Sort of how space travel well beyond the stratosphere is still determined by our limits within it, Poetics set the rules novelists play against. For modern readers, the beginning, the middle, the end of a story no longer need be in that order, or even look familiar糖心传媒攂ut they are there. Telos, 糖心传媒渢he end,糖心传媒� meaning, remains central. It糖心传媒檚 the way toward meaning, and the place of meaning, for writer, reader, and character. Lately, I糖心传媒檝e been giving lots of thought to why, in recent years, a particular kind of novel, what I think of as the 糖心传媒渘ot knowing糖心传媒� novel, so resonates with me. Why am I attracted? Why are others palpably not? And why, it seems, are these novels attracted to me? People keep pressing them into my hands. Just a few months ago I was given by a friend, insistently, Jenny Offill糖心传媒檚 Dept. of Speculation, because I simply had to read it, and I would absolutely love it, etc. My friend was right. Lots of white space, no clear 糖心传媒減lot,糖心传媒� it read like a narrator thinking out loud, unaware I could hear every word. The reading experience was intimate, felt almost invasive on my part, like eavesdropping. It also felt familiar. I mean this as compliment. It sort of looked like Elizabeth Hardwick糖心传媒檚 Sleepless Nights (also recommended by a friend), and reminded me, in parts, of Shelia Heti糖心传媒檚 How Should a Person Be? Most of all, it brought to mind one of my favorite books: Montauk by Max Frisch. All of these books are intimate, and share a near shapeless close-to-the-bone rawness you don糖心传媒檛 find very often in novels. But they also read like writers in search of self-knowledge, in search of meaning. They are books that do not yet 糖心传媒渒now.糖心传媒� [. . .]

Perhaps my attraction toward books that read like a writer 糖心传媒渘ot knowing糖心传媒� comes from my religious fundamentalist rearing, a rebellious response, because it seems the longer I am away from the church糖心传媒攖his also being a significant difference, I was raised in family of Jehovah糖心传媒檚 Witnesses糖心传媒攆or over twenty years now, the more radical becomes my taste in books. I do know the first time I encountered a writer poking up his head, out of the text, not because he 糖心传媒渒new糖心传媒� (the essence of meta-fiction, really) but because he did not: it was thrilling. It was Kurt Vonnegut, in Slaughterhouse-Five, calling out, but not in name糖心传媒斕切拇綔That was I. That was me. That was the author of this book糖心传媒澨切拇綌once again disrupting the wonderfully melancholy contraption of that book糖心传媒檚 plot, and sounding like a bewildered ghost trying to find his way home. Apparently, I liked this sort of thing. But why?

And so I revisited three books especially meaningful to me, not only in my reading and writing history, but during my extrication from the church 糖心传媒� The Names by Don DeLillo, Gilead by Marilynn Robinson, and, of course, Montauk by Max Frisch. I re-read them, in that order, in order of discovery, to try and determine what it is and was about these books that remains so important to me. It was an experience increasingly intense and personal. If you can imagine a book as the lens through which a writer eyed the world, in search of meaning, The Names read like peering through a telescope, and Gilead a handheld magnifying glass. Reading Montauk, on the other hand, often felt like spying from the dark side of a two-way mirror. Telos was omnipresent. The search for meaning suffused every page. And that search belonged to Max the narrator, surely, but also Max the author, and somehow it was also mine. [. . .]

Max Frisch is best known for his 1954 糖心传媒渄ebut糖心传媒� novel I糖心传媒檓 Not Stiller, generally considered a masterpiece of 20th century German literature. It糖心传媒檚 certainly the book of his most read in America, and it糖心传媒檚 a brilliant comic novel obsessed with identity. Famously, the first line shouts: 糖心传媒淚糖心传媒檓 not Stiller!糖心传媒� Thou doth protest too much, we think, and the remaining 375 pages consist of one Mr. Jim White, imprisoned, claiming a case of mistaken identity; that he is not Mr. Stiller. The rest of the world, an ex-wife, co-workers, etc., insist that he is. In fact, all of Frisch糖心传媒檚 work is identity-obsessed糖心传媒攆rom his actual debut published some sixteen years earlier, dismissed (a bit unfairly, I think) by Frisch as juvenilia, An Answer From the Silence, on through his three fascinating Tagebuchs (daybooks, or diaries), and the novels, Homo Faber, Gantenbein, Man in the Holocene, Bluebeard, and the sort of unclassifiable and magnificent Montauk. The plot of Montauk (translated by Geoffrey Skelton) is simple: a brief love affair between a man in his seventies and a much younger woman, it lasts but a single weekend. But if I may use Hemingway糖心传媒檚 metaphor, that糖心传媒檚 just the tip of a large and life-sized iceberg. Montauk is really about memory. In fact the opening lines that place us specifically in space and time 糖心传媒� 糖心传媒淎 sign promising a view across the island: OVERLOOK. It was he who suggested stopping here;糖心传媒� and from page two: 糖心传媒淢ONTAUK / an Indian name applied to the Northern point of Long Island, one hundred and twenty miles from Manhattan. He could also name the date: 5/11/74糖心传媒� 糖心传媒� belie the real plot and setting. To be more precise, Montauk is about an older man sitting at his desk, with pen and paper, trying to write the story of a love affair, but failing, ever falling away in memory. Or as Sven Birkerts puts it, Montauk is a 糖心传媒渂ook of retrospect, yes, but not of passive retrospect.糖心传媒� The older man is Frisch himself. Although it糖心传媒檚 not until after six pages of relatively straightforward third person storytelling that his 糖心传媒淚糖心传媒� makes a jarring entrance.

We tried to reissue Montauk years ago, but that all fell through. Sounds like it’s time to try again!

And while you’re waiting for your used copy of Montauk to arrive, you should read Scott’s debut novel, which came out from Henry Holt a couple months ago.

The Canvas is loosely based on the account of Binjamin Wilkomirski, author of Fragments (1995), a tremendously popular Holocaust memoir; like Minksy糖心传媒檚 story it was proven to be a fabrication. But when I say loosely based, I mean loosely: Wilkomirski and Minsky are more like ghosts at the center of this book. There is plenty of plot, to be sure 糖心传媒� murder, intrigue, interrogation rooms, the inevitable double-cross, and exotic locales 糖心传媒� and the pages turn like in a supermarket thriller (or at least one daring enough to substantively tackle the inexhaustible questions of God, death, and memory). The book is ambitious in scope: it is about religious orthodoxy and the transgressive power of literature; it糖心传媒檚 also about collective guilt and national identity. Yet The Canvas is so particular in its details that it comes with a glossary appropriately placed in the middle of the novel.

Most disturbing of all, in a novel ultimately about the mutability of memory, are lines like this one from Wechsler: 糖心传媒淪omeone who stole other people糖心传媒檚 identities wouldn糖心传媒檛 stop short of murder.糖心传媒� Is this true? And if so, what does it say about Minsky or Wilkomirski? Are they killers at heart? And what of Zichroni, who steals the memory of his patients by touch alone? And what of Wechsler, the man who steals Minsky糖心传媒檚 糖心传媒渕emories?糖心传媒� Or Wechsler, who confesses: 糖心传媒淚 am what I remember. I don糖心传媒檛 have anything else.糖心传媒�

A fabrication of character and memory, The Canvas is both a great novel and a genuine Holocaust testimony, in that it bares witness to the lasting power of trauma and how it shapes the strange and subjective mystery of human experience. It is an upsetting book, unabashedly philosophical, refusing closure, and challenging the very notion of truth by reminding us how much depends on perspective. It also happens to be playful, suspenseful, and one hell of a page-turner. I could not put it down. Both times.

Additionally, Scott had the chance to and talk about some of the translation issues in doing this book:

In the case of an idiom like that, I糖心传媒檓 sure you糖心传媒檙e worried about losing meaning with an English version.

Any translator, or anyone who reads translation knows there will always be a loss. And there are certain things you can糖心传媒檛 do it at all. You can use a new idiom and hope it糖心传媒檚 not too bound up with your own particular moment in time. There are those cases when you know the translator was trying to be a little too hip. That糖心传媒檚 really painful. There糖心传媒檚 one expression where Wechsler is talking about going to Spain and he takes a bunch of unsolicited manuscripts with him in a suitcase, and he throws it out. And the expression is der Koffer mu脽te dran glauben, or 糖心传媒渢he suitcase had to believe in it.糖心传媒� What the hell does that mean? It actually means the suitcase had to go, that it had to die. It糖心传媒檚 a euphemism that sounds like the suitcase is getting its last rights. I wound up choosing the suitcase had to 糖心传媒渂ite the dust糖心传媒� because it has a similar meaning and has a similar gangsterish feel. I guess that糖心传媒檚 the one point where twenty years from now it may seem a little cheesy, I hope not.

But in the book it also has the feel of an antiquated expression still in use.

Yes, and it糖心传媒檚 that way in German as well. That kind of thing was fun. I don糖心传媒檛 think anything in the book required too great a sacrifice. Which is why Benjamin糖心传媒檚 so happy with it. And most of the things that were really challenging linguistically were interesting to do. And most of them came up in chapter two. The biggest problem: Whechsler quotes a German translation of a Polish poem, and in that translation is a play on words that only exists only in the German, and it becomes central to his own explanation of life in East Germany. 糖心传媒淭hey live in the basements of huge tenement houses, and only the shop-sign WRINGER HERE betrays their presence糖心传媒� 糖心传媒� In the German, mangel means 糖心传媒渟hortage,糖心传媒� as in the food shortage sense, but it also means 糖心传媒渨ringer,糖心传媒� as in pressing rollers used for pressing water our of clothes. I could have used the British term, 糖心传媒渕angle,糖心传媒� which means the same thing, but then I糖心传媒檇 be going with UK usage when the rest of the book is American usage. And then I found that 糖心传媒淲ringer糖心传媒� is in the English translation by Czeslaw Milosz. And you don糖心传媒檛 argue with Milosz. The problem then is than that I had to invent a new sentence, reveal the proscenium arch a little bit, and explain to the reader that in German the word for 糖心传媒渨ringer糖心传媒� is the same for 糖心传媒渟hortage.糖心传媒� This is the last thing you want to do. [. . .]

How did Stein respond to it? I糖心传媒檓 guessing he appreciated how faithful you were.

He was fine with it because it retained the meaning. I had to make a radical move but it worked out well. In that same chapter there was a more fun radical move, in which I had to quote Tina Turner. And in a way that does not appear in the original.

This one I remember!

There糖心传媒檚 a section when Wechsler糖心传媒檚 wife is cataloging all of her book purchases, and Wechsler comments on the stories the inscriptions in her books tell. In one used book that she found at a flea market, there糖心传媒檚 a loving dedication between two women, and he wonders what may have happened? Did somebody die? Did the relationship end? Wechsler糖心传媒檚 wife, in the original, says, 糖心传媒淪omeone has sold their heart out for cheap.糖心传媒� This is the expression. And immediately I thought of Tina Turner糖心传媒檚 糖心传媒渨hat糖心传媒檚 love but a secondhand emotion,糖心传媒� because the German here, vertr枚deln, contains the word for junk like you糖心传媒檇 find at a flea market. So what Wechsler糖心传媒檚 wife is literally saying is, someone has second-handed her heart. The closest thing in English would be 糖心传媒渟omeone has trifled her heart away,糖心传媒� but nobody talks like that, and it doesn糖心传媒檛 sound antiquated in the German. It糖心传媒檚 too lofty. Nobody in the novel is saying anything like 糖心传媒渇orsooth methinks someone hath trifled away her heart.糖心传媒� I really hated the way it sounded. So finally I asked to Benjamin if he thought Wechsler糖心传媒檚 wife would quote Tina Turner. I糖心传媒檓 not sure he completely grasped what I was asking at that moment. So I went with: 糖心传媒淚 guess sometimes love really is a second-hand emotion.糖心传媒� Not a literal translation but it got to the heart of what she was saying. And he thought it was perfect.

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