Austerlitz - W. G. Sebald
Austerlitz, by W. G. Sebald. Translated by Anthea Bell.
Literary greatness comes, I think, in two main forms: greatness of substance and greatness of reading experience. I would assume that most of the books on the "1,001" list display at least the former while there are many excellent examples of the latter, of varying degrees of "seriousness" or real literary merit (as if that can be defined or, really, even exists). In my experience, the combination of the two is rare, and books of the former stripe only can often be difficult to read for want of interest.
Why the preamble? I find it difficult to place Austerlitz exactly. From the beginning, I thought I was in for a long, troublesome slog through a wilderness of digressions; in the middle, I was enraptured by the cohesion of style and substance; at the end, I was disappointed that a book with so much to offer in both forms of greatness settled solely for the former at the great and terrible expense of readability.
At its core, the book is about identity and its fluidity: how, exactly, does one react when well-settled notions of identity suddenly evaporate, giving substance to a feeling of displacement previously attributed to general angst or, perhaps, ignored? That is the central question of this book, whose style is as fluid in many ways as the story being told. Jacques Austerlitz tells his story to an unnamed and almost anonymous narrator, and the reader follows his travels across Europe as he searches for a past that can never really be uncovered. The novel presents an unusually perceptive look at the effects of the Holocaust on Europe and on those affected by it in ways they may not be wholly aware of, and though its descriptions of the horrors of relocation resonate in unmatched beauty, strange digressions in the novel's opening stages will likely prevent many readers from reaching its wonderfully rich heart.
Austerlitz isn't difficult, exactly, nor is it entirely settled. Like its narrator, it wanders through a maze of topics in a constant barrage of stream-of-thought associations. The difference is, however, that Sebald graces readers with few opportunities for rest: though time might pass for Austerlitz and his book-narrating friend, sentences plod along unchecked and the book's four or five paragraphs prove overbearingly long. These stylistic decisions are certainly not without substance and indeed create in the reader the kind of confusion and exhaustion explored and explained by Austerlitz himself; nonetheless, they can appear indulgent to readers and make the book a bit more difficult than it could be.
Austerlitz is no doubt a Great Novel, no doubt, but a difficult one at times that falls just short of true, complete greatness.
Literary greatness comes, I think, in two main forms: greatness of substance and greatness of reading experience. I would assume that most of the books on the "1,001" list display at least the former while there are many excellent examples of the latter, of varying degrees of "seriousness" or real literary merit (as if that can be defined or, really, even exists). In my experience, the combination of the two is rare, and books of the former stripe only can often be difficult to read for want of interest.
Why the preamble? I find it difficult to place Austerlitz exactly. From the beginning, I thought I was in for a long, troublesome slog through a wilderness of digressions; in the middle, I was enraptured by the cohesion of style and substance; at the end, I was disappointed that a book with so much to offer in both forms of greatness settled solely for the former at the great and terrible expense of readability.
At its core, the book is about identity and its fluidity: how, exactly, does one react when well-settled notions of identity suddenly evaporate, giving substance to a feeling of displacement previously attributed to general angst or, perhaps, ignored? That is the central question of this book, whose style is as fluid in many ways as the story being told. Jacques Austerlitz tells his story to an unnamed and almost anonymous narrator, and the reader follows his travels across Europe as he searches for a past that can never really be uncovered. The novel presents an unusually perceptive look at the effects of the Holocaust on Europe and on those affected by it in ways they may not be wholly aware of, and though its descriptions of the horrors of relocation resonate in unmatched beauty, strange digressions in the novel's opening stages will likely prevent many readers from reaching its wonderfully rich heart.
Austerlitz isn't difficult, exactly, nor is it entirely settled. Like its narrator, it wanders through a maze of topics in a constant barrage of stream-of-thought associations. The difference is, however, that Sebald graces readers with few opportunities for rest: though time might pass for Austerlitz and his book-narrating friend, sentences plod along unchecked and the book's four or five paragraphs prove overbearingly long. These stylistic decisions are certainly not without substance and indeed create in the reader the kind of confusion and exhaustion explored and explained by Austerlitz himself; nonetheless, they can appear indulgent to readers and make the book a bit more difficult than it could be.
Austerlitz is no doubt a Great Novel, no doubt, but a difficult one at times that falls just short of true, complete greatness.