias’s latest collection to appear in English, While the Women are Sleeping, translated by Margaret Jull Costa and published over a year ago. (I admit, I’m generally behind the times.) But if I happen to feel a bit anxious about so belatedly joining the Marias conversation on the basis of a single little collection, there’s a line from Marias’s introductory remarks to the last story in the book, 糖心传媒淲hat the Butler Said,糖心传媒� that knowingly sets my anxieties at ease: 糖心传媒淭he books we don’t read are full of warnings; we will either never read them or they will arrive too late.糖心传媒� The word 糖心传媒渨arnings糖心传媒� here doesn’t quite work out of its proper context, but I’ll take it here to mean 糖心传媒渢hings we desperately want and need to know before we die . . .糖心传媒� It might seem to be a remark that should make me more, not less, anxious. But this is a book that probes the dusty corners of whatever we imagine death might be and makes it a symphony of enticing enigmas, where ghosts go on writing love letters, or pursue an education, or persevere in their desire to resign糖心传媒攆rom friendship, employment, or the weird project of being alive糖心传媒攚hich, in the worlds that Marias sketches in these stories, is at times quite indistinguishable from being dead.

Though the book is not all ghost stories, it does include several, featuring narrators or protagonists enmeshed in their own strange dilemmas of love and selfhood which are complicated by the sudden incursions of a spirit from beyond the grave. 糖心传媒淥ne Night of Love糖心传媒� has its protagonist, who complains of his wife’s lack of interest in lovemaking, discover love letters addressed to his late father from a woman who claims that she is already dead as she writes. The narrator then receives a letter from his dead father’s dead lover, importuning him to exhume his father’s body and cremate it, in order that his spirit will be released and can join her. As the narrator quibbles with himself over whether to hide the letters from his wife, her sexual interest in him mysteriously starts to grow. Another story, 糖心传媒淎 Kind of Nostalgia Perhaps,糖心传媒� tells of a young girl who, out of charity, reads to a lonely old woman every day, and before long they are visited by a bullet-ridden ghost who turns out to be the Mexican insurrectionist Emiliano Zapata, coming just to listen quietly to the girl read.

I’m finding it difficult fun to paraphrase a Marias story, they’re so gently off-beat and beautifully constructed. And Marias is bursting with affection for his very human, very living protagonists, as boring and morally repugnant as they might be, which might make my descriptions a little less morally ambiguous than the stories actually are糖心传媒攁nd challengingly, illuminatingly so, if you’ll pardon all the adverbs. 糖心传媒淭he Resignation Letter of Senor de Santiesteban,糖心传媒� my personal favorite, tells of Derek Lilburn, an Englishman 糖心传媒渙f little imagination, ordinary tastes, and an irrelevant past,糖心传媒� who begins a new teaching job in Madrid on a short-term professional exchange program. He arrives at his new school, where he is given the simple task of locking up the school every Friday night. The first night he is to perform this chore, he is warned to pay no heed to Senor Santiesteban, the ghost who, every single night, bursts out of the school office, takes seven steps over to the hallway bulletin board, tacks up a letter of resignation addressed only to a 糖心传媒淒ear Friend,糖心传媒� takes eight steps back into the office, and falls still. Oddly, this ghost is not to be seen, only heard. And no one knows who he was in life, or what he is resigning from, or why: the letter, identical every night, is enigmatically reticent of circumstantial details. Lilburn makes it his personal mission to solve the puzzle, despite the warnings of his superior, Mr. Bayo, who has been down the investigational road and found that it only leads one to admit in frustration that the mystery is unsolvable. The bored and boring Lilburn is undeterred, and shares every tiny discovery with the wearily patient Mr. Bayo, until, finally outdoing his superior, Lilburn finds a way to truly know the ghost糖心传媒攂y becoming him, in a strange way that has nothing to do with death.

The private contemplation of death by the living preoccupies many of the stories in this book, but not all of them: see 糖心传媒淎n Epigram of Fealty,糖心传媒� which tells of a rare book dealer in London who is harangued by a beggar claiming to be John Gawsworth, King of Redonda; or 糖心传媒淕ualta,糖心传媒� a brief tale narrating one man’s descent into total ruination after meeting his doppelg盲nger at a business dinner. The title story, which is the first and longest in the collection, sets the stage for meditating on the imagination’s encounter with death, but it features nothing of the supernatural either. Told from a voyeur’s perspective, the story is strongly reminiscent of Lolita: it depicts an overweight middle-aged man, Viana, who has subscribed his life to his passionate desire for In猫s, the daughter of his close friends, whom he meets when she is only seven years old. Now she is twenty-three and they have been living together for five years, to the ruin of his friendship with her parents. He videotapes her body with microscopic attention every day 糖心传媒渂ecause she is going to die,糖心传媒� he says, and he wants to have a visual record of her last day on Earth. The narrator watches this videotaping take place on the beach, and then meeting Viana one night beside the hotel pool, he listens to the fat man’s tale. My next thought as I read is that Marias owes much to Nabokov’s sense of narrative play as well糖心传媒攆rom the first image in the story of the narrator spying on his fellow sunbathers on the beach through his wife’s straw sunhat, this playful seriousness continues through the story’s final lines:

Both were sleeping, that’s why they didn’t wake up or come out onto the balcony, Luisa hadn’t died in my absence, however long that had been糖心传媒擨’d forgotten my watch. Instinctively, I glanced up toward the rooms, toward my balcony, toward all the balconies, and on one of them, I saw a figure wrapped in a sheet toga and heard it call to me twice, saying my name, as mothers say their children糖心传媒檚 names. I stood up. On In猫s’s balcony, though, whichever it was, there was no one.

The texture of the collection as a whole may seem uneven, but this is hardly a detractor. The ten stories here are dated across a period of more than 30 years, the earliest being 糖心传媒淭he Life and Death of Marcelino Iturriaga,糖心传媒� written (according to the Author’s Note) in 1965, when Marias was just fourteen years old (糖心传媒渂e kind, please,糖心传媒� he beseeches his readers). The story is narrated by a man on his deathbed who continues to be able to see and hear but is unable to move or speak, 糖心传媒渁live and well糖心传媒� mentally even as his body has ceased to function. A certain lack of maturity in the writing comes across at times with a coarse brashness, a mix of youthful courage and naivete in the tone that can be highly entertaining:

At six o’clock on the evening of the 22nd, when the fever intensified, I tried to get out of bed, but fell back against the pillow, dead. . . . I couldn’t speak or move or open my eyes, even though I could see and hear everything going on around me. My mother-in-law said:

糖心传媒淗e’s dead.糖心传媒�

糖心传媒淢ay he rest in peace,糖心传媒� chorused the others.

Certainly it is the weakest story in the collection, so one wonders why Marias chose to include it. My guess is that it is at the very least to demonstrate that certain themes and meditations that set the writer to work in youth may keep him busy many years later. By including this story along with the much more mature 糖心传媒淎 Kind of Nostalgia Perhaps糖心传媒� (dated 1998), with 糖心传媒淭he Resignation Letter of Senor de Santiestaban糖心传媒� (1975) and other stories from the mid-80s falling in between, the book offers us a glimpse of a long range of Marias’s life in writing.

The final and perhaps greatest pleasure in the book, however, is found in rereading and discovering that the work is not quite what you thought it was糖心传媒攊t’s not the stories only, it’s the soft surprises that burst from Marias’s delicate prose (via Margaret Jull Costa’s rendering in the way that I like best in a translation: she gives the feeling that what you’re reading is decidedly not English, though you can’t point to exactly why it feels that way, as her English at the same time feels perfectly natural糖心传媒擟hris Andrews’s translation of Cesar Aira’s Ghosts is another example of English prose that dexterously retains some flavor of the original Spanish). As I’ve gone back over the book in composing this review, in order to describe these ghosts and enigmatic perusals of death, this is the kind of thing I find糖心传媒攖he most careful, disquieting attention to a curious scene:

The young man took some time to reappear糖心传媒攑erhaps ghosts go into mourning, for who else has more reason to or perhaps they are still wary, perhaps words can still wound them糖心传媒攂ut he did finally return, attracted perhaps by the new material, and he continued to listen with the same close attention, not standing up this time, leaning on the chairback, but comfortably installed in the now vacant armchair, his hat dangling from his hand, and sometimes with his legs crossed and holding a lit cigar, like the patriarch he never, in his numbered days, had the chance to become. (from 糖心传媒淎 Kind of Nostalgia Perhaps糖心传媒�)

Everyone probably already is, but I’ll say it anyway: Read Marias, read him again, and read him again.

Phil is one of our regular reviewers, and one of our former interns. As mentioned in the review, he also interned at New Directions, and is currently working for the Plutzik Foundation, where he’s running their poetry blog, (Definitely check out the blog—Phil’s a great writer and great person and this deserves more attention.)

I believe Marias has a new book coming out in the not-too-distant future, but some unnnamable agent (as in, his name should never be spoken out loud for fear of repercussions sinister and royalty related), sold the rights to this (and some of the ND backlist) to a Big Six publisher. So forget that book and read While the Women Are Sleeping and Your Face Tomorrow. And trade ND editions of his earlier works (Dark Back of Time is a personal favorite) on the black market.

Here’s the opening of Phil’s review:

Javier Marias’s greatness in the world of world literature seems pretty much unquestioned. And I’ve always thought of him as a pretty cool guy糖心传媒攆or boycotting the United States for as long as Bush was president, for example, which was one of the first things I learned about him. This was while I was interning at New Directions in the summer of 2009, and everyone at N.D. was abuzz because Marias would soon be making his first visit to the U.S. in nine years. Right about that time, they were getting ready to release the concluding volume of his monolithic trilogy, Your Face Tomorrow, which, in light of recent reading, has risen significantly through the amorphous mass that is my to-read pile.

Yet despite all the excitement, somehow I got through my three months at N.D. without reading a single one of Marias’s many books. It was my summer of Bolano, I suppose糖心传媒攎y infatuation with 2666 would give no place whatsoever to another international titan anytime soon. So here I am, two years later, finally reading Marias’s latest collection to appear in English, While the Women are Sleeping, translated by Margaret Jull Costa and published over a year ago. (I admit, I’m generally behind the times.) But if I happen to feel a bit anxious about so belatedly joining the Marias conversation on the basis of a single little collection, there’s a line from Marias’s introductory remarks to the last story in the book, 糖心传媒淲hat the Butler Said,糖心传媒� that knowingly sets my anxieties at ease: 糖心传媒淭he books we don’t read are full of warnings; we will either never read them or they will arrive too late.糖心传媒� The word 糖心传媒渨arnings糖心传媒� here doesn’t quite work out of its proper context, but I’ll take it here to mean 糖心传媒渢hings we desperately want and need to know before we die . . .糖心传媒� It might seem to be a remark that should make me more, not less, anxious. But this is a book that probes the dusty corners of whatever we imagine death might be and makes it a symphony of enticing enigmas, where ghosts go on writing love letters, or pursue an education, or persevere in their desire to resign糖心传媒攆rom friendship, employment, or the weird project of being alive糖心传媒攚hich, in the worlds that Marias sketches in these stories, is at times quite indistinguishable from being dead.

Click here to read the full review.

The novel eschews convention in many ways, foremost among them being that its central character is a place糖心传媒攐n a lakeshore, a collection of adjacent properties, a summer getaway, a garden, a paradise. It is based on an actual place in Brandenburg, Germany, where Erpenbeck’s family had a summer home for the latter part of the 20th century. In her , Erpenbeck explains how she arrived at the present work: It began as an effort to retain something of the lost childhood home (a desire we can all relate to, especially those of us who have only recently fled the nest). As it progressed, however, Erpenbeck widened the novel’s attention from her own relationship with the house to the house itself as a locus of the lives, stories, comings and goings of its many inhabitants over the twentieth century.

Twelve of these inhabitants drift in and out of the book; unnamed for the most part, they are of all ages, and they come from all different sides of Germany’s many different conflicts of the long century. The original Jewish owners of the house emigrate before the Nazi threat in the 30s. A Nazi architect renovates the house, delighting his young wife’s whims with a hidden closet and a metal bird affixed to the balcony railing. During the Russian advance at the end of World War II, a Russian officer takes up brief residence in the architect’s bedroom, unaware of the architect’s wife hidden in the secret closet. After the war, the architect is forced into exile for illegally doing business with the West, and is replaced by a communist writer and her family, returning from their own Siberian exile. In the nineties, a young married couple who enjoy sailing on the lake briefly occupy the toolshed as subtenants.

The only person who remains quietly in the background throughout the book is the gardener, constantly performing the same rituals of planting, pruning, beekeeping and harvesting. Erpenbeck’s scrupulous repetition in describing these actions, laced with minute changes, enacts the cycle of seasons and years in which everything stays more or less the same even as everything decays and is renewed. Erpenbeck’s prose in Susan Bernofsky’s translation tends toward luxurious run-on sentences that nevertheless must end. The gardener does eventually disappear, but the villagers continue to tell fantastic stories about him.

The novel is divided into short chapters, each devoted to a brief moment of these lives and the lives of their neighbors and children. In shimmering prose full of radical juxtaposition, minute descriptions of daily routines are tightly interwoven with rhapsodic fits of reminiscence. Fragments of speech unassigned to any particular speaker echo like ghosts in an empty house. The immediate concerns of these people are as various as their backgrounds; what unites them is the place, the garden and the house, which most of them badly want but can’t quite allow themselves to call home.

The word itself, home糖心传媒攚here and what it is, how we manage to find it, keep it, lose it, and find it again糖心传媒攕eems ultimately what is most at issue for Erpenbeck. Unable to hold on to her childhood home in actuality, Erpenbeck sought to do so in writing; far from answering the problem, Visitation seems to complicate it in the most beautiful fashion. The word visitation may indicate Bernofksy’s take on the problem, taking into account the original title Heimsuchung, which also translates as 糖心传媒渉ome searching.糖心传媒�

Perhaps in this search we really only make nothing more than visits to various places. Yet we keep looking, maybe because the idea, the word home itself, keeps drawing us on. In one early chapter, 糖心传媒淭he Cloth Manufacturer,糖心传媒� Erpenbeck lets home resound among achingly familiar scenes of quiet family life in the countryside:

Arthur says to him, Ludwig, his son: let me take a turn, and he picks up the spade himself and tosses the earth back into the hole all around the root ball. Ludwig places his arm around Anna, his future wife, and the two of them look at the broad, glittering surface of the lake. Home. Why does everyone like looking at the water so much, Doris asks. I don’t know, Anna replies. Doris says, maybe because there’s so much empty sky above a lake, because everyone likes to see nothing sometimes. You can let go now, Arthur says to Doris.

This is the Jewish family, the original owners, forced to flee by the threat of the Nazis. In a later chapter, 糖心传媒淭he Writer,糖心传媒� a communist family has returned from an exile imposed by the same threat. The chapter is sprinkled with a similar recurring phrase:

This doctor wasn’t even born yet when she returned to Germany. He has traveled to Japan with one or the other government delegation, to Egypt, to Cuba. I a-m g-o-i-n-g h-o-m-e. Down in the kitchen the cook is making the plates clatter, the gardener is sitting on the threshold to his room, on the meadow her granddaughter and the boy next door are spraying each other with water. . . .

The recurring phrase, 糖心传媒淚 a-m g-o-i-n-g h-o-m-e糖心传媒�, represents a fragment typed out at the tail end of the writer’s current work-in-progress. Living in the house, enjoying the garden, sitting to dinner with her whole family: these are not home; she hasn’t gotten there, wherever it is, yet; she is still 糖心传媒済oing.糖心传媒� And the fact that the repeated phrase is spelled out with dashes reminds us that it is typed: it unifies the act of heimsuchung with the act of writing, as the author set out to do. Unlike the sentence, it does not necessarily have an end糖心传媒攚hich is just as well, because Visitation is well worth reading again.

Phillip Witte was an intern for Open Letter way back in the day, and also had a summer internship at New Directions. He’s a great reader, was a fantastic intern, and is one of those young people who gives me hope about the future of literary publishing. (Honestly.) Last I heard he was working at The Strand, although he may be looking for another publishing gig . . .

Anyway, Susan Bernofsky is awesome, and we’ve sang her praises any number of times on this blog. She’s told me repetitively about just how good this particular book is, and I feel like a horrible reader for not having found time to read it yet. (But soon! I can see this making the BTBA longlist, which is the perfect opportunity to set aside a few days to enjoy this.)

This is Jenny Erpenbeck’s third book to be published in translation by New Directions, the others being The Book of Words and The Old Child & Other Stories. I can’t begin to guess how many times I’ve heard great things about her books—in particular Visitation.

Anyway, on to Phil’s review:

Jenny Erpenbeck has already received a great deal of well-deserved critical acclaim in the wake of her third novel, Visitation (New Directions, translated by Susan Bernofsky), which Vogue has called 糖心传媒渁 remarkable achievement.糖心传媒� Such a response (especially coming from the mainstream, one is tempted to say) is very exciting for the cause of literary translation, and particularly in this case given the book’s unconventional tactics.

The novel eschews convention in many ways, foremost among them being that its central character is a place糖心传媒攐n a lakeshore, a collection of adjacent properties, a summer getaway, a garden, a paradise. It is based on an actual place in Brandenburg, Germany, where Erpenbeck’s family had a summer home for the latter part of the 20th century. In her , Erpenbeck explains how she arrived at the present work: It began as an effort to retain something of the lost childhood home (a desire we can all relate to, especially those of us who have only recently fled the nest). As it progressed, however, Erpenbeck widened the novel’s attention from her own relationship with the house to the house itself as a locus of the lives, stories, comings and goings of its many inhabitants over the twentieth century.

Twelve of these inhabitants drift in and out of the book; unnamed for the most part, they are of all ages, and they come from all different sides of Germany’s many different conflicts of the long century. The original Jewish owners of the house emigrate before the Nazi threat in the 30s. A Nazi architect renovates the house, delighting his young wife’s whims with a hidden closet and a metal bird affixed to the balcony railing. During the Russian advance at the end of World War II, a Russian officer takes up brief residence in the architect’s bedroom, unaware of the architect’s wife hidden in the secret closet. After the war, the architect is forced into exile for illegally doing business with the West, and is replaced by a communist writer and her family, returning from their own Siberian exile. In the nineties, a young married couple who enjoy sailing on the lake briefly occupy the toolshed as subtenants.

Click here to read the full piece.

I have just opened Yoel Hoffmann糖心传媒檚 Curriculum Vitae at random, somewhere in the middle. Having finished the book and wondering where to begin if I am to describe it, this seems an appropriate opening gesture, one I hope to justify as I continue. In any case:

At night we slept (we and Yolanda) back to back while each one saw, as though in a bubble emerging from the head of a comic-strip character, different dreams.

Yolanda most likely dreamed of great gardens. Clay pots. Dalmations.

We (which is to say, I) saw heavier dreams. Landslides in the mountains and an entire town with its golden church spires buried beneath the dirt. Men spreading newspapers out on the floor and reading things in them that make the heart tremble.

It糖心传媒檚 all so self-evident why Joyce wrote, for some twenty years, a book without any real words in it. After all, one could die from the clear-cut borders between one word and another: Pot. Skyscraper. File. Scandal. Dentures. Scabies. Snow. Old age. Flute. Cobalt. Socialism.

Sometimes we made instant coffee with three teaspoons of sugar (as Yolanda liked it) and put it before her.

Note the first two parentheticals, which clarify the two uses of 糖心传媒渨e.糖心传媒� Early in the book, Hoffmann advises us that he will often be referring to himself in the first person plural. He maintains this distinction vigilantly, on the one hand rendering the 糖心传媒渞oyal we糖心传媒� so humorously, and obviously, obsolete, but also bringing around a fresh aspect of self-scrutiny: the simple, almost constant reminder that he is using the same pronoun for two subjects stresses the importance of his own life in relation to his life together with his family.

Next, note the grandiloquent generality of 糖心传媒渞eading things in them that make the heart tremble,糖心传媒� against the minute twentieth-century contextual analogy, 糖心传媒渁s though in a bubble emerging from the head of a comic strip character.糖心传媒� Such range of figuration is characteristic of Hoffmann糖心传媒檚 writing in Curriculum Vitae, a sharp specificity as of the latter which justifies the appropriate use of the former. Consider this range of figurative device along with the next point: 糖心传媒淥ne could die from the clear-cut borders between one word and another.糖心传媒� In one sense, it may be Hoffmann糖心传媒檚 own solution to Finnegans Wake. In another, this is one among countless aphoristic conclusions about life, about language, spirituality, writing糖心传媒攁ll of the biggest concerns of this writer糖心传媒檚 existence. It is a conclusion that seems more a restatement of the problem, an unsolvable riddle, than an answer: it is like a zen koan, which is a significant point to which I will return. But philosophical bombshells like this one would surely misfire without being carefully juxtaposed against equally weighted statements of utter mundanity and real-world particularity of the final sentence, set off in its own paragraph, about instant coffee with sugar. Because this book is a condensed picture of a life, where the particular way one糖心传媒檚 wife takes her coffee carries just as much existential weight as the crises of faith which keep one awake at night.

This is the entirety of section 34 of the book. There are one hundred sections, all of a similar length, and there are no page numbers. The book is thin, the margins wide, and the prose, as is evident in the above passage, exceedingly light. It can be read in a single (perhaps lengthy) sitting, such as a long train ride or an afternoon off in the park. It has the feel, reading it, of a book of aphorisms, or of zen koans, the latter which must be no coincidence because the author, Yoel Hoffmann, is Professor of Japanese Buddhism at Haifa University. His travels and studies in Japan are treated at length in the book, although it may be inaccurate to use the term 糖心传媒渁t length糖心传媒� at all. Textually speaking, there is nothing 糖心传媒渁t length糖心传媒� about the book, and yet the material carries the reader into realms far beyond the text: realms of humor, family life, travels, varying religions and peoples, and childhood in a distant past.

I realize that I have described the book above as a condensed picture of a life. According to the back cover blurb, it is 糖心传媒減art novel and part memoir.糖心传媒� This is an accurate description: the subject is Hoffmann himself and his memories. But it is also part other things which fall into no easy categories. The book resists my simple description, and Hoffmann himself would surely scoff at it. He writes,

If I were able (by means of a deeper covenant than that which exists between author and reader) to fall on people糖心传媒檚 necks and say to them Come, let糖心传媒檚 sit while the tea is steeping, then drink, and you糖心传媒檒l tell me about your lives and I will tell of mine, I糖心传媒檇 toss this manuscript into the trash and do precisely that. In such a world the law would forbid the making of fiction.

In no way is the novel driven by the usual devices one associates with fiction and novels: there are no motivating conflicts, no themes, and the 糖心传媒渃haracters糖心传媒� do not exactly invoke the sympathies that generate a reader糖心传媒檚 interest. It would seem that the book is more the memoir, with its frequent tone of reminiscence and reflection. But then again, having finished it, I cannot say I have a clear picture of the life of Yoel Hoffmann. It is largely autobiographical, but one could hardly call it an autobiography. This, I think, is one of the book糖心传媒檚 greatest strengths. A reader may only be interested in an author糖心传媒檚 memoiristic novel or novelistic memoir if that reader were already familiar with the author糖心传媒檚 other work; I can certainly say that this is my first experience of the work of Yoel Hoffmann and as far as I can tell, it is as good a place to enter this Hebrew writer糖心传媒檚 not inconsiderable oeuvre as any other (this being the sixth of his books to be published by New Directions, in English translations by Peter Cole). Indeed, I am eager to dig into some of his other works.

Part novel, part memoir, part neither, Curriculum Vitae is a frolicking dive into the self of the writer, where he finds his life糖心传媒檚 collected works in the form of unsolvable riddles that, like a good zen koan, taste like wisdom and provide as much entertainment and satisfaction as the reader cares to draw from them.

Here’s the opening of Phil’s review:

Imagine the scene we are all familiar with: you are writing up a C.V. to send out to those who might judge your capabilities, your efficacies, and the quality of your existence to date from what you were able to condense onto a single side of a sheet of letter paper. Imagine adding, among sections detailing work experience and education, sections that enumerate your preferred breakfast cereals, your ongoing spiritual conundra, and personal illustrations that are little more than impressionist contour doodles. Imagine allowing yourself a healthy dose of humor; it can糖心传媒檛 hurt to make your assessors laugh a little. Now imagine reading such a thing.

I have just opened Yoel Hoffmann糖心传媒檚 Curriculum Vitae at random, somewhere in the middle. Having finished the book and wondering where to begin if I am to describe it, this seems an appropriate opening gesture, one I hope to justify as I continue. In any case:

“At night we slept (we and Yolanda) back to back while each one saw, as though in a bubble emerging from the head of a comic-strip character, different dreams.

Yolanda most likely dreamed of great gardens. Clay pots. Dalmations.

We (which is to say, I) saw heavier dreams. Landslides in the mountains and an entire town with its golden church spires buried beneath the dirt. Men spreading newspapers out on the floor and reading things in them that make the heart tremble.

It糖心传媒檚 all so self-evident why Joyce wrote, for some twenty years, a book without any real words in it. After all, one could die from the clear-cut borders between one word and another: Pot. Skyscraper. File. Scandal. Dentures. Scabies. Snow. Old age. Flute. Cobalt. Socialism.

Sometimes we made instant coffee with three teaspoons of sugar (as Yolanda liked it) and put it before her.”

Click here for the full review.

Sounds interesting, even if our reviewer Phillip Witte has some mixed feelings:

I picked up The Blue Fox on a continuing kick for Icelandic literature having recently finished Bragi Olafsson糖心传媒檚 The Pets (published by Open Letter). I was pleased to see a cover-commendation from Icelandic singer Bj枚rk, whose association with the author, Sj贸n, is through several projects including the 2000 film Dancer in the Dark, in which Bj枚rk played the lead role, singing lyrics by Sj贸n, both of whom received Oscar nominations for their involvement. Sj贸n has also written the lyrics to a number of Bj枚rk糖心传媒檚 other songs including several from her greatest album (in my opinion), Homogenic.

Needless to say, the decision to put the word of an international pop celebrity on the cover of The Blue Fox may seem to be a mere publicity ploy糖心传媒攁nd, at least in my case, without shame I admit it succeeded. Unfortunately, my experience of the book does not live up to Bj枚rk糖心传媒檚 high commendations. She calls it 糖心传媒渁 magical novel which presents us with some of old Iceland in an incredibly modern shape.糖心传媒� I do not dispute Bj枚rk糖心传媒檚 analysis, but I assume that she read it in the original Icelandic, which leads me to believe that the translation is less than outstanding. Indeed I often felt while reading the book that the language was vague or marginal, perhaps sidestepping a difficult turn of phrase here and there. Also it tends to use more clich茅s than seem to fit the idiosyncratic tone of the work, such as 糖心传媒渄ead as a doornail.糖心传媒�

And yet, there are moments in which the language seems crisply tuned to an surprising level of clarity and emotion . . . [click here for the rest.]

Needless to say, the decision to put the word of an international pop celebrity on the cover of The Blue Fox may seem to be a mere publicity ploy糖心传媒攁nd, at least in my case, without shame I admit it succeeded. Unfortunately, my experience of the book does not live up to Bj枚rk糖心传媒檚 high commendations. She calls it 糖心传媒渁 magical novel which presents us with some of old Iceland in an incredibly modern shape.糖心传媒� I do not dispute Bj枚rk糖心传媒檚 analysis, but I assume that she read it in the original Icelandic, which leads me to believe that the translation is less than outstanding. Indeed I often felt while reading the book that the language was vague or marginal, perhaps sidestepping a difficult turn of phrase here and there. Also it tends to use more clich茅s than seem to fit the idiosyncratic tone of the work, such as 糖心传媒渄ead as a doornail.糖心传媒�

And yet, there are moments in which the language seems crisply tuned to an surprising level of clarity and emotion, such as

She looked up and met his eyes; she smiled and her smile doubled the happiness of the world. But before he could nod in return, the smile vanished from her face and was at once replaced by a mask so tragic that Fridrik burst into tears.

Because of this difficulty with the language my reaction to the book is quite mixed, but ultimately I can only say that the book is certainly worth reading. The story begins with a hunt for a blue fox by an unnamed man, sparsely narrated in bits of short paragraphs isolated to pages of mostly white space, lending to the sense to the Icelandic-blizzard landscape while maintaining a quietness to the storytelling which allows free reign to the reader糖心传媒檚 imagination. It reminds me of The Old Man and the Sea until the hunter糖心传媒檚 prey takes on a certain playfully mythic character just before the end of the first part, but before the matter is resolved we are taken back to another character and another narrative. This one is the touching drama of a man grieving the death of his adopted daughter-figure, a girl with Down糖心传媒檚 Syndrome. In the third part we return to the hunter, and the story becomes a surreal comedy in the vein of Kafka糖心传媒檚 Metamorphosis as he becomes trapped in a cave by a snowdrift. In the end, a not-altogether unpredictable (yet appropriately so) revelation ties the two narratives together.

The Blue Fox is a pretty, touching, funny little book whose translation seems quizzical and maybe a bit frustrating at times, but the story is large enough within its 112 pages that complaints of prosodic trouble-spots would be a poor excuse to pass it over.