'The Radetzky March' by Joseph Roth (Review)

Over the past couple of years, partly owing to the influence of Caroline and Lizzy's German Literature Month, I have been reading a lot more books in the German language (good to know that my university time wasn't completely wasted...).  While some of that reading has been fairly contemporary (e.g. Peter Stamm, Judith Hermann, Birgit Vanderbeke), I haven't been neglecting the classics.

A while back, Marcel Reich-Ranicki, a famous German literary critic, published his Kanon, a list of the most noteworthy works in German-language literature.  I have been working my way (slowly!) through the list of novels, and today's post looks at another of Reich-Ranicki's recommendations - and a very good book it is too...

*****
Joseph Roth's major work Radetzkymarsch (The Radetzky March) is a novel which you will find on any list of best German-language novels, occasionally at the very top of the tree.  It is a family saga spanning three generations, set in the dying days of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, where the fate and fortunes of the Trotta family are intertwined with those of Emperor Franz Josef I - and of the empire itself...

The story begins in 1859, at the Battle of Solferino, where a quick-thinking soldier dives on the Emperor to save him from being assassinated by an enemy sniper.  The monarch's gratitude expresses itself in the form of riches and promotion to the aristocracy - a fair reward for the son of a Slovenian farmer.  However, the prize turns out to be a double-edged sword - both the brave soldier and his descendants struggle to come to terms with their new station in life.  The new Baron is astounded by the way his life has changed:

"Als hätte man ihm sein eigenes Leben gegen ein fremdes, neues, in einer Werkstatt angfertigtes vertauscht, wiederholte er sich jede Nacht vor dem Einschlafen und jeden Morgen nach dem erwachen seinen neuen Rang und seinen neuen Stand, trat vor den Spiegel und bestätigte sich, daß sein Angesicht das alte war."

"As if his life had been exchanged for a strange, new one, one which had been factory-made, every night before sleeping and every morning after waking up, he repeated his new rank and position in life, walked up to the mirror and checked that his face was still the same old one."***

He passes away, never having quite come to terms with his elevation in life.  However, for his son and grandson, life is to be even more difficult...

Franz, the son, becomes a high-ranking goverment official, having been expressly forbidden by his father to enter the military.  However his son, Carl Joseph, at his father's request, does become a soldier.  Sadly, just like the first baron, the two are unable to enjoy life as privileged gentlemen; a constant feeling of being slightly out-of-place mixed with misfortune in love leads to a lifetime searching for a reason to keep going.

Part of the problem is the absence of female influence in their lives.  Both Franz's mother and wife passed away at an early age, events which have lasting effects on the Trottas.  The father buries himself in work and tradition, following a regime so regimented that the outside world is unable to penetrate or surprise it.  The son wanders around lost, in search of affection, often finding it in the arms of an older woman - a mother figure...

There is one more important male character in the novel though, one who has an enormous influence on events.  Kaiser Franz Joseph himself appears several times, meeting all three generations of the Trottas, and the fate of the Barons seems inextricably linked to those of the Emperor and his realm.  As the Empire totters towards its destruction, decaying gradually over decades before being given the coup de grace by the events of the First World War, so too does the ageing Franz Joseph move gracefully towards the grave.  And let's not forget, the Emperor also lost his wife at an early age...

Roth skilfully uses a visual metaphor to bind the fortunes of the two families further.  The first Baron had his portrait painted by one of his son's friends, a painting which remains in the family, and which his grandson is obsessed with.  As the second Baron ages, he begins to resemble the portrait remarkably - but this is not the only resemblance.  The Kaiser too has his portrait (found all over his empire), leaving the youngest Trotta to be watched over by two formidable old men - it isn't easy being constantly in the eyes of the Kaiser...

"Seine Gnade selbst, die über der Familie der Trottas ruhte, war eine Last aus scheidendem Eis.  Und Carl Joseph fror es unter dem blauen Blick seines Kaisers."

"Even his favour, which rested upon the Trotta family, was a burden of ice.  And Carl Joseph froze beneath the blue gaze of his Emperor."***

As the empire draws closer to its inevitable doom, so too does the family line of the Trottas, men lifted above their station, a historical aberration soon to be smoothed out.  In linking the fate of the family with that of the empire, Roth allows the reader to witness the death throes of what was one of Europe's great powers.  It all makes for a wonderful novel, one worthy of its inclusion in Reich-Ranicki's pantheon of German-language greats.

*****
So, after the success of Hotel Savoy, that's two out of two for Roth - time to look for more of his work :)  As for the Kanon, despite my recent activity, that is just the ninth of the top novels that I've read.  Another eleven to go...

*** All translations are my own, pitiful efforts ;)

Endstation: Berlin Alexanderplatz

My original list of reads for German Literature Month was a fairly random selection, made up of books I had lying about and a few classics that had been downloaded to my Kindle.  However, as I began reading and reviewing my selection, I noticed a couple of themes which each ran through several books.

The first was the origins of the German nation and the rise of the Prussian state, as you can see in my reviews on Goethe, Heine, Wolf and Fontane.  The other, tangentially-linked, topic was the city of Berlin, German capital and the heartland of Prussia and its bureaucracy.  As well as Fontane's portrayal of late-nineteenth-century Berlin, we were also treated to Cees Nooteboom's description of the fall of the Berlin Wall, Birgit Vanderbeke's flight from the grey capital and Judith Hermann's stories of the young and carefree living it up in a newly prominent city.

So, having noticed the patterns which emerged from the month, I decided to change my plans a little.  Apologies to Alois Hotschnig, and his novel Leonardos Hände, but I had another book on my shelves, one I'd been meaning to get to for quite a while, and a novel which would cap off my reading for the month quite nicely.  You see, when it comes to books about Berlin in German, there's one which you just can't avoid...

*****
Berlin Alexanderplatz is a book which regularly appears in the top-ten lists of German novels and has also been known to occupy the top spot on those lists.  The story begins in late 1927, when Franz Biberkopf, the hero of the tale, is released from prison and heads off to Berlin to start a new life.  The reader suspects that this may be a tall order, but just in case we have any doubt, the writer immediately informs us that after four years in prison:

"Die Strafe beginnt."  p.15 (dtv, 2011)

For Franz, the real punishment for his crime (which we later find out is the manslaughter of his girlfriend) really is just beginning...

Initially, Franz persists in his plan to go straight, taking on a number of menial jobs, and he manages to get by, finding many friends (and women) to help him with his return to society.  However, there is always a feeling that this is destined to be short lived.  One of the men in his local pub says:

"Man soll sich nicht dicke tun mit seinem Schicksal.  Ich bin Gegner des Fatums.  Ich bin kein Grieche, ich bin Berliner." p.56

"You shouldn't boast about your fate.  I am against destiny.  I'm no Greek, I'm a Berliner."

In fact, Berlin Alexanderplatz plays out exactly like a Greek play, complete with prologues to each part telling us the woes our poor, mortal hero will face over the next fifty pages...

The book is not just about Franz though.  In reality, it is the story of a city, a snapshot of Berlin over the period of a year and a half during one of the most uncertain, but exciting, times in its history.  The Weimar Republic is still in power, having survived hyper-inflation and various revolts, and the Great Depression is just around the corner.  Both Nazis and Communists are attempting to convert people to their cause - either could still rise to take over power in the Reichstag.

For the majority of the people though, politics is something that can be worried about another day.  The cast of Berlin Alexanderplatz (mostly drunkards, thieves, wheeler-dealers and prostitutes) are more concerned with making the most out of life.  This is the time of Cabaret, and there's a lot more splurging and sleeping around than concern about extremists rising to power.  Döblin often leaves Franz to his own devices for a while, taking us off to other bars and dance clubs, showing us what else is happening in the metropolis.  As we get to know lawyers, shopkeepers, moneylenders and newspaper vendors, we begin to get a fuller view of life in 1928 Berlin.

*****
So, a novel from the 1920s, set in and around a large European city, following one man's story, interspersing it with snapshots of what is going on around him - that sounds oddly familiar...

And so it is.  The more you read Berlin Alexanderplatz, the more it reminds you of Ulysses.  Just as Joyce shows the reader Dublin through one day in the life of Leopold Bloom, Döblin uses the hapless Biberkopf to paint us a picture of his chosen city, even if his picture concentrates on a slightly nastier, and more lawless, section of society than his Irish counterpart's portrait.  Ulysses, on the whole, is a story of the Irish (lower) working class - Döblin's characters seldom have any intention of working...

The parallels are also prominent in the way the writers play with language.  Berlin Alexanderplatz contains a lot of dialogue, the vast majority of it in the Berlin dialect, which would make it tricky to read at the best of times.  However, Döblin's experiments with language go a lot further than that.  The writer uses many different varieties of language in his novel, constantly breaking the flow of the narrative with sections written in various registers and genres.  One minute you're reading one of the numerous nonsense rhymes that permeate the text, the next you're wading through two pages of legalese contractual jargon; after reading a very familiar weather report for the Brandenburg region, you then find yourself in the middle of a mock-mediaeval text... 

All of which (as you can imagine) makes reading Berlin Alexanderplatz - in German at least! - a very difficult task at times.  However, it's well worth the effort.  The book was published in 1929, which means that Döblin was writing about the society he was actually living in, making it a fascinating glimpse of what was happening at the time just before the Nazis came to power.  In fact, several scenes (possibly unintentionally) give hints as to how events would later unfold...

As for Franz, well, he's a man of his time, full of inner rage and unable to control his drinking or his temper.  I won't spoil the story by telling you what happens to him, but it is interesting to think about why events happen as they do.  Is he destined to fail? A victim of circumstances?

"Denn der Mann von dem ich berichte, ist zwar kein gewöhnlicher Mann, aber doch insofern ein gewöhnlicher Mann, als wir ihn genau verstehen und manchmal sagen: wir könnten Schritt um Schritt dasselbe getan haben wie er und dasselbe erlebt haben wie er." p.217

"Because the man I'm talking about may not be an ordinary man, but he is ordinary in the sense that we understand him completely and sometimes say: we might have done exactly the same as him and experienced exactly the same things."

There, but for the grace of God,...

Here Come the Drums, Here Come the Drums

After breezing through Peter Stamm's Sieben Jahre in just a couple of days, I was fooled into thinking that I was ready for a tougher task.  For a long time now, I've had a copy of Die Blechtrommel (The Tin Drum) sitting on the shelves, so before the adrenalin rush of cruising through Stamm's book could wear off, I launched into the monstrous tome you can see on the left - three weeks later...

*****
Günter Grass, for many reasons, has become a rather controversial figure, but there is no doubting the fact that he is one of the most important German literary figures of the twentieth century - and Die Blechtrommel is the book that made him.  It's a huge, rambling piece of magical realism, divided into three books which loosely cover the period before WWII, the war itself, and then the post-war years in West Germany.  The novel is partly autobiographical; however, once you start reading it, you suspect that few of the more interesting scenes come from Grass' personal memories ;)

The story is narrated by its hero, Oskar Matzerath, a man approaching his thirtieth birthday trapped inside a mental institute.  In the company of his helpful guard Bruno, Oskar decides to set down the story of his life (beginning, strangely enough with the conception of his mother...), telling the tale of how he lived through some of the most dramatic and sickening events in human history.  And, as he works his way through his story, the events take place to the beat of a drum...

The drum is the latest of a line descended from the one he received, as promised by his mother, for his third birthday.  The red-and-white tin drum, ever present, helps Oskar beat out the rhythm of history, taking the reader back in time to watch little Oskar growing up in Danzig.  Sentient from birth, stuck (of his own choosing) at the height of a three-year-old, with a voice that can shatter glass, this is - as you can imagine - no ordinary narrator.

After the simple, straight-forward text of Sieben Jahre, Die Blechtrommel came as a bit of a shock.  Put simply, it's a monster of a book.  The dense, complex text, with every page containing a host of unknown words, tested my German reading ability to the limit.  To wade through the 779 pages, I spent fifteen days out of twenty two, with a couple of rests between the books to relax with something a little less strenuous.  In addition to the linguistic issues, the bizarre plot (or lack of it) also made it a tricky read.  In one sense, it's a pretty straight-forward linear work, following Oskar and his family from 1899 to 1954; in another, it's a never-ending stream of increasingly bizarre episodes in the vein of Gabriel García Márquez or Haruki Murakami, never allowing you to relax in the certainty of where the story is going next.

Oskar is the focus of the book, a classic unreliable narrator who fabricates and embellishes, occasionally admitting that matters occurred slightly differently to how he had been portraying them.  Through his eyes, we see the rise of the Nazis and the start of the war in the ever-shifting city of Danzig (Gdańsk), a town divided between Polish and Germanic allegiances.  He is a witness to history, allowing us to relive events such as Kristallnacht or the taking of the Polish post-office in Danzig - although what we see has to be taken with a pinch of salt...

Our vertically-challenged friend is also a harbinger of death, bringing about (intentionally or accidentally) the demise of a host of characters, including his mother, his two fathers (it's a long story), a gang of boys he takes over, a dwarf lover, a nurse he takes a shine to...  He is less a person than a tool of destiny, a 94-cm figure dooming all he comes into contact with.  Whether as a thief, a revue performer, a nude model or an engraver of tombstones, the banging of his drum inevitably leaves death in its wake.

What makes Die Blechtrommel fascinating is the sheer variety of stories the writer produces.  The start of the book, where Oskar's grandmother uses her ingenuity (and clothing) to rescue a fugitive criminal, is a classic scene, a story which could stand alone as a great piece of literature.  That is just the beginning though: from there, Oskar takes us to his chaotic first - and last - day of school; a career as a jazz drummer in a rather unusual night club; an unfortunate incident with a cursed wooden carving; a jam session with a baby Jesus statue...  The recaps which begin to appear towards the end of the book serve to remind the reader of just how many great stories the book contains.

While it may appear that it's just a mad collection of over-the-top anecdotes, there is a more serious side to Die Blechtrommel.  Grass skilfully portrays the appeal of the Nazi party to the ordinary working man, only to turn the tables by concentrating on the gruesome, horrendous details of the atrocities committed by those people in the years before the war.  Oskar's quasi-magical qualities allow him to bear witness to events he should not have seen, such as the desperate defence of the post-office by workers who believed fervently that the French would rush to their aid, and that the British fleet was sailing into Gdańsk's harbour as they spoke...

Die Blechtrommel is a wonderful book, a truly memorable version of twentieth-century history.  It does sag a little at times (inevitably so in a book of this size and daring), but it is well worth the effort.  I'm not sure that I'll be rereading it any time soon, but if I do, I'll probably approach it differently next time, taking it a chapter at a time and treating it as self-contained stories, perhaps even selecting particular passages to have another look at.  Whatever you may think of the writer (and there are many people who don't think that much of him), his creation, Oskar is well worth getting to know.  Make the time to find out for yourself - even if it takes a lot of finding ;)

German Literature Month - 'Effi Briest' Read-Along (Part Three)

I've finally made it to the end of Effi Briest, and an entertaining journey it's been too.  However, dear reader, if you have yet to reach the end of the novel, it would be a good idea to leave my blog post-haste, lest your eyes be offended by news of events yet to come.  Go on then...

*****
For those of you who have also reached the end of the book then (and for those who don't intend to), this third post will look back at the final section and try to summarise some of my overall thoughts on Fontane's novel - and a very good one it turned out to be too.  As suspected, things all went a little pear-shaped for our heroine on her return to Berlin, and I turned out to be (sadly) right in my suspicions that Effi's innocent comments on outliving certain characters were fated to be proven untrue.

Of course, Fontane's light touch in describing, or rather not describing, Effi's indiscretions was a major turning point, and when we find out (via the letters) the full extent of Effi's betrayal, we feel a little betrayed ourselves.  For the first, and perhaps the only, time in the book, the reader distances themself from Effi, sympathising with Innstetten in his turmoil.  With later events in mind, it is ironic that it is actually Annie who is the means to Effi's downfall...

Of course, our sympathy with the politician is fleeting.  In a matter of pages, he has made his decision, one which will end in a violent death, a further lingering one and (probably) an extremely disturbed childhood.  The moment Innstetten chooses to pursue Crampas, ignoring the inner voice which implores him to forgive and forget, he returns to his usual robotic self, unaffected even by a brief stretch in prison.  Effi herself describes her husband best when, near the end of the novel, she says to herself:

"Denn er hatte viel Gutes in seiner Natur und war so edel, wie jemand sein kann, der ohne rechte Liebe ist." p.249 (Hamburger Lesehefte)

Effi's casual comment about the goodness of Innstetten's nature, coupled with a complete absence of love, is a telling one indeed.

We never really expected much from Effi's husband, so his actions on learning the truth of the affair, while extreme, are not exactly surprising.  However, the reaction of her parents was absolutely stunning, probably one of the most jaw-dropping moments of the book.  I had assumed that Effi would be returning to Hohen-Cremmen to live out her life in tranquil solitude, so her mother's letter was rather... surprising, shall we say.

Over the first two weeks of this read-along, our hosts, Caroline and Lizzy, had been dropping hints as to the importance of the parents in Effi Briest, and it is only in the third section that we see why.  It would be interesting to find out how Fontane's contemporary readership saw this part of the plot.  Were the late-nineteenth-Century German folk as upset as we were at the way Effi was disowned, or did they also think that it was the only possible action?  Did they believe that Effi's parents redeemed themselves by finally taking her in three years later after her serious illness?  Because I certainly don't...

I'm fairly sure though that Fontane fully intended the parents to be despised by his readers.  The contrast in the final scene between the faithful Rollo and the disinterested Briests is a sight to behold, and the final words of the book, between the mother and father, really say it all:

"...ob sie nicht doch vielleicht zu jung war?"
"Ach, Luise, lass... das ist ein zu weites Feld." p.250

When the mother tentatively asks if perhaps Effi really had been too young to marry Innstetten, the father replies with his usual stock, dismissive response (which I like to interpret as 'opening up a can of worms'!).  Concerned parents?  I'll leave that for you to decide.

*****
So, stepping back from the action for a moment, how good is Effi Briest as a book, and how does it compare to those other great novels of marital infidelity, Anna Karenina and Madame Bovary?  Well, as a character, Effi is infinitely more sympathetic than the two other fictional ladies mentioned, and credit for that goes to the writer and his decision to start his story at the very beginning.  I am not a big fan of heroines betraying their husbands, whatever the cause, but by introducing Effi to the reader at a relatively young age, Fontane allows us to live through her marriage with her, seeing it through her eyes, noticing the neglect of her ambitious husband.  It also helps that she realises that her actions are wrong and attempts to make amends, a very different turn of events to those portrayed in Tolstoy's and Flaubert's novels.

However, that's not to say that it's a better book.  Despite my antipathy for AK herself, I think Anna Karenina is a wonderful book (even if it's more the Levin side which interests me), and I think it shows a deeper character development than Fontane's novel.  Fontane is probably one of the best classic German authors I've read when it comes to character development, but compared to some Victorian writers (and the two Russian legends), he still comes off second best.

One of my problems with Effi Briest is the character of Innstetten.  I don't feel that he was brought to life in the way you'd expect from a major character, especially compared to Effi herself, and this detracts a little from the novel as a whole.  Still, this is comparing the book to classics of world literature, and I'm not dismissing it by any means.  On the contrary - it's a wonderful book, and one I'll no doubt be rereading many times over the coming years.  And Fontane's emphasis on Effi is not a bad thing; he is able to transfer the affection he feels for his heroine across to the reader, helping us to form an attachment with the doomed young women.

Finally, should anyone doubt Fontane's affection for Effi, one line towards the end of the novel (p.247 in my version) finally shows us what his true feelings are:

"Arme Effi, du hattest zu lange hinaufgesehen und darüber nachgedacht..."

When you're on such familiar terms with your characters, it's safe to say that they have a special place in your heart...

German Literature Month - 'Effi Briest' Read-Along (Part Two)

And we're back for the second of three posts on Theodor Fontane's classic, Effi Briest.  While the first post was relatively general in nature, this one will start to give the game away plotwise, so if you haven't made it to the end of Chapter 24 yet, please look away now...

*****

Still with me?  Excellent :)

The middle section of Effi Briest picks up where Chapter Fifteen left off, with the dashing Major Crampas worming his way into Effi's affections both in front of and behind Innstetten's back.  On a series of rides and picnics by the coast, the two become closer, and the more Effi realises that her honour is in danger, the more she tries to pull away.  Our poor heroine tries to face down her admirer, but events (as they always seem to do in fiction - bad writers!) conspire against her, and on a cold night, alone with the Major in a sleigh, the inevitable happens...

The reader, to this point at least, is not aware of any further indiscretions, although this is implicitly hinted in Effi's 'walks', but I believe Fontane is sympathetic to Effi's struggles.  The references she makes to the poem Gottesmauer indicate her willingness to seek shelter from the storm of Crampas' advances - ironically, when the wall of darkness does surround her, Crampas is on the wrong (or right side)...

However, the move to Berlin comes as a godsend to our young heroine, and she deliberately avoids returning to the coast, putting herself out of temptation's way until Innstetten can join her in the capital.  It looks as if a dangerous chapter in her life may be behind her, with Crampas far away and her husband now near enough to pay her (and her daughter) more attention.  With a little effort - on the part of both husband and wife -, there's no reason why things can't end happily ever after.

Of course, that would make for a very boring ending, and there are indications that the final sixty pages or so will bring another dramatic turn.  The mere mention of the name Crampas (this time the village Effi hears of on her holidays), brings memories of her betrayal rushing back, and as we leave her on a sleepless night at her parents' house, we sense that somehow or other, the marriage is fated to come crashing down around Effi's ears...

Should we feel sorry for her?  Well, I've already indicated that perhaps there is reason to forgive her, both on the grounds of her youth and the amends she has tried to make in avoiding Crampas before the move to Berlin.  However, it's not quite as simple as that.  The full extent of the relationship with Crampas has yet to be revealed, and for us to forgive her, Effi would need to be truly penitent.  Yet the final part of Chapter Twenty Four shows Effi's thoughts to be less related to guilt and more concerned with getting away with it all.

So where do we go from here?  Will Innstetten stumble upon the truth?  Will Crampas brag and let the cat out of the bag?  Will Effi succumb to guilt and blurt everything out to her husband?  How will her parents react?  And, assuming the secret is aired, what will Innstetten do about it?  I still have the feeling that Effi's youth and naivety may lead her to do something drastic...

...but I suppose I'll find out what really happens next week ;)

German Literature Month - 'Effi Briest' Read-Along (Part One)

A while back I got a message from Lizzy Siddal, one of the hosts of German Literature Month, asking if I'd read Effi Briest, as she had 'secret plans'.  Of course, that has turned out to be a read-along of what is arguably the most well-known and popular German classic.  I'd previously read two of Thedor Fontane's works, Unwiederbringlich (Irretrievable) and Frau Jenny Treibel (Really? You really want a translation?) - and loved them -, so I was looking forward to cracking open my Hamburger Lesehefte edition and joining in the fun.  The only problem is going to be rationing the reading out over the allotted time...

*****
The novel starts with a detailed description of the Briest house (read mansion) and an even more thorough portrait of the heroine herself.  Effi is a seventeen-year-old, mischievous, playful girl, an attractive young woman who teases one of her friends about her fervent desire for marriage.  It comes then as a surprise to the modern reader to see her engaged in a matter of pages to Geert von Innstetten, a thirty-eight-year-old baron whom Effi first meets at the same time we do - a few hours before the betrothal...

Of course, back in the nineteenth century, this kind of age gap was fairly common (it was the successful career men who could afford to support a family that had the pick of the beautiful young women), and the aristocracy have always been known for putting social mobility over love in arranging suitable (and often quick) marriages.  Even so, the fact that Innstetten is himself the former lover of Effi's mother does it make it that touch more intriguing!

On marrying the Baron, Effi is taken out of her comfort zone, both literally and metaphorically, as she is forced to leave her idyllic family home to move to the Baltic Coast, far from friends and family, surrounded only by cold, disinterested landed gentry.  Once the honeymoon is over, she begins to discover that her husband, while kind and gentlemanly, is slightly self-centred and has little time for the romantic side of marriage, leaving her to her own devices far too often.  For a high-spirited woman like Effi, this probably does not bode well for a long and happy married life.

This alone would probably give our young heroine pause for thought, but she has one more slight problem to contend with.  You see, the house she and her husband share is an old, ramshackle building, much of which is unused.  One night, when Innstetten is away, Effi is startled by what she thinks is a figure gliding through her bedroom - and the day after, she hears stories about the death of a Chinaman who used to live in the town...

*****
You don't need to be psychic to realise that things are unlikely to end well in Effi Briest.  The young couple are patently unsuited to each other, Effi's need for adventure clashing with Innstetten's attention to what other people think, and the slightest catalyst (perhaps in the form of the dashing Major Crampas?) could bring things crashing down around their ears.

But what kind of novel will Effi Briest turn out to be?  After fifteen chapters, I'm still not 100% certain.  Is it a Jane Eyre, with a former wife hidden in the attic?  Is it a new The Mysteries of Udolpho, with villains around every corner?  Or is it another Anna Karenina, where Effi will eventually succumb to the temptation of marital infidelity?  While I have my suspicions, it really could go any way...

One thing I did pick up on though was Effi's repeated comments about her youth and about other people (e.g. Innstetten, Niemeyer the priest) dying before her.  That looks suspiciously like tempting fate to me...  Am I right?  Well, I'm sure things will be a bit clearer by this time next week - happy reading :)

Don't Hassle the Hoff(mann)

"Please allow me to introduce myself,
I'm a man of wealth and taste"

Much as I'd like to believe that these lines describe yours truly, they actually begin The Rolling Stones song Sympathy for the Devil, a tune which constantly popped up in my head while I was reading my contribution to the current Classics Circuit.  E.T.A. Hoffmann's wonderful Gothic novel Die Elixiere des Teufels (The Devil's Elixirs) is written in the style of an autobiography, a parchment discovered in a monastery and supplemented with various other documents by the publisher, and it follows the life of the monk Medardus - a man who (as you will see) has more than his fair share of problems with the man downstairs.

Medardus begins life as plain old Franz, a young boy who has grown up without a father, but with an unwelcome legacy.  His father had apparently sinned greatly before meeting his mother, and it is Franz's mission to atone for the misdeeds of the father by devoting his life to the church (a path suggested to him by a meeting with an old painter he encountered in his youth).  He grows up and enters a monastery, and it is there that he learns of the legend of the Devil's Elixirs - a story which will have a shattering effect on his future, and which is inextricably linked to his past.

Having set us up nicely in a surprisingly short space of time, Hoffmann then lets rip with an incredible story, a Gothic adventure, a road trip with a difference.  After partaking of one of the aforementioned elixirs, Medardus sets out into the big, bad world, little realising that one of the baddest (sic) things out there is himself.  As he ventures from city to countryside, inns to palaces, verdant Germanic forests to the splendour of the Vatican, our intrepid monk is pursued not only by police and assassins, but also by his destiny - and perhaps himself...

As Medardus goes on his merry way, pursued and accompanied by the devil inside, he manages to get in and out of his various scrapes, encountering many people who have interesting tales to tell him.  Interestingly, most of those stories are actually about Medardus himself, as a figure from his past (or his future) has already been where he is now.  Many a conversation turns into a story about a monk who had been up to no good somewhere in the vicinity (which often makes for uncomfortable hearing for our religious friend).

This example of a physical resemblance causing all kinds of mischief is a common plot in Gothic novels, but the idea, which could easily descend into cliché, is skilfully handled, always leaving the reader in a little doubt as to whether or not he actually exists.  We are constantly asking ourselves: Who is this second monk?  Why is he following Medardus?  What is the painter doing back in the story?  Is that person really dead?  Why does my head hurt?  After I finished the story, I read up a little on the background, and the idea of a split personality was actually supposed to refer to Hoffmann's own split loyalties between his passion for the arts and his day-to-day duties.  You really don't need to know this to enjoy the story though :)

I won't say too much more about the plot, but Die Elixiere des Teufels was cunningly designed to keep the reader on their toes at all times.  There is a distinct supernatural element about the novel, and (unlike in certain other novels) it's a feeling that you never really shake off.  Every time that we think that we are beginning to see what has been happening and to find a rational explanation for the extraordinary, we realise that certain points are still unexplained.  Indeed, some strands will remain up in the air.  One thing I will tell you though - Hoffmann likes to keep things in the family ;)

This is a wonderful story.   It's the kind of book that people who think classics are boring should read, packed as it is with event after event, twists and turns and a plot which never lets you know exactly what is going on.  It's a kind of Tom Jones with more monks, a Wilhelm Meister's Apprentice Years with more stabbing, a Canterbury Tales with more incest.  If that sounds like your cup of tea, then I strongly suggest you give it a try :)  Of course, with German Literature Month coming up in November, that would be an ideal opportunity...

To finish off (as I seem to have got a bit of a pop culture theme going today), I'll leave you with an apt film quotation.  Medardus, despite his apparent piety, finds himself unable to avoid the temptation of the elixir.  Why?  Well, unfortunately, the devil always seems to find a way to tempt those he wishes to ensnare.  In the words of Al Pacino (from The Devil's Advocate):

"Vanity - definitely my favourite sin."

Twice Around the Fontane

Today, after our brief trip down to Switzerland, we're back up to the north of Germany to become acquainted with another wonderful classic writer, Herr Theodor Fontane.  No, not Theodor Storm, he of Der Schimmelreiter fame, but another Theodor, from very much the same part of Germany.  Let me clarify this a little...

*****
Theodor Fontane is one of the most famous of Germany's nineteenth-century writers, and he is probably the one I'd recommend most to those who have grown up with the English V-Lit canon.  Unlike many of the works I've been reading recently, which can struggle to crack the hundred-page barrier (and, in some cases, are barely scraping into novella territory), Fontane's back catalogue includes a few actual novels, books over the 200-page mark.

Another area where Fontane's writing has more in common with English works than the German novellas is the amount of attention paid to characterisation and the internal workings of his protagonists.  In some of the novellas I've read recently, I felt the lack of a real connection to the characters, the subtle painting of layer upon layer of humanity applied by writers like Eliot and Hardy.  Happily, the two works I've read by Fontane have been much better in this regard, allowing the reader to become absorbed in the lives of those depicted within their pages.

Earlier this year, I read (and failed to review...) Unwiederbringlich (Irretrievable), a novel about the disintegration of the marriage of a north-German aristocratic couple.  Count Holk, a minor nobleman attached to the Danish court in Copenhagen, goes off on one of his occasional residences in the Danish capital, leaving his faithful wife behind in his majestic, but solitary, mansion on the Baltic coast.  The jovial Holk is already starting to grow apart from his more serious wife, and when he meets a beautiful, fiery young courtier at the palace, sparks are bound to fly.

The story is not as predictable as you might think, and the ending, most definitely, is different to that which an English novelist would probably plump for.  The effect of the whole, however, is to make you ponder about what you really want from life, and what you are prepared to risk to get it.  Having read this a good few months back now, I'm not going to try to go into any more detail than that; however, the wonderful Lizzy Siddal of Lizzy's Literary Life wrote a marvellous review of Irretrievable a while back (the review that induced me to read it in the first place), so why not give that a go instead?

*****

And now, dear reader, our journey takes us to Berlin near the end of the nineteenth century, where we will meet the title lady of another Fontane novel, Frau Jenny Treibel.  Jenny is a well-to-do middle-aged woman who has managed to elevate herself in the world (through an advantageous marriage) from humble beginnings, and now, with her home life secure and sumptuous, and one son safely married off, she is looking around for a bride for her younger son, the slightly colourless Leopold.  While her daughter-in-law's sister is only too eager to create another tie between the business-like Berlin Treibel family and the rigidly formal Hamburg Munks, Frau Treibel secretly believes that Leopold needs a partner with more fire and flair.  Of course, when one actually appears, Jenny's true colours will be exposed for all to see...

From his private letters, we know that Fontane had it in for the vulgar bourgeoisie with their false pretensions towards high culture and their desperate desire for increasing their wealth, but Frau Jenny Treibel is a more measured, and subtle, attack on the newly-moneyed classes.  Corinna Schmidt, the lively, intelligent young woman in question, is clever enough to know that Leopold is far below her in terms of intelligence and character, but shrewd enough to realise that the financial and social gains from such an alliance would probably make up for her husband's shortcomings.  The writer cleverly develops a comparison between Jenny and Corinna, allowing the reader to see the similarities and differences in their respective positions; in fact, it is when Corinna herself becomes aware of this that the crisis of the piece is reached.

The book is, unusually for the time, a fairly humorous one, Fontane's tongue-in-cheek handling of the bourgeois troubles reminding one of Oscar Wilde's The Importance of Being Earnest.  In fact, the story can at times seem almost more suited to being a play than a novel, with long conversations between the principal characters and switches of scene between the two prominent settings: the luxurious (albeit located next door to a factory) mansion of the Treibels; and the run-down, but comfortable, Schmidt abode.

When you throw in a couple of elderly court ladies (one plump, one thin), a gaggle of young husband-seeking misses (including the Misses Kuh - cow-, jocularly referred to as Kälber, or 'calfs'), an over-educated young girl who is well on her way to becoming a Stepford wife, and Mr. Nelson, a jovial Englishman who speaks half in English, half in German and expects every man to do his duty... well, you can see that this is a welcome change from some of the more depressing stories I've read of late.  I would heartily recommend Frau Jenny Treibel, and I suspect that when I next visit The Book Depository web-site (which will probably be not too far in the future...), I will more than likely be throwing a couple more of Fontane's works into my shiny, virtual basket.  And I think that really says it all, don't you?

Once Upon A Time In Lübeck...

On the back of my copy of Buddenbrooks, Thomas Mann's lengthy tale of the decline of a north German family, there's a quote from the author:

"Without doubt, my most popular book in Germany is 'Buddenbrooks', and it may well be the case that, in my own country, my name will always remain primarily linked to this work." (Buddenbrooks, 2008, Fischer Taschenbuch Verlag)***

This quote dates from 1932, after Mann had completed many of his most famous works (e.g. Death in Venice, The Magic Mountain), and - to a non-German, at least - it is a somewhat surprising claim.  Certainly, the book had never really come across my radar until this year.  Therefore, I was eager to find out why this book was given such praise, and, to a certain extent, I think I can see what he was getting at.

The book begins in 1835 in Lübeck, a large town on Germany's Baltic coast (and, incidentally, Mann's hometown), where the wealthy merchant family, the Buddenbrooks, are preparing to celebrate an extravagant house-warming party in their brand-new mansion.  We are introduced to the family members, with special attention given to some of the characters whom we will accompany through the following 750 pages, as they eat, drink and make merry.  With such a show of opulence, it seems that this is a family on the rise, with high status in the city and success in business: who would think that in the space of a little over forty years, this would almost all be gone...

Buddenbrooks is, primarily, the tale of a family's demise, detailing how a fortune and reputation earned painstakingly over centuries can melt away in the twinkling of an eye.  Based on stories and impressions gleaned from the lives of Mann's own relatives (a classic example of an artist washing dirty linen in public...), it is, nevertheless, a work of fiction.  It sounds a little like a great big Victorian novel, an impression which is supported in the first few parts of the story, where the emphasis is a little more plot-driven than is later the case.  However, this is a Victorian-style novel by a modernist writer, and the novel's worth is based less on its events than on the fleshing out of certain of the characters.

The main character is Thomas Buddenbrook, a schoolboy at the start of the book, who eventually takes over as head of the family and manager of the business.  The two roles are, in fact, inseparable as the prestige of the family is due in no small part to the renown of the company.  Having been groomed from an early age to fulfil a certain role in life, it is no surprise that Thomas has learned to control his behaviour, to harness all his energies and direct them towards increasing the good name (and wealth) of the Buddenbrook empire.

Despite his relative importance in his hometown, Thomas is under no illusion as to his worth in the grand scheme of things, but is determined to be a big fish in a small pond, in his mind lambasting his unambitious uncle at one point:

"Didn't you know that you can also be a big man in a small town?  That you can be a Caesar in an average trading spot on the Baltic?" (p.276)

It is, therefore, all the more frustrating when he is forced to acknowledge, privately at least, that his is a family in decline.  In a conversation with his sister Tony, on the occasion of the opening of his new house, Thomas confides his frustrations to her, saying:

"I know that the outer, visible and tangible signs and symbols of happiness and success often only appear when, in reality, everything is already in decline." (p.431)

Eventually, this strain between his need to be and appear successful at all times and the reality of a decline in fortunes has an effect on his health; he is unable to keep up the mask he wears without suffering.  In private, his face droops wearily, and he is continually exhausted from the effort of presenting an impeccable front to the world.

Thomas' character is very different to that of his sister Tony, the other main character in the book.  She too is forced to choose between following her heart and subjugating her feelings to the success of the family; however, once she has made the decision, she never looks back, devoting her whole life in a vain attempt to uphold her family's reputation.  Failing to do so by marrying successfully, she finds other outlets for her energy in helping prepare homes for the other family members, acting as a messenger and go-between, and suggesting lucrative business schemes to her brother.

Throughout her life, Tony stays young, childish and emotional, unable by virtue of her gender to take part in the town's politics and barred from jumping into the family business.  However, her optimistic nature means that she does not become an Anna Karenina figure, choosing instead to hold her head up high and make the most of the few opportunities which do come her way.  In Tony, Mann has created a sympathetic portrait of a woman frustrated by a lack of outlets for her talents and energies, and while we initially feel sorry for her, as the decades go by, the reader recognises her strength and her ability to serve the family in her own, special way.

By the time we get to Hanno, Thomas' son, the Buddenbrook family is in steep decline, and the musically-talented young man (a thinly-veiled image of Mann himself) is another example (as in Death in Venice) of an artist arriving as the last scion of a respectable, successful family.  This is a theme which the writer adressedHanno absent-mindedly draws two bold lines after his name in the family papers shows this.  When asked why he'd done this, the confused boy eventually blurts out:

"I thought...I thought...that was it..." (p.524)

As we will find out towards the end of the novel, Hanno's naive answer is not as innocent and meaningless as it first appears...

So, is Buddenbrooks worthy of the comment I quoted at the start of the review?  It's certainly an impressive work, its constant, gradual development of personalities helping to hold the reader's attention over the whole 750-page stretch.  While not all of the characters are as well-drawn as Thomas and Tony, the scale of the book allows us to become acquainted with the quirks of many a relative and friend before the story is over, and the lack of emphasis on one central plot allows Mann to devote more time to unveiling his characters' personalities.  I don't think it's for everyone, but anyone with an interest in German literature or personality-driven books will find something worthwhile here.

I enjoyed it thoroughly (although, at times, I did feel that I would never reach the end), so I'm looking forward to having a crack at Der Zauberberg (The Magic Mountain) at some point.  Eventually.  Not in the near future.  And very slowly.  It's important to keep things in perspective...

*** All quotes in English are my own (and, hopefully, not too inaccurate) translations.

Review Post 3 - Of Novels and Telenovelas

OK, no more poetry - I promise...

On finishing The Iliad, I decided (naturally enough) that it was time to read something a little lighter, so my eyes landed on one of the Roddy Doyle books sprawled across one of my long-suffering bookshelves (note to self - operation Bookshelf Overhaul is long overdue!). Most people will have heard of or read (or, more likely, seen) Doyle's The Commitments, the first of the Barrytown trilogy (also the setting for Paddy Clarke, Ha, Ha, Ha), and The Van is the third of these novels. Set in Dublin in the wondrous year of 1990, amidst the backdrop of the Republic of Ireland's first trip to the World Cup (something more important than non-football followers could ever imagine), The Van takes Jimmy Rabbitte snr. as its main protagonist, following his experiences from unemployment to setting up a mobile fish and chip shop, the van of the title, with his best friend, Bimbo.

It's written in Doyle's usual funny, yet profound, style, giving us an insight into the day of a man who, undereducated and unemployed, has been left to make his own way through the week, drifting from the local golf course to the park, with the occasional pint or two in the evening when he can afford it. The reader can really empathise with Jimmy and his struggle to adapt to time spent alone after an adult life of work (although I, for one, would be quite happy with a bit more spare time), and his attempts to make himself useful to his family are faintly noble.

Doyle also uses the book to muse on adult male relationships, taking the long-term friendship of Jimmy and Bimbo and subjecting it to the pressure-cooker environment (or should that be deep-frier environment?) of their fledgling business. As the money comes in, emotions start to fray: the role reversal whereby the usually dominant Jimmy becomes Bimbo's side-kick, and then employee, places a great strain on their friendship until the tension becomes too much for other people to bear. Now, how do you resolve something like that...

While the gradual breakdown of a lifelong friendship and the nostalgic joy of reliving the halcyon days of Italia '90 made this a pleasure to read, the enjoyment of this novel was tainted at times by the handling of the role of women. Jimmy and his friends have a voyeuristic tendency, and women (and some girls on the cusp of attaining womanhood) are used mainly as objects to be ogled - and later pursued. I'm not doubting the reality of what Doyle has written; it's easy to believe that someone of a certain age, in a time and setting far from today's, would act as Jimmy would and not really think anything of it. It just made me feel a little uncomfortable (and I have seen a couple of reviewers who have agreed with me). That may well have been the point, but this book could well have done with a little more female perspective. Where I felt sorry for Jimmy towards the start of the book, by the end I was a little ambivalent towards him and his greasy endeavours. Which is a shame.

*****

One author who never finds me ambivalent is Thomas Hardy, whose works I started reading again last year (and will continue to enjoy in 2010). After the rolling farmlands of Far from the Madding Crowd and the ominous heaths of The Return of the Native, this time it is the woody glades of Wessex which take centre stage in his novel The Woodlanders.

Grace Melbury, educated beyond her station by her ambitious father, returns to the sylvan Wessex village of Little Hintock unable to fulfil the family promise of a marriage to Giles Winterbourne. Instead, she succumbs to the advances of a local doctor, an outsider from a higher social background, but with lower morals. I think we can all see that there won't be many happily ever afters here...

It's a lovely little read, if not a patch on his major works, and, as always, you can almost imagine yourself transported to the leafy glades by Hardy's measured prose (even if he never uses a couple of short words where a complicated - and occasionally invented - Greek-based word will do). The book abounds with love triangles and unrequited passions, and the moral seems to be to choose wisely before rushing into wedlock, especially if you're marrying above/below your station. Hardy also reflects on the unfairness of the law, particularly as regards the differing ease with which men and women were able to obtain divorces in olden days (I wonder if he'd be happier now...). Something to reflect on when remembering your wedding vows.

*****

Where Hardy is restraint and pastoral calm, my most recent book is passion and despair, usually in equal and mixed up proportions. Just as you may have heard that some bloke called Shakespeare is a fairly famous writer of English, you've probably come across the name Goethe in the context of German literature. As an avid reader, and a modern languages graduate, I am a little ashamed to say that I had never read anything by the great man - until now, that is.

Die Leiden des jungen Werthers (The Sorrows of Young Werther) is an epistolary (or letter form) novel, in which the Werther of the title, a young, romantic German, pours out the contents of his overflowing heart to his friend Wilhelm. Escaping city life for nature, Werther settles in a small town where he meets the angelic Lotte - and promptly falls head-over-heels in love. Sadly, despite their mutual understanding and attraction, their relationship can only be platonic as Lotte is promised to another man. So begins Werther's slow spiral into depression, madness and suicide...

This novel is one of the most famous Sturm und Drang works, and it is certainly stormy. On reading the first part of the novel, I was blown away by the intensity of the writing and the openness of emotion which Goethe breathed into his literary alter-ego. Werther is actually a mixture of the young Goethe's own obsession with a young woman called Lotte and the fate of a friend who ended his life at an early age. Although embarrassed by this early work later in life (he was only 25 when he wrote this - bloody geniuses...), it was an instant Europe-wide hit and found many admirers and Werther copycats. Of course, the church was not so happy with Goethe as some of those copycats went a little too far; in fact, the work was seen as an apology for those committing suicide.

A word of warning for anyone wanting to read this book in German; written in 1774, you may be a little surprised by what you see on the page. The original text varies ever so slightly from modern German, with several common and consistent spelling conventions different from today's, slight grammatical variations and a few vocabulary peculiarities. In fairness though, once you have waded through a few pages (removing redundant 'h's and swapping a few vowels around), it is surprisingly easy to read, provided you have a fairly high standard of German (and a high tolerance for chest beating, hair pulling and teeth gnashing).
Is it any good? Definitely. The prose is breath-takingly vivid at times, and Goethe drags the reader along as Werther swings between the highs of his halcyon days in Lotte's company to the lows of his attempts to come to terms with the impossibility of his desires. While the cynic in me did at times long to give him a slap and say "get over it, you cretin", it was a small voice at the back of my head and was usually drowned out by the passion Werther poured into his outbursts of grief and declarations of love.

Ready for Faust? I might give it a few months...

*****

From the sublime to the ridiculous we go as I explain what that i-Pod is doing amongst the books in my post photo. Well, having eventually succumbed to the temptation of upgrading my trusty, battered old i-Pod Mini to a sleek new Classic before Christmas, and having finally got around to upgrading my internet connection to Broadband, I am now able to download video podcasts (and able to time that process with a watch rather than a calendar). Which brings me to Alisa - Folge deinem Herzen (Alisa - Follow your Heart), a telenovela which has been running on the German channel ZDF since March last year.

Now, you may not think of me as the type of person to be obsessed with kitschy telly programmes (and you'd be right - I'm far too intellectual for all that. No, really...), but watching rubbish is a great way to practice languages. I think I got more from watching a couple of years of the soap opera Unter Uns than from three years of German at university. As a language teacher myself, I encourage students to watch programmes like Neighbours and Home and Away as they model the kind of language people use every day - and there's a limit to how much news the average language student really wants to watch.

Anyway, Alisa runs for about 40 minutes every day, Monday to Friday, and follows the trials and tribulations of Alisa Lenz, who has come back to live with her adopted parents in the small town of Schönroda after a failed business (and relationship) in Berlin. The angelic-looking Alisa, played by Teresa Scholze (who, were she British, would be a certainty to be playing Cinderella in pantomime next Christmas), stumbles across Christian, a sensitive, good-looking man (I don't know the actor's name, but I bet he's played Prince Charming a few times in his career) who happens to be the son and heir of the powerful local Castellhof family. Can you see where this is going yet?

In her first week in Schönroda, Alisa manages to seriously annoy Christian's uncle (who is then revealed to be the one interviewing her for her new job), save Christian's sister from drowning and get on the wrong side of Christian's fiancee, Ellen (who, conveniently, is as dark and brooding as Alisa is blonde and bubbly; good witch - evil witch, anyone?). Throw in a stereotypically over-exuberant Italian woman who, despite speaking perfect German, has a huge accent and starts every sentence with an Italian word, a mean supervisor who has been instructed to get rid of Alisa at all costs and a family doctor who appears to be keeping a dark secret about one of the Castellhofs, and you have the set-up for the rest of the show. Oh, did I mention that Alisa accidentally saw Ellen in flagrante with Christian's Uncle Oskar in his office on her first day of work? Now if this series does not end in a wedding, I'll eat my i-Pod.


While it's depressing how low your standards sink when you're looking for free programmes in a foreign language, I must confess that it's all good entertainment. Yes, the dialogue is stilted, the characters are caricatures, and everyone has more secrets than I could hope to accumulate in a lifetime. Still, it's a pleasant way to while away an idle hour, and we can't be reading Goethe all the time now, can we?

Oh, alright, I admit it: I'm addicted...

46 - 'Der Prozess' by Franz Kafka

Tony found himself one day at the end of a long corridor, unmarked by doors, windows or even paintings. Somewhere high above, there must have been some kind of skylight, or porthole, as there was enough light by which the sides of the corridor, for a fair way into the distance, could be seen, but, apart from the light, there was nothing else in view. Clutching his book to his side, Tony ignored the sense of misgiving he felt and started to walk along the corridor, briskly at first, then, as the minutes passed, and the end of the corridor failed to become visible, more slowly. After what seemed to be at least an hour of trudging through the gloom, a faint shadow began to appear at the far end and, with each passing step (which now became brisker once more) became clearer; there was the suspicion of a doorway and more than a hint of someone beside it.

At the end of the corridor, Tony, a little warm, but in no way exhausted from the journey from the other end, stopped in front of the figure sitting next to the doorway. Behind a plain, somewhat aged wooden desk, on which were piled mountains of pieces of paper - forms, essays, reviews; it was impossible to say from the disorder they were part of - , sat a middle-aged man, writing (in what appeared to be German) on one of the many afore-mentioned pieces of paper. Tony shifted uneasily from one foot to the other, hoping to attract the eye of the writer, whose attention appeared to be devoted fully to the writing at hand, before finally deciding to speak and disturb the writer at his work. However, no sooner had Tony opened his mouth, when the man stopped writing and, without looking up from his task, declared (with a booming voice strikingly different to what Tony would have expected from someone of the writer's appearance), "Mr. Malone, you are late." Tony flinched at the unexpected challenge but then managed to stammer out, "I'm here, and I've got the book. Are you The Critic?". The writer looked up and smiled. "Let's just say that I'm a critic."

The Critic placed his pen on the table, crossed his arms and observed Tony with an amused expression. "So, you wish to discuss Kafka's 'Der Prozess'", he said. "That's right, 'The Trial'", Tony relied, to the obvious displeasure of The Critic, who waved his hand quickly in a gesture from which it was surprisingly easy to read that he didn't have time to quibble about names. "I'm a busy man, so, if you want to run your ideas by me, please do so. Now." Slightly taken aback by the abruptness of the command, Tony again shifted his weight from one foot to the other, took a deep breath and started to talk.

"Look, I'll be honest, it wasn't easy to understand exactly what Kafka had in mind when he wrote this book, and, with all the unfinished sections and alterations, it's fair to say that no-one really knows the truth of his intentions...". Tony hesitated slightly at the sight of The Critic's furrowed brow and, after a moment's pause, hurriedly continued, "but I tried to look at it from a number of angles. The first was the role of bureaucracy and the way it is ever present in our lives, making things more difficult, in contrast to the original purpose of ensuring matters run smoothly. It even, you know, stops us from getting to the people with the power, you can't get to talk to anyone who can actually help you, you have to go through, helpers, intermediaries. And that's exactly what Joseph K. experiences. Kafka, knew about that. He was a bureaucrat too, you know." The Critic nodded, the stern expression momentarily absent from his face. "Absolutely hated it though." Immediately, the stern expression returned, becoming, if possible, even sterner, the brow becoming even more wrinkled. Tony realised that he was on the wrong path and went on.

"Yes, it's an attack on bureaucracy, but the main idea is a bit more abstract than that. You see, Kafka was religious, he wanted to, wanted to... try to understand what it's all about, why we're here, and the trial is about that. The courts, the whole process (if you'll pardon the bi-lingual pun), is a representation, if you like, of the church, of the structure underpinning Christianity and the way people try to make sense of it all. At first, it all means nothing to you, but, as life becomes more difficult, finding a truth, finding the truth, becomes more and more important. That's what K. was doing, you see. At the beginning, he thought he could get by on his own, he didn't need any, any... help, support, but, eventually he does, he wants someone to sort it out for him." Tony paused to catch his breath and was gratified to see that The Critic was nodding quietly, his papers seemingly forgotten. Ignoring his pounding heart, Tony continued, trying to make his voice as persuasive as possible; "Because, you see, he doesn't know what the true way forward is, he knows that there is a court, but he knows nothing about it. He turns to the lawyer for help, then the painter,he evens listens to Mr. Block, the businessman... he just wants some truth, no matter who gives it to him. But, the thing is, the more he knows, the less he progresses. You see, he realises that all these people are just the flunkies, the underlings, he never gets past the beginning, and that's just like the priests..."

"So what?", shouted The Critic, storming to his feet in his anger and cutting the, frankly startled, Tony off in mid-sentence. "Anyone can blabber on about religion, the church, God: anyone! Have you no new ideas? Have you got nothing to justify wasting my time like this?" For a moment, there was silence in the corridor, the echoes of The Critic's outburst overcome by the all-encompassing quiet of the emptiness surrounding them. Sweating, legs aching, deeply regretting his decision to make the journey to the end of the corridor, Tony decided to make one last attempt. "There was one more idea I had..." He took a deep breath.

"Terminal illness." There was silence. The Critic slowly examined Tony, his eyes moving up and down, then side to side, before coming to a rest on Tony's own. Then, gently, but decisively, he sat back down in his chair and laid his hands on the table. "Go on."

Tony swallowed and continued speaking. "My idea, and this, by the way, is just something that's been going through my head, not sure if it's relevant or, you know, intended, but my feeling is that perhaps K. is actually a cancer victim, or something. I started thinking about this because I read somewhere that Kafka himself had a lot of health problems. Perhaps he wanted to express them in his writing, I don't know. The start of the trial, the arrest, where the two men come to tell K. about the case, maybe that's where he finds out that he's sick. And he decides that he can overcome it, he doesn't need anyone, he's, well, in a way, you could say that's he's in denial. He can't believe that he's sick, and he thinks that by just ignoring it, it will all go away." Another pause. The Critic was still sitting in the same position, his eyes glued to a point somewhere around the top of Tony's nose, unblinking. Silence.

"And that's where he goes to get help, his family, his uncle introduces him to a lawyer, a professional - that's the doctor, you see, the cancer specialist, oncologist? - so he finally starts to get help. But it doesn't work, the cancer doesn't respond to the treatment, and K. gets frustrated, he doesn't think the doctor's any good, and that's when he finds out about an alternative: the painter or, as I like to think of him, the alternative medicine bloke. K.'s dying, isn't he? He's clutching at straws!" Tony leaned forward, his hair matted with sweat, he too now had his eyes fully focused on the other man, his manner energetic and slightly manic. "And of course, the oncologist, I mean the lawyer, tries to win him back, tries to warn him off the charlatans, tells him about other cases which ended well, but K.'s had enough, he doesn't want to go through any more chemo, he just wants to..." Tony stopped, drawing breath, his shoulders dropping slightly. "And then, he... he accepts it. He knows that it's time. That's why he allows the men to take him at the end; he knows that it's time to go. It's a kind of... acceptance."

The corridor was silent again. The Critic leaned back in his chair, distracted, pondering. Tony felt the wall by his side, for the first time, and half fell against it, using it to support his weight. His legs seemed unable to keep him upright. For a while, the two men were quiet, unmoving. Dust floating in the air was the only sign of life, if you could call it that. Suddenly, The Critic took up his pen again and, before starting to write, said, "You may continue." Tony straightened up and looked uncomprehendingly at The Critic, who merely jerked his head towards the doorway, obviously gesturing for him to move on through. A deep breath, and Tony moved through the doorway into another room, leaving The Critic, and his paperwork, behind.

As Tony walked into the new room, he saw an old man looking out of a large, stained-glass window. The light streaming in through the window lit up the man's face, showing a benevolent-looking expression, an appearance aided by a small, red-framed pair of glasses. Tony stopped again and called over, asking this new apparition, "Are you The Critic?". The man turned slowly with a smile beaming all over his wrinkled face. "Well, young man, let's just say that I'm a critic...".

[This review was never completed]