The Greatest Literary Works

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Milorad Pavic: Author of the experimental novel 'Dictionary of the Khazars'

Written by eastern writer on Monday, April 25, 2011

A dictionary is a book that, while requiring little time every day, takes a lot of time through the years." So noted Milorad Pavic in his all-absorbing Dictionary of the Khazars (1982). This was no plain historical work about a vanquished 10th-century Caspian race. Subtitled "a lexicon novel in 100,000 words" it is divided into three sections, each arranged as a reference work, one overlapping with another so that time and space take further, even limitless twists across hundreds of years. It incorporates fable, myth, romance, a sabre manual, etymology, science, lute music, history – and purported history.

All this Pavic regarded as a form of autobiography. What's more, it appeared in "male" and "female" versions, which differed by one paragraph, almost making readers complicit in two deaths. To say any more would give the game away, but Pavic himself imagined readers chancing to meet, variant copies to hand, in a café, after which "I see how they lay their dinner out on top of the pillar box in the street and how they eat, embraced, sitting on their bicycles".

It was greeted internationally as post-modern, magic realist and, in Paris Match, as the first novel of the 21st century. It equally recalled Tristram Shandy and The Face on the Cutting-Room Floor, and anticipated David Lynch, while some call it the thinking man's The Name of the Rose. Either way, it is far from the social realism of post-war Belgrade.

Born there in 1929 ("sign Libra, Ascendant Scorpio, Aztec horoscope, Serpent"), Pavic came from a family of writers which went back several centuries, a trend bucked by his father, Zdenka, who became a sculptor and married a professor of philosophy, Vera. Pavic was always conscious of his Serbian ancestors' fate: in the 17th century they were compelled into adopting Roman Catholicism, from which they converted back to Orthodox Christianity; but they were left with an unsettled identity, a state which underpins his great novel.

In the Thirties, Pavic was greatly influenced by an uncle who was a poet, and delighted in learning French at Belgrade Grammar School; at the city's university he began to translate Pushkin. His inclinations, however, ill-suited officialdom's decrees: Serbian history, and Classical and Baroque literature, were "unsound" in Communist eyes.

He wrote little for a decade. Instead, married with two children, he had stints on Radio Belgrade and in a publishing house until, after gaining a PhD, he became a professor at the University of Novi Sad from 1974 to 1982. He then spent a decade at the University of Belgrade. During this time he wrote stories, poems and a history of Serbian literature, most of which went untranslated.

He had also worked for five years on his Dictionary of the Khazars. Its three sections (red, yellow, green) are each a version – Christian, Jewish, Muslim – of an encyclopaedic dictionary which purports to have been prepared by three 17th-century students. Each dictionary, in treating the same and similar subjects, incorporates a demon (including one whose breasts yield black milk), and, amid the limitless plots which derive from these triads, such sinister turns include one copy of the original, fugitive work containing poison. What's more, some of three 20th-century scholars, also of those three races, will meet a sorry end in 1982.

Such a narrative can be as readily browsed; the reader "can use his right eye as a fork, his left as a knife, and toss the bones over his shoulder," said Pavic. Suffused with dreams, often bringing reality in their wake, its observations include "a woman without a behind is like a village without a church", while "thoughts expire on contact with words as quickly as words expire on contact with thoughts". Elsewhere, "she kisses him quickly, so hastily that he accidentally feels her breasts, like a compote of pears under her dress" while, hanging outside a shop, some exotic fruit "releases voices that sound like a chaffinch". One paragraph is a story in itself: above water "he wrote in his cage by using his teeth to cut letters into the shell of a crab or a turtle, but since he did not know how to read what he had written, he dropped the animals back into the water, never knowing what messages he was sending out into the world... he died dreaming of salty female breasts in a gravy of saliva and heartache".

Inspired by a Swiss review of the novel, Pavic semi-revisited it in a more awkward play – Theatre Menu (1997) – which could be acted in nine forms. His novel Landscape Painted with Tea (1990) partly concerns wartime Belgrade and works in a crossword-puzzle format; with Last Love in Constaninople familiarity with Tarot cards is handy, and Inner Side of the Wind (1993) is a variant upon Hero and Leander, told from each viewpoint.

Although of no political party, on retirement in 1992 he was preoccupied by the Serbs' fate in a decade which, he felt, made them a further victim of Western Christianity. As for his novel, full of libraries, it has suffered from the collapse in English public-library stocks: dismayingly, there are no copies throughout Sussex.

Christopher Hawtree

Milorad Pavic, writer: born Belgrade 15 October 1929; married 1957 Brenka Basta (one son, one daughter); died Belgrade 30 November 2009. [independent.co.uk]

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Joseph O'Connor

Written by son of rambow on Saturday, August 07, 2010

n 1985 the Irish writer Joseph O'Connor lost his mother in a car accident. Numb with shock, the 21-year-old shunned the support of his family and travelled alone to Nicaragua. Here, against a backdrop of post-revolutionary courage and chaos, he learned to count his blessings…

Irish author Joseph O'Connor at the Festival of Literature in Rome. Photograph: Elisabetta Villa/Getty Images



June 1985. I'm aged 21. I'm flying to Nicaragua, alone. I speak hardly any Spanish, am totally unprepared, know nobody at all in the whole troubled country, which is in the grip of a war in which thousands are dying. I haven't even had the required inoculations. (Coward that I am, I'm afraid of injections.) In an hour or two, these will be administered to me here on the plane by the Swedish doctor who happens to be seated across the aisle from me. She's going to warn me that if I enter Nicaragua without having had them, I'll find myself in intensive care "or the morgue". She thinks I'm half crazy. In a way I am. But not in the way she believes.

On a Sunday morning four months ago, my mother was killed in a car crash, in Dublin, my childhood home. Her departure, so sudden, so shocking and violent, means all kinds of resolutions can never happen. A charismatic, mercurial woman, she had many gifts, but the ability to be a good mother wasn't one of them. Our family hasn't been happy; my parents' marriage ended in the courts. Her death leaves unanswered questions.

I'm miles above the Atlantic. The flight attendants are Russian. Aeroflot is the only way of getting to Managua from Ireland. In order to be on this flight I had to have a three-day layover in Moscow, where people whisper in the streets that communism is dying. But I'm certain it will always exist.

Three days in Moscow. I spent one of them asleep: dream images of my family, of the house I grew up in; of the Connemara coastline where we'd holiday in the summers with our parents. When I woke to what I thought was Wednesday in Moscow, it was actually Thursday; the hotel manager banging on the door, looking frightened.

A newly married couple visiting Lenin's tomb in Red Square. Prostitutes on the steps outside the Bolshoi. People approaching you to buy jeans, or dollars, or a Walkman. Street signs you don't understand. Every emotion you have, even the numbness of grief, seems to be written in Cyrillic: inverted, unreadable.

The plane roars through the sky. People around me are sleeping. I'm thinking about my friends back in University College Dublin. We're interested in politics, in South Africa, in Latin America. It comes back to me now, as the plane slowly banks, how we congregate in the Belfield Bar on a Friday night, to drink the two or three pints we are able to afford, and to talk with such fervency about Nicaragua. The Sandinista revolution happened there, in 1979. People say it's a new kind of third world society. There have been no executions; torture has been banned. The revolutionaries are teaching people to read.

My friends and I get to-gether and talk about these things, with the indefatigable idealism of the young. There's a classmate I fancy, but I'm too nervous to tell her. It's Friday night now. She's probably there, in the bar. She dresses like Madonna, in a miniskirt and leggings, with rosary beads as jewellery and a tight black bodice. An Oxfam fatale, heartbreakingly beautiful. There was one night when a group of us were at a party in somebody's flat, and she turned to me and smiled, and I felt I could stir the stars around in the sky. And if only I had been able to say what I felt, but instead I clammed up, looked away.

Bob Dylan has a line in "My Back Pages": "I was so much older then/I'm younger than that now." Most of us in my group are the children of divorce, a fact we never talk about; perhaps we know it's what binds us. Late in the evening, with the Clash and the Specials blasting bravely from the jukebox, my friends and I tell each other we're going to visit Nicaragua one day. But some of us know we've no intention of ever doing such a thing. It's only something you say in the pub.

Then my mother died four months ago and everything changed. She was driving to Mass, my younger brother in the back seat, and her car went into a skid. I can't summon to my mind what happened next. I don't want to picture it. Most of all, I don't want to hear it. It was a Sunday when I thought I would meet my friend in town to play pool, but it became the morning I would formally identify my mother's body.

The days following are a blur, the spokes of a turning wheel. She had written in her will that she did not want to be buried in a shroud. My sisters and I, in a store in downtown Dublin, silent with the exhaustion of sleeplessness and loss, going numbly through racks of dresses. Poised somewhere between trauma and absurdity and fear. What shoes do you buy? Is it OK to laugh? Is gaiety only desolation turned brave?

Grief comes to us in many dresses, some of them strange. The way it affected me was that I wanted to disappear. There was help on offer from family. I was lucky to be offered it. But for some reason I don't understand I long to be by myself; a haven where I can be totally alone. I don't want sympathy. I've nothing to say. I can't bear to be reassured, condoled with, understood. And that's the only reason why I'm on this plane tonight, to a place where I know nobody at all.

There's going to come a time, many years from this moment, when I'll be astounded that I did something as naive. But that time isn't now. I'm not thinking about the future. Yesterday feels 10 years ago, tomorrow is unreachable. You do remarkably foolish things when you're 21. It's amazing that any of us survives youth.


The bus ride from the Augusto César Sandino airport. No windscreen in the bus. The driver with one arm. Soldiers manning the rooftops of the burnt-out buildings on either side of the Pan-American Highway. Graffiti on every wall. "Frente Sandinista!" "Viva Nicaragua Libre!" "Muerte a los Yanquis!" Red and black banners, tattered on their masts. Armoured cars in a schoolyard.

I find a room with a family in the centre of Managua, a city wrecked by an earthquake in 1972 and never rebuilt by the dictatorship. The Somoza clan, which ruled the country as a personal fiefdom, pocketed millions intended as aid. In this district, only the cathedral and the Bank of America survived: proof, the locals say, of whose side God is on. But the people are subtly welcoming and warm. A taxi driver greets me with the last words I expected to hear: "Irlanda? U2? I like."

They're tough, intelligent; curious about outsiders. The children of the family ask questions. Is there a zoo in Ireland? Do you like Michael Jackson? Why did you come here? How long will you stay? Why does the light burn in your room all night? Do people play baseball in Ireland?

The wrecked city is full of Americans, college kids mostly, who've come down to pick coffee on the brigades. And there are Londoners, Glaswegians, a trade union group from Leeds, mingling some evenings in the garden of the InterContinental Hotel with European journalists and aid workers. One night a convoy of military vehicles roars up to the doors. Armed bodyguards take positions in the lobby. A short, chubby general strides into the restaurant, sitting alone at a table, delicately eating a piece of cake. He is Commandante Tomas Borge, one of the senior members of the ruling FSLN coalition. He was tortured by the dictatorship and spent years in solitary confinement. It is rumoured that, following the revolution, he found the National Guardsman who had tortured him, and said: "My revenge is that I forgive you." Nobody approaches him as he eats his cake, occasionally brushing the flies from his epaulettes.

Most days I go to the barrio's market and see no food at all – the United States government is blockading the country – but somehow the people contend with appalling circumstances, rarely losing the sardonic stoicism that reminds me of how inner-city Dubliners talk. Aero Nica is the name of the inefficient national airline. Its nickname is Aero Nunca: "Air Never".

At night there is fear. Not sadness, not bereavement. My mother's absence drifts out of Managua's ruins in the clothing of fear. It comes and it goes, like the power cuts or the water or the rumours that there might be bread tomorrow. And in a strange, new place, whose ways you don't understand, there is plenty to be afraid of in the night. Shouts in the street. Scorpions. Fever. Rumours of an invasion. Rumours of disease. The men on the corner by the Cine Dorado, rifles and machine guns in their hands.

I drift around the country, write a couple of long articles. These are published back home, in newspapers and magazines. There's a day in the Managua post office when I manage to put a phone call through to my father in Dublin. When he tells me how proud he is to see my stuff in the paper, I feel tears running down my face for the first time in years.

"Your mother would be proud, too," he adds through the crackle.

I find I can say nothing at all.

Lately I'm daring to give into a feeling I've been having for a while – that I'd love (Jesus Christ, could I even admit it?) to write a novel one day in the future. Could that ever be possible? An unattainable hope. And is there anything more irrelevant than a novel? My first attempts at fiction are scrawled in Managua, a devastated city where you can drink all night. Nobody knows you. Nobody cares. You can sit there with a notebook and no one looks twice at your fumbling, graceless sentences that will never be read. You really don't matter. You are nothing.

At dawn I often walk by the shores of Lake Managua, staring at the wild flowers that grow in the cracks of dead buildings: malinche, the flowers are called. The local people say they were named by Cortez, the assassin of thousands, for a beautiful slave girl he loved. On a mountainside beyond the city, the giant letters FSLN are carved in white stone, a bleakly ironic nod towards the Hollywood sign perhaps. The silhouette of Sandino appears on every wall, an image of spray-can defiance.

And outside the city, the landscape is aching. Volcanoes, banana plantations, shimmering lakes. Once- glorious haciendas, now burnt to their skeletons; tiny cardboard hovels adorned with portraits of Che or the Sacred Heart. Everywhere there is music: the joyous strut of salsa. Ragged children playing baseball by the headlights of jeeps. Death is all around: the newspapers are full of it. But the people refuse to let it win.

I'll come home a changed person, but I don't know that yet. This is going to be the summer I grow up; everyone has one. I'll learn all sorts of things, some little, some immense. Spanish, not English, is the most expressive language for poetry, and also, bizarrely, for cursing. Nicaraguans are among the handsomest people in all the world. Politics is not about spouting slogans, nor always a matter of right and left, but ultimately a question of right and wrong; a jaded, sententious cliché that happens to be true. I'm going to learn that the only things worth achieving are accomplished when courageous people combine their efforts to make things better for one another. The tyrant can be defeated. It is possible to walk out of the tomb of the past. Half a life later, I'll still remember this summer; I'll still see it in dreams and wonder if I was ever there. And the main thing I'm going to learn, I'll try to remember once a day, especially on the dark days, which still come sometimes. If you have enough to eat, and a safe place to sleep, and nobody wants to kill you or take you from your family, you are among the most fortunate few of a troubled world, and you should never forget your sheer luck.

Joseph O'Connor is a novelist and journalist. his latest novel, Ghost Light, is published by Harvill Secker.

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the guardian book

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Miguel de Cervantes

Written by son of rambow on Tuesday, January 19, 2010

Miguel de Cervantes (1547-1616), Spanish dramatist, poet, and author wrote Don Quixote de la Mancha (Part I, 1605; Part II, 1615).


The life of this extraordinary man, whom for the space of two centuries civilized Europe has admired above every other Spanish writer, has been so frequently related, that a brief abstract of his biography, derived from the most authentic sources, will be sufficient for the purpose of this history.

It is a singular fact, that the contemporaries of this celebrated man, whom every town, not merely in Spain, but throughout the world, would be proud to have pro­duced, should have neglected to record his native place. After long investigations and warm disputes, which, call to mind the contests of the seven Greek towns for the honour of having given birth to Homer, it is at length agreed that, according to the most probable supposition, Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra was born at Alcala de Henáres in the year 1547. His parents, who were not rich, were merely enabled to give him a moderate, but at the same time a literary education.

They sent him to the school of Madrid, where he acquired some knowledge of classical learning. At Madrid, he had an opportunity of witnessing the dramas, which the ingenious Lope de Rueda represented on his rudely constructed stage. Juan Lopez, the tutor of Cer­vantes was an indefatigable writer of poetry, particularly of romances, and he sought every means of cherishing his pupil's taste for poetic composition. Some verses by Cervantes were introduced in a description of the funeral of a Spanish princess, which Lopez published in 1569.

But young Cervantes, who had now attained his twenty-second year, seems to have had no certain means of gain­ing subsistence. He wrote numerous romances and sonnets; and it was probably about this period that he composed a pastoral romance, entitled Filena, which, if we may give credit to his own testimony, was very generally read. It appears that he thought he could better his con­dition by travelling; and he resolved to proceed to Italy. Here commences the period of his adventures. In Rome, cardinal Acquaviva for a short time became his patron and protector. But, impelled either by necessity or choice, he entered into the military profession. He enlisted under the banners of his sovereign, to serve in the wars against the Turks and the African corsairs, who at that time disturbed the tranquillity of Spain and Italy. During the war he proved himself to be wholly devoted to his new profession; and being engaged in the great battle of Lepanto, in 1572, he received a wound, which deprived him of his left hand together with a part of the arm. This honourable mutilation, to which he proudly alludes in his latter writings, obliged him to return to Spain. The ship, however, in which he had embarked was captured by an Algerine corsair and Cervantes was conveyed to Algiers and sold for a slave. His captivity, which lasted for nearly eight years, must have been of the most romantic description, if the fact be, as has frequently been conjectured, that Cer­vantes described his own adventures in the novel of the Captive. He was at length ransomed, and in the year 1581 he returned to his native country.

The third period of the life of Cervantes was exclusively devoted to literature. He had now attained his thirty-second year, and with a matured understanding, joined to considerable practical knowledge of the world, and an ardent passion for literature, he resolved to with­draw from the busy scene of life. In his retirement he wrote his second pastoral romance, entitled Galatea, which has so eclipsed Filena, that the latter is quite neglected and forgotten. He shortly afterwards married, and it would appear that he lived for some time on his wife's dowry. At length he began to write for the stage; but the dramas, which he composed at this period of his life, though amounting to about thirty in number, are nearly all lost. About this time arose the rivalry between Cervantes and Lope de Vega, whose dramas were so much admired that they bore away the palm of public favour. Mortified, as it would appear, by the ill success of his dramatic efforts, Cervantes laid aside his pen for a considerable period. It is conjectured, that in the meanwhile he obtained a post in Seville, the emoluments of which enabled to subsist. He did not again appear in the literary world until the death of Philip II in the year 1598.

It can scarcely be doubted, though no Spanish writer has advanced the conjecture, that the death of Philip II had a favourable influence on the genius of Cervantes. After the accession of the indolent Philip III, every man in Spain felt that he might then have more freedom than he had dared to take during the gloomy intolerance of the preceding reign. The Spaniards now ventured to sport with the chains, which they had not the power to break, and delicate satire was soon freely employed. Cervantes quickly found a subject to ridicule, in a furious contest, which arose in Seville between the spiritual and municipal authorities, concerning the funeral obsequies of the de­ceased monarch. There is reason to believe that he com­posed, about the same period, some of the instructive novels (Novelas Exemplares), which he subsequently published. What accident gave rise to the idea of his Don Quixote is unknown; for his having, while travelling through the province of La Mancha, become engaged in disputes with some of the inhabitants, and his being, on that account, for a short time imprisoned, can, at most, be only supposed to have suggested the idea of making that province the scene of the first part of his romance. Some fortunate circumstance, which cannot be traced, seems to have impressed Cervantes, who was then in his fiftieth year, with the consciousness of the true bent of his genius. The commencement of Don Quixote was first published at Madrid, in 1606; but the enthusiastic reception which this original romance experienced from the Spanish public, produced very little change in the author's fortune; for the folly which felt itself disturbed in its security, united with envy in seeking to trace in the work allusions of an offensive kind. Cervantes accordingly continued poor, and had now to contend with exasperated enemies. Those enemies imagined they had completely defeated him, when an unknown writer of their own party, under the name of Avellaneda, published a continuation of Don Quixote, full of invective against the original author. Precisely at the period when this continuation appeared, Cervantes published the sequel of his instructive novels, which he dedicated to the count of Lemos. In that nobleman he found a protector who never withdrew his favour, and who, as it appears, afforded him support in various ways. Pecuniary necessity seems, however, to have urged him, as a last resource, to write for the stage.

The latest works of Cervantes were the genuine con­tinuation and completion of Don Quixote, the Journey to Parnassus, which was first published in 1614, and finally the romance of Persiles and Sigismuinda, for which a few days previous to his death, he he wrote a dedicataon to the count of Lemos. From various passages in the prefaces and introductions to these last works, it is obvious how highly Cervantes prized that celebrity which after many abortive efforts, he had at length obtained in his old age. But even where his vanity is not disguised, it is easy, from the candid tone in which he speaks of himself, to recognise the man of firm and upright spirit, the declared enemy of every sort of affectation, and the honest and liberal judge of himself and of others. He died in poverty, though not in extreme want, at Madrid, in 1616, in the sixty-ninth year of his age. He was buried privately, without any kind of distinction, and not even a common tombstone marks the spot where the ashes of Cervantes repose.

Were we to arange the works of Cervantes according to their merits, the first place must be assigned to Don Quixote, which is moreover entitled to the supremacy, inasmuch as it is single in its kind.

To enter into a description of the contents of this uni­versally known masterpiece, or to give a circumstantial analysis of its plan, would be equally superfluous. A few words, however, on the happy and original idea, which forms the foundation of the whole work, may here be introduced. It has often been said, though the opinion has, perhaps, not been fully weighed, nor even expressed with sufficient precision, that the venerable knight of La Mancha, is the immortal representative of all men of exalted imagination, who carry the noblest enthusiasm to a pitch of folly; because, with understanding in other respects sound, they are unable to resist the fascinating power of a self deception, by which they are induced to regard themselves as beings of a superior order. None but an experienced observer of mankind, endowed with profound judgment, and a genius to whose penetrating glance one of the most interesting recesses of the human heart had been newly disclosed, could have seized the idea of such a romance with energetic precision. None but a poet and a man of wit could have thrown so much poetic interest into the execution of that idea; and none but an author who had at his disposal all the richness and variety of one of the finest languages in the world, could have diffused over such a work that classical perfection of expression which gives the stamp of excellence to the whole. The originality of the idea of Don Quixote is not only historically demon­strated by no romance so a similar kind haying previously existed—for pictures of ingenious roguery, in the style of Lazarillo de Tormes, belong to a totally different species of comic romance—but it is also psychologically certain, that a creative fancy, which was only capable of continuing to invent where another had stopped, could not, with the boldness of Cervantes, have combined traits, apparentlyheterogeneous, in order thereby to exhaust to the utmost the idea by which he was inspired. Those who are ac­quainted with Don Quixote only through the medium of the common translations will not certainly be inclined to regard it as a work of inspiration, in the highest sense of the word. But it is impossible to form a more mistaken notion of this work, than to consider it merely as a satire intended by the author to ridicule the absurd passion for reading old romances of chivalry. Doubtless this is one of the objects which Cervantes bad in view; for among the romances which the Spanish public indefatigably perused, few were tolerable, and only one or two possessed first-rate merit. We must not, however, attribute to him the absurd conceit of wishing to prove the prejudicial in­fluence which the reading of bad romances produced on the taste of the Spanish nation, by exhibiting the indi­vidual folly of an enthusiast, who would have been just as likely to have lost his senses by the study of Plato or Aristotle, as by the reading of romances of chivalry. The merit and the richness of the idea of a man of elevated character, excited by heroic and enthusiastic feelings to the extravagant degree of wishing to restore the age of chivalry, must be regarded as the seed of inspiration whence the whole work originated. As a poet, Cervantes was aware of the resources, which this idea furnished; and he must also have been satisfied with his power to pro­secute it, as he has proved in the execution what he was capable of accomplishing. In the invention of a series of comic situations of the most burlesque kind, he found full scope for the exercise of his fancy. The painting of these situations afforded opportunities for the free and energetic development of his poetic talent. Finally, he knew how to combine the knowledge of human nature he had acquired during a life of' fifty years, with the most delicate satire, so as to render his comic romance also a book of moral in­struction, to which no parallel existed. These brief re­marks on the idea forming the foundation of the romance of Don Quixote, must be allowed to supply the place of a detailed analysis of the manner in which that celebrated work as composed. Other critics have sufficiently proved that the composition is by no means faultless. In the preface to the second part, Cervantes has himself pointed out some inadvertencies, which produce incongruities in the history, but he disdained to correct them, because he con­ceived that they had been too severely condemned.

The character of the execution of this comic romance is no less original than the invention. Character in the strictest sense of the term is here meant. The superficial sketches of a sportive fancy, for which the Spaniards in the age of Cervantes entertained so high predilection, had not sufficient interest for him. He felt a passion for the vivid painting of character, as his successful works prove. Under the influence of this feeling, he drew the natural and striking portrait of his heroic Don Quixote, so truly noble-minded, and so enthusiastic an admirer of every thing good and great, yet having all those fine qualities, accidentally blended with a relative kind of madness; and he likewise portrayed with no less fidelity, the opposite character of Sancho Panza, a compound of grossness and simplicity, whose low selfishness leads him to place blind confidence in all the extravagant hopes and promises of his master... The subordinate characters of the great picture exhibit equal truth and decision; but the characteristic tone of the whole is still more remarkable. A translator cannot commit a more serious injury to Don Quixote, than to dress that work in a light, anecdotical style. A style perfectly unostentatious and free from affectation, but at the same time solemn, and penetrated, as it were, with the character of the hero, diffuses over this comic romance an imposing air, which, were it not so ap­propriate, would seem to belong exclusively to serious works and which is certainly difficult to be seized in a translation. But it is precisely this solemnity of language, which imparts a characteristic relief to the comic scenes. It is the genuine style of the old romances of chivalry, im­proved and applied in a totally original way; and only where the dialogue style occurs is each person found to speak as he might be expected to do, and in his own pe­culiar manner. But wherever Don Quixote himself harangues the language re-assumes the venerable tone of the romantic style; and various uncommon expressions of which the hero avails himself serve to complete the delusion of his covetous squire, to whom they are only half intelligible. This characteristic tone diffuses over the whole a poetic colouring, which distinguishes Don Quixote from all comic romances on the ordinary style; and that poetic colouring is moreover heightened by the judicious choice of episodes. The essential connexion of these episodes with the whole has sometimes escaped the observation of critics, who have regarded as merely parenthetical those parts in which Cervantes has most decidedly manifested the poetic spirit of his work. The novel of El Curioso Impertinente cannot indeed be ranked among the number of these essential episodes but the charming story of the shepherdess Marcella, the history of Dorothea, and the history of the rich Camacho and the poor Basilio, are un­questionably connected with the interest of the whole. These serious romantic parts, which are not, it is true, es­sential to the narrative connexion, but strictly belong to the characteristic dignity of the whole picture, also prove how far Cervantes was from the idea usually attributed to him of writing a book merely to excite laughter. The pas­sages, which common readers feel inclined to pass over, are, in general, precisely those in which Cervantes is most decidedly a poet, and for which he has manifested an evident predilection. On such occasions, he also introduces among his prose, episodical verses, for the most part excellent in their kind and no translator can omit them without doing violence to the spirit of the original.

Were it not for the happy art with which Cervantes has contrived to preserve an intermediate tone between pure poetry and prose, Don Quixote would not deserve to be cited as the first classic model of the modern romance or novel. It is, however, fully entitled to that distinction. Cervantes was the first writer who formed the genuine romance of modern times on the model of the original chivalrous romance that equivocal creation of the genius and the barbarous taste of the middle ages. The result has proved that modern taste, however readily it may in other respects conform to the rules of the antique, never­theless requires, in the narration of fictitious events, a cer­tain union of poetry with prose, which was unknown to the Greeks and Romans in their best literary ages. It was only necessary to seize on the right tone, but that was a point of delicacy, which the inventors of romances of chi­valry were not able to comprehend. Diego de Mendoza, in his Lazarillo de Tormes, departed too far from poetry. Cervantes, in his Don Quixote restored to the poetic art the place it was entitled to hold in this class of writing; and he must not be blamed if cultivated nations have sub­sequently mistaken the true spirit of this work, because their own novelists had led them to regard common prose as the style peculiarly suited to romance composition. Don Quixote is, moreover, the undoubted prototype of the comic novel. The humorous situations are, it is true, al­most all burlesque, which was certainly not necessary, but the satire is frequently so delicate, that it escapes rather than obtrudes on unpractised attention; as for example, in the whole picture of the administration of Sancho Panza in his imaginary island. The language, even in the description of the most burlesque situations, never degene­rates into vulgarity; it is on the contrary, throughout the whole work, so noble, correct and highly polished, that it would not disgrace even an ancient classic of the first rank. This explanation of a part of the merits of a work, which has been so often wrongly judged, may perhaps seem belong rather to the eulogist than the calm and impartial historian. Let those who may he inclined to form this opinion study Don Quixote in the original language, and study it rightly, for it is not a book to be judged by a su­perficial perusal. But care must be taken lest the inter­vention of many subordinate traits, which were intended to have only a transient national interest, should produce an error in the estimate of the whole.

It would be scarcely possible to arrange the other works of Cervantes according to a critical judgment of their im­portance; for the merits of some consist in the admirable finish of the whole, while others exhibit the impress of genius in the invention, or some other individual feature. A distinguished place must, however, be assigned to the Novelas Exemplares (Moral or Instructive Tales). They are unequal in merit as well as in character. Cervantes doubtless intended that they should be to the Spaniards nearly what the novels of Boccacio were to the Italians, some are mere anecdotes, some are romances in miniature, some are serious, some comic, and all are written in a light, smooth, conversational style. With regard to the practical knowledge, which these novels are intended to convey to the reader, Cervantes has affected more than Boecacio; and at all events he extended the literature of his country by their publication, for no similar composi­tions had previously existed in the Spanish language. In the Novelas Exemplares Cervantes has again proved himself the experienced judge of mankind, and has given, with admirable success, truly genuine and judicious, representa­tions of nature, in the various situations of real life. The reader must naturally feel inclined to pardon the want of plan which this little collection of novels occasionally ex­hibits, when he finds that the author, through the medium of his characters, relates and describes all that he had him­self seen and experienced under similar circumstances, particularly during his abode, in Italy and Africa. The history of the Licenciado Vidriera, which is the fifth in the collection, is totally destitute of plan, and is re­lated in simple prose like a common anecdote. But the novel of La Gritanilla, the Gipsey Girl is ingeniously conceived and poetically coloured; and the same may be said of some others. The story of Rinconete y Cortadilla, or Lurker and Cutter, as the names with reference to their etymology may be translated, is a comic romance in miniature.

Galatea, the pastoral romance, which Cervantes wrote in his youth, is a happy imitation of the Diana of Montemayor, but exhibiting a still closer resemblance to Gil Polo's continuation of that poem. Next to Don Quixote and the Novelas Exemplares, his pastoral romance is particularly worthy of attention, as it manifests in a striking way the poetic direction in which the genius of Cervantes moved even at an early period of life, and from which he never entirely departed in his subsequent writings. As, however, the Galatea possesses but little originality, it constantly excites the recollection of its models, and particularly of the Diana of Gil Polo. Of the invention of the fable, likewise, but little can be said, for though the story is continued through six books, it is still incomplete. In composing this pastoral romance, Cervantes seems to have had no other object than to clothe in the popular garb of a tale, a rich collection of poems in the old, Spanish and Italian styles, which he could not have presented to the public under a more agreeable form. The story is merely the thread, which holds the beautiful garland together; for the poems are the portion of the work most particularly deserving attention. They are as numerous as they are various: and should the title of Cervantes to rank among the most eminent poets, whether in reference to verse or to prose, or should his originality in versified composition be called in question, an attentive perusal of the romance of Galatea must vanish every doubt of these points. It was remarked by the contemporaries of Cervantes that he was incapable of writing poetry, and that he could compose only beautiful prose; but that observation referred solely to his dramatic works. Every critic sufficiently acquainted with his lyrical compositions has rendered justice to their merit. From the romance of Galatea, it is obvious that Cervantes composed in all the various kinds of syllabic measure, which were used in his time. He even occasionally adopted the old dactylic stanza. He appears to have experienced some difficulty in the metrical form of the sonnet, and his essays in that style are by no means numerous; but his poems in Italian octaves display the utmost facility; and among the number, the song of Caliope, in the last book of the Galatea, is remarkable for graceful ease of versification. In the same manner as Gil Polo in his Diana makes the river Turia pronounce the praises of the celebrated Valencians, the poetic fancy of Cervantes summoned the muse Calliope before the shepherds and shepherdesses, to render solemn homage to those contemporaries whom he esteemed worthy of distinction as poets. But the critic can scarcely venture to place reliance on praises dealt out with such profuse liberality. The most beautiful poems in the Galatea are a few in the cancion style, some of which are iambics, and some in trochaic or Old Spanish verse. Cervantes has here and there indulged in those antiquated and fantastic plays pf wit, which at a subsequent period he him­self ridiculed. The prose of the Galatea, which is in other respects so beautiful, is also occasionally overloaded with epithet.

Cervantes displays a totally different kind of poetic talent in the Viage al Parnaso (Journey to Parnassus), a work which cannot properly be ranked in any particular class of literary composition, but which, next to Don Quixote, is the most exquisite production of its extraordinary author. The chief object of the poem is to satirize the false pre­tenders to the honours of the Spanish. Parnassus, who lived in the age of the writer. But this satire is of a pe­culiar character: it is a most happy effusion of sportive humour, and yet it remains a matter of doubt whether Cervantes intended to praise or to ridicule the individuals whom he points out as being particularly worthy of the favour of Apollo. He himself says -"Those whose names do not appear in this list may be just as well pleased as those who are mentioned in it." To characterise true poetry according to his own poetic feelings, to manifest in a decided way his enthusiasm for the art even in his old age, and to hold up a mirror for the conviction of those who were only capable of making rhymes and inventing extravagances, seem to have been the objects which Cer­vantes had principally in view when he composed this satirical poem. Concealed satire, open jesting, and ardent enthusiasm for the beautiful, are the boldly combined elements of this noble work. It is divided into eight chap­ters, and the versification is in tercets. The composition is half comic and half serious. After many humorous in­cidents, Mercury appears to Cervantes, who is represented as travelling to Parnassus in the most miserable condition; and the god salutes him with the title of the "Adam of poets." Mercury, after addressing to him many flattering compliments, conducts him to a ship entirely built of dif­ferent kinds of verse, and which is intended to convey a cargo of Spanish poets to the kingdom of Apollo. The description of the ship is an admirable comic allegory. Mercury shows him a list of the poets with whom Apollo wishes to become acquainted and this list, owing to the problematic nature of its half ironical and half serious praises, has proved a stumbling block to commentators. In the midst of the reading, Cervantes suddenly drops the list. The poets are now described as crowding on board the ship in numbers as countless as drops of rain in a shower, or grains of sand on the seacoast; and such a tumult ensues, that, to save the ship from sinking by their pressure, the sirens raise a furious storm. The flights of imagination become more wild as the story advances. Thy storm subsides, and is succeeded by a shower of poets, that is to say poets fall from the clouds. One of the first who descends on the ship is Lope de Vega, on whom Cer­vantes seizes this opportunity of pronouncing an emphatic eulogium. The remainder of the poem, a complete ana­lysis of which would occupy too much space, proceeds in the same spirit. One of the most beautiful pieces of verse ever written by Cervantes, is his description of the goddess Poesy, whom he sees in all her glory in the kingdom of Apollo. To this fine picture the portrait of the goddess Vain-Glory, who afterwards appears to the author in a dream, forms an excellent companion. Among the passages, which for burlesque humour vie with Don Quixote is the description of a second storm, in which Neptune vainly endeavours to plunge the poetasters to the bottom of the deep. Venus prevents them from sinking, by changing them into gourds and leather flasks. At length a formal battle is fought between the real poets and some of the poetasters. The poem is throughout interspersed with singularly witty and beautiful ideas; and only a very few passages can be charged with feebleness or languor. It has never been equalled, far less surpassed by any similar work, and it had no prototype. The language is classical throughout; and it is only to be regretted that Cervantes has added to the poem a comic supplement in prose, in which he indulges a little too freely in self-praise.

The dramatic compositions of Cervantes, were they all extant, would be the most voluminous, though certainly not the best portion of his works. Possibly those which are now lost may yet be recovered; for a fortunate accident brought to light two dramas which had remained concealed in manuscript till near the end of the eighteenth century. Cervantes includes some of his dramas among those productions with which he was himself most satisfied; and he seems to have regarded them with the greater self-complacency in proportion as they experienced the neglect of the public. This conduct has sometimes been attri­buted to a spirit of contradiction, and sometimes to vanity. The editor of the eight plays (chiefly heroic) and eight interludes, which were the last dramatic productions of the author, has adopted the absurd notion that Cervantes, in writing these pieces, intended to parody and ridicule the style of Lope de Vega; which is merely saying that he attacked the whole literary public of Spain in the most discourteous way. No traces of parody appear in any of those dramas. They are, however, with the exception of a few successful scenes, so dull and tedious, that one might be inclined to regard them as counterfeit productions by another author, were it not that their authenticity seems to be sufficiently proved. The little interludes alone ex­hibit burlesque humour and dramatic spirit. That the penetrating and profound Cervantes should have so mis­taken the limits of his dramatic talent, would not be suffi­ciently accounted for, had he not unquestionably proved by his tragedy of Numantia how pardonable was the self-deception of which he could not divest himself. Cervantes was entitled to consider himself endowed with a genius for dramatic poetry; but he could not preserve his inde­pendence in the conflict he had to maintain with the con­ditions required by the Spanish public in dramatic composition; and when he sacrificed his independence, and submitted to rules imposed by others, his invention and language were reduced to the level of a poet of inferior talent. The intrigues, adventures and surprises, which in that age characterized the Spanish drama, were ill suited to the genius of Cervantes. His natural style was too profound and precise to be reconciled to fantastical ideas, expressed in irregular verse. But he was Spaniard enough to be gratified with dramas, which, as a poet, he could not imitate; and he imagined himself capable of imitating them, because he would have shone in another species of dramatic composition, had the public taste accommodated itself to his genius.

With all its imperfections and faults, Cervantes' tragedy of Numantia is a noble production, and, like Don Quixote it is unparalleled in the class of literature to which it belongs. It proves that under different circumstances, the author of Don Quixote might have been the Aeschylus of Spain. The conception is in the style of the boldest pathos, and the execution, at least taken as a whole, is vigorous and dignified. The ancient Roman History from which Cer­vantes selected the story of the destruction of Numantia, afforded but few positive facts of which he could avail himself. He therefore invented along with the subject of his piece a peculiar style of tragic composition, in doing which he did not pay much regard to the theory of Aristotle. His object was to produce a piece full of tragic situations, combined with the charm of the marvellous. The tragedy is written in conformity with no rules save those which the author prescribed to himself; for he felt no inclination to imitate the Greek forms. The play is divided into four acts, (jornadas,) and no chorus is introduced. The dialogue is sometimes in tercets and some­times in redondillas, and for the most part in octaves without any regard to rule. The diction does not main­tain equal dignity throughout; but it is in no instance affected or bombastic. Cervantes has evinced admirable skill in gradually heightening the tragic interest to the close of the piece. The commencement is, however, some­what cold and tedious. Scipio appears with his generals in the Roman camp before Numantia. In a speech, which might have been improved by abridgment, he reprimands his troops, whose spirit has begun to be superseded by effeminacy. The soldiers are re-inspired with courage. Numantian ambassadors enter with proposals for peace, which are rejected. It is here that the tragedy properly begins. Spain appears, an allegorical character, and she summons the river Duero, or Durius, on whose banks Numantia stands. The old river god appears, attended by a retinue of the deities of the smaller rivers of the surrounding country. These ideal characters consult the book of fate, and discover that Numantia cannot be saved. What may be said against the bold idea of endeavour­ing to augment the tragic pathos by means of allegorical characters, it must be acknowledged that in this case the result of the experiment is not altogether unsuccessful, and Cervantes justly prides himself in the novelty of the idea. The scene is now transferred to Numantia. The senate is assembled to deliberate on the affairs of the city, and among the members the character of Theagenes shines with conspicuous lustre. Bold resolutions are adopted by the senate. The transition into light redondillas for the purpose of interweaving with the serious business of the fable, the loves of a young Numantian, named Morandro, and his mistress, is certainly a fault in the composition of the tragedy. But to this fault we are indebted for some of the finest scenes in the following act. A solemn sacri­fice is prepared; but amidst the ceremony an evil spirit appears, seizes the victim, and extinguishes the fire. The confusion in the town increases. A dead man is resuscitated by magic, and the scene in which this incident occurs has a most imposing effect. All hope has now vanished. After the return of a second unsuccessful embassy, the Numantians, by the advice of Theagenes, resolve to burn all their valuable property, then to put their wives and children to death, and lastly, to throw themselves into the flames, lest any of the inhabitants of the town should become the slaves of the Romans. Scenes of the most heartrending domestic misery, and the noblest traits of patriotism, then ensue. Famine rages in Numantia. Morandro, accompanied by one of his friends, ventures to enter the Roman camp. He returns with a piece of bread smeared with blood, and, presenting it to his mistress, falls at her feet mortally wounded. The action proceeds with unabated interest to the end. An allegorical character of Fame enters at the end of the piece, and announces the future glory of Spain.

Allegorical characters, for instance, Necessity and Opportunity, likewise appear in Cervantes' comedy, El Trato de Argel (Life in Algiers, or Manners in Algiers). But their introduction amongst scenes of common life injures the story, which is besides by no means ingenious, and imparts a cold and whimsical character to the piece. This comedy, however, which is divided into five acts, is not destitute of interest and spirit.

The romance of Persiles and Sigismunda, which Cervantes finished shortly before his death, must be regarded as an interesting appendix to his other works. The language and the whole composition of the story exhibit the purest simplicity, combined with singular precision and polish. The idea of this romance was not new, and scarcely deserved to be reproduced in a new manner. But it appears that Cervantes, at the close of his glorious career, took a fancy to imitate Heliodorus. He has maintained the interest of the situations, but the whole work is merely a romantic description of travels, rich enough in fearful adventures, both by sea and land. Real and fabulous geography and history are mixed together in an absurd and monstrous manner; and the second half of the romance, in which the scene is transferred to Spain and Italy, does not exactly harmonize with the spirit of the first half.

If we cast a glance on the collected works of Cervantes, in order to ascertain what their author was entitled to claim as his original property, independently of his contemporaries and predecessors, we shall find that the genius of that poet, who is in general only partially estimated, shines with the finer lustre the longer it is contemplated. That kind of criticism that is to be learned, contributed but little to the development and formation of his genius. A critical tact, which is a truer guide than any rule, but which abandons genius when it forgets itself, secured the fancy of Cervantes against the aberrations of common minds, and his sportive wit was always subject to the control of solid judgement. The vanity, which occasionally made him mistake the true bent of his talent, must be confessed to have been pardonable, considering how little he was known to his contemporaries. He did not even know himself, though he felt the consciousness of his genius. From the mental height to which he had raised himself, he might, without too highly rating his own abilities, look down on all the writers of his age. More than one poet of great, of immortal genius, might be placed beside him in his own country; but of all the Spanish poets, Cervantes alone belongs to the whole world.

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Biography: Hermann Broch

Written by son of rambow on Tuesday, January 12, 2010

Austrian writer whose reputation rests on a number of formally inventive and intellectually ambitious novels. The dilemma of the artist in a period of historical crisis is the subject of Hermann Broch's masterpiece Der Tod des Vergil (1945, The Death of Virgil). Broch's attempts to reconcile the scientific world view with deep psychological and metaphysical ideas connects him to his Austrian contemporary Robert Musil, who also came to literature after first pursuing a technical and commercial career.

"Oh, Augustus, der Schreiber lebt nicht; der Erlöser hingegen lebt stärker als alle, denn sein Leben ist seine Erkenntnistat, sein Leben und sein Tod." (from Der Tod des Vergil)


Hermann Broch was born in Vienna into a well-to-do Jewish family. His father was Josef Broch, an industrialist, and mother Johanna Schnabel Broch. He was first educated privately, after which his education was intended to prepare him for an administrative position in his father's textile factory in Teesdorf. Broch studied at the Imperial and Royal State Secondary School (1897-1904), the Technical College for Textile Manufacture (1904-06), and Spinning and Weaving College in Mülhausen (1906-07). From 1907 to 1927 Broch administered family's factory in Teesdorf. During World War I he served as an administrator for Austrian Red Cross. In 1909 he married Franziska von Rothermann; their son Hermann Friedrich Broch de Rothermann (d. 1994) became a interpreter for UNESCO and the United Nations, he also translated his father's works into English.

In the cafes of Vienna, Broch met such intellectuals as Robert Musil and Franz Blei, and the talented journalist Ea von Allesch, a former nude model, who was called 'the Queen of Café Central'. Ea von Allesch's first husband was an English pianist, who died at the front during the war. Lieutenant Johannes von Allesch, her second husband, had a nervous breakdown three months after their weddings. Among the wedding guests were the writers Musil and Rainer Maria Rilke. Broch left Milena (Jesenská) Polak for her - and Milena started her affair with Franz Kafka. A Czech journalist and translator, Milena taught Broch Czech. Her short affair with Broch was an open secret at Café Herrenhof, where Milena and her husband, Ernst Polak, frequented. Milena died in 1944 in Ravensbrück concentration camp. Café Griensteidl was the favorite place of Karl Kraus, editor of Die Fackel, who attacked in it hypocrisy and militarized bureaucracy and whom Broch greatly admired.

In 1919 Broch became a reviewer at Moderne Welt, partly due to Ea von Allesch's contacts. She encouraged Broch in his literary aspirations and Broch wrote her passionate letters. Sometimes Broch complained her coldness. She was 11-years older than Broch, who concluded that marital traumas must be behind her problems. Their romance started to cool in 1927. Broch portrayed her in the second and third part of the trilogy Die Schlafwandler (1931-32). Ea was also Robert Musil's femme fatale in his play Vinzenz und die Freundin bedeutender Männer (1923). Anna Herzog became Broch's secretary and new mistress.

After working for many years in the family textile firm, Broch devoted himself from the age of 40 to intellectual pursuits. Broch divorced in 1923 and sold the factory in 1927. From 1926 to 1930 he studied mathematics, philosophy, and psychology at Vienna University, where the highly influential Vienna Circle was organized in 1929. Its members, including Moritz Schlick, Rudolf Carnap, Otto Neurath, and Friedrich Waismann, and other logical positivist, campaigned against metaphysics as an outdated precursor of science. They attempted to add the technical equipment and logical rigour of modern mathematical logic to the empirical tradition of Hume, Comte, and Mach. "... mathematics is a kind of last desperate stand made by the human spirit..." says one of his characters in Die unbekannte Grösse (1933, The Unknown Quantity). "In itself it's not really necessary, but it's a kind of island of decency, and that's why I like it." Broch himself saw that the unique task of literature was to deal with problems, whose solutions elude the "hard" sciences. Disappointed with his professors' reluctance to consider metaphysical questions, Broch abandoned his studies.

At the age of forty-five Broch published his first novel, the trilogy Die Schlafwandler, an essay novel, which reflected the author's Spenglerian conviction that history progresses in cycles of disintegrating and reintegrating value systems. "All epochs in which values are decayed are historically orientated," Broch once noted. Set in the period between 1880 and 1920, the characters experience social, political, and economic troubles as periods of personal difficulties and transition. Joachim von Paserow, a Prussian aristocrat and a military officer, breaks with the oppressive conventions with the Bohemian prostitute Ruzena, but ends in a joyless marriage with Elisabeth, his neighbor and social equal. August Esch, the impetuous bookkeeper and a visionary, is a transitional figure. His world falls apart when he is fired from his job. At the end of a period of wandering, he marries a restaurant owner. Wilhelm Huguenau is the "value-free" person, who swindles and murders his way to social and financial success. He epitomizes a social system devoid of traditional values. Huguenau deserts the army, kills Esch, rapes Frau Esch, and becomes a respected businessman. The structure of the novel is loose, fragments of philosophical essays, pieces of journalism, sections of dialogue, and fantasies follow each other. The disintegration of cultural values in Germany is dealt in the third part in an essay, written by one of the characters, Bertand Müller. He is perhaps the same person as Eduard von Bertrand from parts one and two.

The spread of fascism made Broch abandon his literary projects. In 1937-38 he worked on the Völkerbund-Resolution (Resolution for the league of Nations), suggesting that the international recognitions and enforcement of human rights might stem the tide of fascism. Broch's interest in the collective psychological sources of Nazism was later expressed in Massenpsychologie (1951), which was written with the aid of several American foundations during and after World War II. Die Verzauberung (1976) was a novel about mass psychology. The story was set in a small Tyrolean mountain village, where farmers fall for the promises of a fanatic fundamentalist and even participate in the ritual murder of a young girl. Broch worked on the book periodically since the 1930s, but it was left unfinished. At the time of his death, he was going through the third version of the text. In Die Schuldlosen (1950, The Guiltless) Broch traced the rise of Nazism to political apathy, "wakeful somnolence", and psychological disorientation of European society. His characters have lost their values, they are outsiders in their own life.

Broch was arrested by the Nazis on the day of the German annexation of Austria and detained briefly in 1938. Inspired by the visions of impending death in the prison in Altaussee, he wrote a few elegies, which became the core of Der Tod des Vergil. With the help of James Joyce and other writers, Broch was allowed to emigrate from Nazi Austria. He moved to London, then to Scotland, and finally to the United States, where he settled first in Princeton, New Jersey. Ea von Allesch took care of Broch's mother, but could not save her from the Nazis and she ended in a concentration camp. Ea died in 1953 in Vienna.

Because Broch did not have academic degrees, he was unable to obtain regular faculty appointments at Princeton or Yale. He received a series of stipends from various fellowships, including Guggenheim, Rockefeller, Bollingen, Oberlander, and the American Academy of Arts and Sciences. From 1940 Broch was involved in refugee work, and much of his money he gave to other European refugees of the war.

The Death of Virgil, one of the great monuments of exile literature, was completed in the United States - Broch began to write it when he was in the concentration camp. The four parts of the book are ruled by the four elements – water, fire, earth, and air. The first section consist of the poet's return to Italy through filthy and noisy streets of the port - he is carried from his boat to the palace in Brundisium. Virgil clings to his consciousness, "he clung to it with the strength of a man who feels the most significant thing of his life approaching and is full of anxiety lest he miss it, and consciousness kept awake by the awakened fear of obeyed his will: nothing escaped his observation..." The second is predominantly a fevered dream in the palace of the emperor Augustus. The third consists of Virgil's decision that the Aeneid must be destroyed, because society is doomed and poetry is useless, and his struggle with the emperor who wants the work preserved. In the last chapter Virgil finally accepts death.

Within the framework of eighteen hours, the dying poet is engaged in long philosophical conversations with his physician, with the emperor, and with his friends. The conversations with Caesar deal partly with the nature of totalitarianism and the relationship of religion and the state. In this work Broch attempted to represent the transition from life to death through a musical and poetic technique. Long, almost unstructured sentences, convey the complexity and emotional and aesthetic content of a single thought. Added with recursive language, the novel is a difficult read. Hannah Arendt and Aldous Huxley greatly admired Broch's treatment of the idea of art as "an affiliation with the human community, which was the aim of real art in its aspiration toward humanity." On the other hand, Huxley was bewildered by many of the the quasi-poetic sections of the novel.

Broch was among those intellectuals, who were convinced of the decay of the West, but like the cultural historian Egon Friedell, the writer of A Cultural History of the Modern Age (1927-31), he hoped for a rebirth of Western culture. He believed that in the Middle Ages there was a real totality. The nineteenth century was for him one of the most miserable periods in world history. Wagner was "an unmusical genius of music and an unpoetic genius of poetry" and Baudelaire paved the way for the darkest anarchy of the twentieth century. However, in Joyce's Ulysses and Mann's Joseph novels he saw signs of the rebirth of myth in the present age. Totality was a central term in Broch's literary criticism. According to Broch, "art which is not capable of reproducing the totality of the world is not art." He condemned the search for beauty – it can only lead to kitch. The term in his writings refers to repetition; technically kitsch always copies its immediate predecessor. "Kitch is certainly not 'bad art'," Broch once said, "it forms its own closed system, which is lodged like a foreign body in the overall system of art, of which, if you prefer, appears alonside it." (from Kitch: an Anthology of Bad Taste by Gillo Forfles, 1969)

Broch spent the last years of his life in close contact with Yale University, New Haven, Connecticut. In 1949 he became a fellow at the Saybrook College. On the eve of a planned return to Europe, he died of a heart attack on May 30, 1951. Although Broch had converted to Catholicism as a young man, at the time of his death he was planning a return to the Judaism of his childhood.

For further reading: Dichter wider Willen, ed. by Erich Kahler (1958); Hermann Broch by T. Ziolkowski (1964); The Sleepwalkers by D.C. Cohn (1966); Men in Dark Times by H. Arendt (1968); Materialen zu Hermann Brochs "Die Schlafwandler", ed. by Gisela Brude-Firnau (1972); The Novels of Hermann Broch by M.R. Simpson (1977); Hermann Broch by Ernestine Schlant (1978); Herman Broch: Eine Biographie by Paul Michael Lützeler (1985); Hermann Broch; Werk und Wirkung, ed. by E. Kiss (1985); Hermann Broch: Literature, Philosophy, and Politics, ed. by Stephen D. Dowden (1988); Brochs theoretisches Werk, ed. by Paul Michael Lützeler and Michael Kessler (1988); Asthetik Ethik Und Religion Bei Hermann Broch Mit Einer Theologisch Ethischen by A. Mersch (1989); A History of Modern Criticism, vol. 7, by René Wellek (1991); Die Zeitdarstellung bei Hermann Broch by Jörg Zeller (1998); The Unfortunate Passion of Hermann Brochby José María Pérez Gay (2008)

Selected works:

* Die Schlafwandler: Ein Romantrilogie - Passenow; oder, Die Romantik, 1888, 1931; Esch; oder, Die Anarchie, 1903, 1931; Huguenau, oder, Die Sachlichkeit, 1918, 1932 - Sleepwalkers: A Trilogy (tr. by Willa and Edwin Muir) - Unissakulkijat 1: Luutnantti Pasenow eli Romantiikkaa, 1888; Unissakulkijat 2: Kirjanpitäjä Esch, eli, Anarkia, 1903; Unissakulkijat 3: Liikemies Huguenau, eli, Asiallisuus, 1918 (suom. Oili Suominen, 1988-1994) - televison film in 1979: Esch oder Die Anarchie, dir. by Rainer Boldt, screenplay by Jens-Peter Behrend, Barbara Bilabel, starring Lore Bronner, Alexander Kerst, Hans-Peter Korff, Karl Merkatz
* Die unbekannte Grösse, 1933 - The Unknown Quantity (transl. by Willa & Edwin Muir)
* Die Entsühnung, 1934 - The Atonement (tr. by H.F. Broch de Rothermann & George E. Wellwarth, in German Drama Between the Wars: An Anthology of Plays, 1972)
* James Joyce und die Gegenwart, 1936
* Der Tod des Vergil, 1945 - The Death of Virgil (tr. by Jean Starr Untermeyer)
* Die Schuldlosen, 1950 - The Guiltless (tr. by Ralph Manheim) - TV film 1994: Zerline - En tjenestepiges fortælling, dir. by Bente Kongsbøl, starring Bodil Kjer
* Der Versucher, 1953
* Dichten und Erkenne, 1955
* Essays, 1955 (ed. by Hannah Arendt)
* Massenpsychologie, 1959
* Gesammelte Werke, 1952-1961 (10 vols.)
* Short Stories, 1966 (ed. by E.W. Herd)
* Der Bergroman, 1969 (4 vols.)
* Zur Univärsitätsreform, 1969
* Briefw. mit D. Brody, 1970
* Gedanken zur Politik, 1970
* Hermann Broch Daniel Brody Briefwechsel 1930-1951, 1971 (ed. by von Bertold Hack and Marietta Kleiß)
* Barbara, und andere Novellen, 1973
* Hofmanstahl und seine Zeit, 1974 - Hugo von Hofmanstahl and His Time (transl. by Michael P. Steinberg)
* Schriften zur Literatur, 1975 (2 vols.)
* Die Vierzauberung, 1976 - The Spell (transl. by H.F. Broch de Rothermann)
* Kommentierte Werkausgabe 1-17, 1974-1981
* Geist and Zeitgeist: The Spirit in an Unspiritual Age, 2003 (ed. by John Hargraves)


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source: www.kirjasto.sci.fi

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Works about Kafka

Written by son of rambow on Wednesday, December 23, 2009

Brod, Max. Franz Kafka: A Biography. New York: Da Capo Press, 1995. ISBN 0-306-80670-3

Brod, Max. The Biography of Franz Kafka, tr. from the German by G. Humphreys Roberts. London: Secker & Warburg, 1947. OCLC 2771397

Calasso, Roberto. K. Knopf, 2005. ISBN 1-4000-4189-9

Citati, Pietro, Kafka, 1987. ISBN 0-7859-2173-7

Coots, Steve. Franz Kafka (Beginner's Guide). Headway, 2002, ISBN 0-340-84648-8

Deleuze, Gilles & Félix Guattari. Kafka: Toward a Minor Literature (Theory and History of Literature, Vol 30). Minneapolis, University of Minnesota, 1986. ISBN 0-8166-1515-2

Glatzer, Nahum N., The Loves of Franz Kafka. New York: Schocken Books, 1986. ISBN 0-8052-4001-2

Greenberg, Martin, The Terror of Art: Kafka and Modern Literature. New York, Basic Books, 1968. ISBN 0-465-08415-X

Gordimer, Nadine (1984). "Letter from His Father" in Something Out There, London, Penguin Books. ISBN 0-14-007711-1

Hayman, Ronald. K, a Biography of Kafka. London: Phoenix Press, 2001.ISBN 1-84212-415-3

Janouch, Gustav. Conversations with Kafka. New York: New Directions Books, second edition 1971. (Translated by Goronwy Rees.) ISBN 0-8112-0071-X

Kwinter, Sanford. Architectures of Time: Toward a Theory of the Event in Modernist Culture. Cambridge, MIT Press, 2002. ISBN 0-262-11260-4

Murray, Nicholas. Kafka. New Haven: Yale, 2004.

Pawel, Ernst. The Nightmare of Reason: A Life of Franz Kafka. New York: Vintage Books, 1985. ISBN 0-374-52335-5

Thiher, Allen (ed.). Franz Kafka: A Study of the Short Fiction (Twayne's Studies in Short Fiction, No. 12). ISBN 0-8057-8323-7

And most of his actual works have been translated at least twice into English. Given the fact he lived a relatively obscure life, he is amazingly well documented by any standards.

The Wikidpedia article is at:

Franz Kafka - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

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Milan Kundera: Czech's legendary writer

Written by son of rambow on Tuesday, December 22, 2009

The Czech Republic has its share of controversial writers (not to mention filmmakers - Hrabal, Kafka, and Milan Kundera, whose anti-Party stance tended to get him in trouble with the authorities, and his trouble with the ladies tended to get him labeled as a misogynist (hey, it worked for Hemmingway…). Kundera was an extremely private person and guarded his personal life, which he said was “nobody’s business.” Influenced by Czech structuralism, he thought that literary texts should be perceived on their own merits, without the interference of factors outside the book, like the author’s personal life. Of course, it could be argued that it is impossible to have an objective biography, especially with a writer as dynamic as Kundera.

Kundera was born on 1 April 1929 in Brno, Czechoslovakia. His father was a Czech musicologist and pianist, and Kundera was taught music from a young age; later, musical themes would appear in most of his novels. He completed secondary school in Brno in 1948, then studied literature and aesthetics but soon switched to the Film Academy in Prague, which he graduated in 1952; that year, he was first appointed as a lecturer in world literature at the Film Academy.

Kundera tended to have a complicated relationship with the Communist Party. He belonged to group of young Czechs who didn’t remember pre-war Czechoslovakia, and were mostly influenced by WWII and the German occupation, which propelled them towards Marxism and Party membership. He joined the Czechoslovak Communist Party in 1948, but then was expelled for “anti-party activities” in 1950, an event that would greatly influence him and later appeared in his thinly-veiled autobiographical novel The Joke; he re-joined in 1956 and was re-expelled in 1970. Afterwards, he was also expelled from the University, lived among workmen, played the trumpet in a jazz band and wrote poetry. He eventually became disillusioned with the communist system, and in a conference in 1967 called for freedom of writers, stressing the importance of preserving a separate Czech identity, which could only be done if Czech literature and culture are allowed to develop in complete freedom. Optimistic, no?

Kundera’s first book came out in 1953 (Man, a Wide Garden – a collection of poetry); his poetry displayed a critique of “socialist realism,” though still from a Marxist point of view. He tended to reject political propaganda as a theme and instead stressed the importance of natural, authentic human experience. Later, he began to write plays that were actually staged, in an attempt to humanize communism from within its own framework. Kundera eventually came to disown the first 30 years of his life, and the first thing he wrote of importance to him is the first story in the short story collection Laughable Loves, when his “life of a writer began.”

After the Prague Spring in 1968, Kundera was dismissed from his teaching post at the Prague Film Academy, and his books were banned and withdrawn from bookshops and libraries. Paradoxically, after that he experienced the feeling of total freedom in writing, because he knew no censor would be reading his books. Thus in 1975 he emigrated to France with his wife, where he taught at the University of Rennes, moved to Paris in 1978, where he completed his masterpiece, The Unbearable Lightness of Being in 1982, which won him international recognition.

In The Unbearable Lightness of Being, Kundera presents the lack of values as lightness; necessity, weight, and value are three concepts inextricably bound: only necessity is heavy, and only what is heavy has value. Kundera’s critique of human relationships is interlaced with his critique of the communist system, which obviously made him quite unpopular with the authorities at the time (luckily he was hiding away in France). Though largely philosophical and inevitably influenced by Kundera’s surroundings and experiences in Prague and with the Czechoslovak Communist Party, Kundera’s novels remain popular because they elevate the specific contexts and characters to the universal; the problems faced by characters in 1960s-70s Czechoslovakia are not really that different from the problems faced by us today. In fact, it can be argued that Kundera’s novels are driven by exactly what drives most people – inter-human relationships, addictions, and sex.

Since the fall of communism, Kundera has adopted France as his home and rarely goes back to the Czech Republic, even switching to writing in French in 1995. Though works can be philosophical, Kundera himself is not a proponent of any specific school of thinking. [source: http://www.prague-life.com]

Download Milan Kundera's novel:
Laughable Loves
The Unbearable Lightness of Being

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Gunter Grass's Silence

Written by son of rambow on Thursday, November 19, 2009

German author, artist and Nobel laureate G?nter Grass would be a tough day for anyone, the day you admit you were a member of the Nazi Waffen-SS. Sixty years after war's end, there continues to be, to put it mildly, a p.r. problem for Germans who belonged to Heinrich Himmler's personal army, the largely volunteer force that staffed the concentration camps and crushed the Warsaw Uprising.

Now imagine making that confession after a lifetime of establishing yourself as Germany's most ardent advocate of full disclosure and penance. There you are, having been jabbing a finger in the German body politic's chest for 60 years, accusing them of failing to own up to their collective responsibility for the war. And it turns out you've had a dirty little secret of your own all along. This is exactly what happened on last week to G?nter Grass, the novelist and Nobel literature laureate who was the voice of Germany's war generation. The admission came in an interview with the Frankfurter Allgemeine newspaper, in advance of the release next month in Germany of Grass's new autobiography, Peeling the Onion.

"It was a weight on me," Grass, 78, told the paper. "My silence over all these years is one of the reasons I wrote the book. It had to come out finally." Grass says he originally signed up for submarine duty at 15, but was turned down, and two years later, in 1944, was directed instead to the SS, though he says he didn't realize he was being shipped there until he showed up for basic training. Why volunteer in the first place? "Above all, I wanted to get away from home," he told the paper. "Away from the close quarters, away from the family. I wanted to end all that, and that's why I volunteered."

Grass had always maintained he was a flakhelfer, a youth conscript forced to work anti-aircraft batteries. The alibi placed him right in the mainstream of his peers, who came to be called the flakhelfer generation — those who claimed they were unwilling participants in the war effort and especially its atrocities.

Newspapers across Germany were predictably atremble over Grass's revelation. The Welt am Sonntag called Grass' admission "moral suicide," and compared his insistence that he never fired a shot while in the SS to Bill Clinton's saying he smoked weed but didn't inhale. Other papers cried "too late" and wrote at length about the glass house Grass had been living in. Over in Poland, Lech Walesa said Grass should give back his honorary Polish citizenship. At least one conservative politician in Germany, perhaps looking for payback after decades of being nettled by Grass, has called for his Nobel Prize to be rescinded.

What's being lost in all the giddy gotcha is an acknowledgement of the continued importance of Grass' message of reckoning with the past. Young Germans don't want to talk about the past. At the World Cup, they were delighted to be able wave their flags like Americans at a Fourth of July demolition derby. German Chancellor Angela Merkel has remained silent on a controversial proposal to build a Berlin memorial to the German families who were refugees from occupied territories after the war. Even Germany's most famously repentant flakhelfer, Pope Benedict XVI, n? Joseph Ratzinger (who was assigned to a missile battery protecting a BMW factory near his hometown during the war), has strayed from the cautious path of reckoning and reconciliation. His recent speech at Auschwitz, which seemed in part to recast the Holocaust as a cleverly disguised attempt on the life of the Christian faith, left many people scratching their heads.

It's no small historical irony that Grass and the future Pope were both POWs together in an allied prisoner camp at Bad Aibling. Grass told the Allgemeine that he and the future Pope were friends of sorts, even though Ratzinger was "extremely Catholic" and fond of quoting things in Latin. "He seemed a little uptight to me," said Grass. "But he was a nice guy."

Imagine, then, an alternate history, in which Grass had made his confession about his time in the SS back in that camp to his prim campmate. The confession might well have given him a clearer conscience. But that might have been a terrible thing for a postwar Germany trying to come to terms with its complicity in the Nazi horrors.

If Grass had not been living with this wretched little skeleton in his closet, he might never have written a word. Like 99% of his compatriots, he might have just dusted himself off at war's end, said his 20 Hail Marys, and gone about joining the blithely ahistorical postwar boom. Instead, a haunted Grass cranked out a series of brutal novels about the war and childhood in occupied Poland, beginning with his powerful 1959 novel The Tin Drum. Those unforgettable narratives, along with a good measure of his public hectoring and politicking, helped his entire country stave off collective amnesia for decades. So while his opponents, and even a share of his friends, are piling on him about the lies he told about his past, it's worth considering that those personal lies helped keep alive important national truths.

source: http://www.time.com/time/arts/article/0,8599,1226380,00.html

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Essay on Rudyard Kipling by George Orwell

Written by son of rambow on Wednesday, July 15, 2009

It was a pity that Mr. Eliot should be so much on the defensive in the
long essay with which he prefaces this selection of Kipling's poetry,
but it was not to be avoided, because before one can even speak about
Kipling one has to clear away a legend that has been created by two sets
of people who have not read his works. Kipling is in the peculiar
position of having been a byword for fifty years. During five literary
generations every enlightened person has despised him, and at the end of
that time nine-tenths of those enlightened persons are forgotten and
Kipling is in some sense still there. Mr. Eliot never satisfactorily
explains this fact, because in answering the shallow and familiar charge
that Kipling is a 'Fascist', he falls into the opposite error of
defending him where he is not defensible. It is no use pretending that
Kipling's view of life, as a whole, can be accepted or even forgiven by
any civilized person. It is no use claiming, for instance, that when
Kipling describes a British soldier beating a 'nigger' with a cleaning
rod in order to get money out of him, he is acting merely as a reporter
and does not necessarily approve what he describes. There is not the
slightest sign anywhere in Kipling's work that he disapproves of that
kind of conduct--on the contrary, there is a definite strain of sadism
in him, over and above the brutality which a writer of that type has to
have. Kipling is a jingo imperialist, he is morally insensitive and
aesthetically disgusting. It is better to start by admitting that, and
then to try to find out why it is that he survives while the refined
people who have sniggered at him seem to wear so badly.

And yet the 'Fascist' charge has to be answered, because the first clue
to any understanding of Kipling, morally or politically, is the fact that
he was NOT a Fascist. He was further from being one than the most humane
or the most 'progressive' person is able to be nowadays. An interesting
instance of the way in which quotations are parroted to and fro without
any attempt to look up their context or discover their meaning is the
line from 'Recessional', 'Lesser breeds without the Law'. This line is
always good for a snigger in pansy-left circles. It is assumed as a
matter of course that the 'lesser breeds' are 'natives', and a mental
picture is called up of some pukka sahib in a pith helmet kicking a
coolie. In its context the sense of the line is almost the exact opposite
of this. The phrase 'lesser breeds' refers almost certainly to the
Germans, and especially the pan-German writers, who are 'without the Law'
in the sense of being lawless, not in the sense of being powerless. The
whole poem, conventionally thought of as an orgy of boasting, is a
denunciation of power politics, British as well as German. Two stanzas
are worth quoting (I am quoting this as politics, not as poetry):


If, drunk with sight of power, we loose
Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe,
Such boastings as the Gentiles use,
Or lesser breeds without the Law--
Lord God of hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget--lest we forget!

For heathen heart that puts her trust
In reeking tube and iron shard,
All valiant dust that builds on dust,
And guarding, calls not Thee to guard,
For frantic boast and foolish word--
Thy mercy on Thy People, Lord!

Much of Kipling's phraseology is taken from the Bible, and no doubt in
the second stanza he had in mind the text from Psalm CXXVII: 'Except the
lord build the house, they labour in vain that build it; except the Lord
keep the city, the watchman waketh but in vain.' It is not a text that
makes much impression on the post-Hitler mind. No one, in our time,
believes in any sanction greater than military power; no one believes
that it is possible to overcome force except by greater force. There is
no 'Law', there is only power. I am not saying that that is a true
belief, merely that it is the belief which all modern men do actually
hold. Those who pretend otherwise are either intellectual cowards, or
power-worshippers under a thin disguise, or have simply not caught up
with the age they are living in. Kipling's outlook is prefascist. He
still believes that pride comes before a fall and that the gods punish
HUBRIS. He does not foresee the tank, the bombing plane, the radio and
the secret police, or their psychological results.

But in saying this, does not one unsay what I said above about Kipling's
jingoism and brutality? No, one is merely saying that the
nineteenth-century imperialist outlook and the modern gangster outlook
are two different things. Kipling belongs very definitely to the period
1885-1902. The Great War and its aftermath embittered him, but he shows
little sign of having learned anything from any event later than the Boer
War. He was the prophet of British Imperialism in its expansionist phase
(even more than his poems, his solitary novel, THE LIGHT THAT FAILED,
gives you the atmosphere of that time) and also the unofficial historian
of the British Army, the old mercenary army which began to change its
shape in 1914. All his confidence, his bouncing vulgar vitality, sprang
out of limitations which no Fascist or near-Fascist shares.

Kipling spent the later part of his life in sulking, and no doubt it was
political disappointment rather than literary vanity that account for
this. Somehow history had not gone according to plan. After the greatest
victory she had ever known, Britain was a lesser world power than before,
and Kipling was quite acute enough to see this. The virtue had gone out
of the classes he idealized, the young were hedonistic or disaffected,
the desire to paint the map red had evaporated. He could not understand
what was happening, because he had never had any grasp of the economic
forces underlying imperial expansion. It is notable that Kipling does not
seem to realize, any more than the average soldier or colonial
administrator, that an empire is primarily a money-making concern.
Imperialism as he sees it is a sort of forcible evangelizing. You turn a
Gatling gun on a mob of unarmed 'natives', and then you establish 'the
Law', which includes roads, railways and a court-house. He could not
foresee, therefore, that the same motives which brought the Empire into
existence would end by destroying it. It was the same motive, for
example, that caused the Malayan jungles to be cleared for rubber
estates, and which now causes those estates to be handed over intact to
the Japanese. The modern totalitarians know what they are doing, and the
nineteenth-century English did not know what they were doing. Both
attitudes have their advantages, but Kipling was never able to move
forward from one into the other. His outlook, allowing for the fact that
after all he was an artist, was that of the salaried bureaucrat who
despises the 'box-wallah' and often lives a lifetime without realizing
that the 'box-wallah' calls the tune.

But because he identifies himself with the official class, he does
possess one thing which 'enlightened' people seldom or never possess, and
that is a sense of responsibility. The middle-class Left hate him for
this quite as much as for his cruelty and vulgarity. All left-wing
parties in the highly industrialized countries are at bottom a sham,
because they make it their business to fight against something which they
do not really wish to destroy. They have internationalist aims, and at
the same time they struggle to keep up a standard of life with which
those aims are incompatible. We all live by robbing Asiatic coolies, and
those of us who are 'enlightened' all maintain that those coolies ought
to be set free; but our standard of living, and hence our
'enlightenment', demands that the robbery shall continue. A humanitarian
is always a hypocrite, and Kipling's understanding of this is perhaps the
central secret of his power to create telling phrases. It would be
difficult to hit off the one-eyed pacifism of the English in fewer words
than in the phrase, 'making mock of uniforms that guard you while you
sleep'. It is true that Kipling does not understand the economic aspect
of the relationship between the highbrow and the blimp. He does not see
that the map is painted red chiefly in order that the coolie may be
exploited. Instead of the coolie he sees the Indian Civil Servant; but
even on that plane his grasp of function, of who protects whom, is very
sound. He sees clearly that men can only be highly civilized while other
men, inevitably less civilized, are there to guard and feed them.

How far does Kipling really identify himself with the administrators,
soldiers and engineers whose praises he sings? Not so completely as is
sometimes assumed. He had travelled very widely while he was still a
young man, he had grown up with a brilliant mind in mainly philistine
surroundings, and some streak in him that may have been partly neurotic
led him to prefer the active man to the sensitive man. The
nineteenth-century Anglo-Indians, to name the least sympathetic of his
idols, were at any rate people who did things. It may be that all that
they did was evil, but they changed the face of the earth (it is
instructive to look at a map of Asia and compare the railway system of
India with that of the surrounding countries), whereas they could have
achieved nothing, could not have maintained themselves in power for a
single week, if the normal Anglo-Indian outlook had been that of, say,
E.M. Forster. Tawdry and shallow though it is, Kipling's is the only
literary picture that we possess of nineteenth-century Anglo-India, and
he could only make it because he was just coarse enough to be able to
exist and keep his mouth shut in clubs and regimental messes. But he did
not greatly resemble the people he admired. I know from several private
sources that many of the Anglo-Indians who were Kipling's contemporaries
did not like or approve of him. They said, no doubt truly, that he knew
nothing about India, and on the other hand, he was from their point of
view too much of a highbrow. While in India he tended to mix with 'the
wrong' people, and because of his dark complexion he was wrongly
suspected of having a streak of Asiatic blood. Much in his development is
traceable to his having been born in India and having left school early.
With a slightly different background he might have been a good novelist
or a superlative writer of music-hall songs. But how true is it that he
was a vulgar flagwaver, a sort of publicity agent for Cecil Rhodes? It is
true, but it is not true that he was a yes-man or a time-server. After
his early days, if then, he never courted public opinion. Mr. Eliot says
that what is held against him is that he expressed unpopular views in a
popular style. This narrows the issue by assuming that 'unpopular' means
unpopular with the intelligentsia, but it is a fact that Kipling's
'message' was one that the big public did not want, and, indeed, has
never accepted. The mass of the people, in the nineties as now, were
anti-militarist, bored by the Empire, and only unconsciously patriotic.
Kipling's official admirers are and were the 'service' middle class, the
people who read BLACKWOOD'S. In the stupid early years of this century,
the blimps, having at last discovered someone who could be called a poet
and who was on their side, set Kipling on a pedestal, and some of his
more sententious poems, such as 'If', were given almost biblical status.
But it is doubtful whether the blimps have ever read him with attention,
any more than they have read the Bible. Much of what he says they could
not possibly approve. Few people who have criticized England from the
inside have said bitterer things about her than this gutter patriot. As a
rule it is the British working class that he is attacking, but not
always. That phrase about 'the flannelled fools at the wicket and the
muddied oafs at the goal' sticks like an arrow to this day, and it is
aimed at the Eton and Harrow match as well as the Cup-Tie Final. Some of
the verses he wrote about the Boer War have a curiously modern ring, so
far as their subject-matter goes. 'Stellenbosch', which must have been
written about 1902, sums up what every intelligent infantry officer was
saying in 1918, or is saying now, for that matter.

Kipling's romantic ideas about England and the Empire might not have
mattered if he could have held them without having the class-prejudices
which at that time went with them. If one examines his best and most
representative work, his soldier poems, especially BARRACK-ROOM BALLADS,
one notices that what more than anything else spoils them is an
underlying air of patronage. Kipling idealizes the army officer,
especially the junior officer, and that to an idiotic extent, but the
private soldier, though lovable and romantic, has to be a comic. He is
always made to speak in a sort of stylized Cockney, not very broad but
with all the aitches and final "g's" carefully omitted. Very often the
result is as embarrassing as the humorous recitation at a church social.
And this accounts for the curious fact that one can often improve
Kipling's poems, make them less facetious and less blatant, by simply
going through them and transplanting them from Cockney into standard
speech. This is especially true of his refrains, which often have a truly
lyrical quality. Two examples will do (one is about a funeral and the
other about a wedding):

So it's knock out your pipes and follow me!
And it's finish up your swipes and follow me!
Oh, hark to the big drum calling,
Follow me--follow me home!

and again:

Cheer for the Sergeant's wedding--
Give them one cheer more!
Grey gun-horses in the lando,
And a rogue is married to a whore!

Here I have restored the aitches, etc. Kipling ought to have known
better. He ought to have seen that the two closing lines of the first of
these stanzas are very beautiful lines, and that ought to have overriden
his impulse to make fun of a working-man's accent. In the ancient ballads
the lord and the peasant speak the same language. This is impossible to
Kipling, who is looking down a distorting class-perspective, and by a
piece of poetic justice one of his best lines is spoiled--for 'follow me
'ome' is much uglier than 'follow me home'. But even where it makes no
difference musically the facetiousness of his stage Cockney dialect is
irritating. However, he is more often quoted aloud than read on the
printed page, and most people instinctively make the necessary
alterations when they quote him.

Can one imagine any private soldier, in the nineties or now, reading
BARRACK-ROOM BALLADS and feeling that here was a writer who spoke for
him? It is very hard to do so. Any soldier capable of reading a book of
verse would notice at once that Kipling is almost unconscious of the
class war that goes on in an army as much as elsewhere. It is not only
that he thinks the soldier comic, but that he thinks him patriotic,
feudal, a ready admirer of his officers and proud to be a soldier of the
Queen. Of course that is partly true, or battles could not be fought, but
'What have I done for thee, England, my England?' is essentially a
middle-class query. Almost any working man would follow it up immediately
with 'What has England done for me?' In so far as Kipling grasps this, he
simply sets it down to 'the intense selfishness of the lower classes'
(his own phrase). When he is writing not of British but of 'loyal'
Indians he carries the 'Salaam, sahib' motif to sometimes disgusting
lengths. Yet it remains true that he has far more interest in the common
soldier, far more anxiety that he shall get a fair deal, than most of the
'liberals' of his day or our own. He sees that the soldier is neglected,
meanly underpaid and hypocritically despised by the people whose incomes
he safeguards. 'I came to realize', he says in his posthumous memoirs,
'the bare horrors of the private's life, and the unnecessary torments he
endured'. He is accused of glorifying war, and perhaps he does so, but
not in the usual manner, by pretending that war is a sort of football
match. Like most people capable of writing battle poetry, Kipling had
never been in battle, but his vision of war is realistic. He knows that
bullets hurt, that under fire everyone is terrified, that the ordinary
soldier never knows what the war is about or what is happening except in
his own corner of the battlefield, and that British troops, like other
troops, frequently run away:


I 'eard the knives be'ind me, but I dursn't face my man,
Nor I don't know where I went to, 'cause I didn't stop to see,
Till I 'eard a beggar squealin' out for quarter as 'e ran,
An' I thought I knew the voice an'--it was me!


Modernize the style of this, and it might have come out of one of the
debunking war books of the nineteen-twenties. Or again:


An' now the hugly bullets come peckin' through the dust,
An' no one wants to face 'em, but every beggar must;
So, like a man in irons, which isn't glad to go,
They moves 'em off by companies uncommon stiff an' slow.


Compare this with:


Forward the Light Brigade!
Was there a man dismayed?
No! though the soldier knew
Someone had blundered.


If anything, Kipling overdoes the horrors, for the wars of his youth were
hardly wars at all by our standards. Perhaps that is due to the neurotic
strain in him, the hunger for cruelty. But at least he knows that men
ordered to attack impossible objectives ARE dismayed, and also that
fourpence a day is not a generous pension.

How complete or truthful a picture has Kipling left us of the
long-service, mercenary army of the late nineteenth century? One must say
of this, as of what Kipling wrote about nineteenth-century Anglo-India,
that it is not only the best but almost the only literary picture we
have. He has put on record an immense amount of stuff that one could
otherwise only gather from verbal tradition or from unreadable regimental
histories. Perhaps his picture of army life seems fuller and more
accurate than it is because any middle-class English person is likely to
know enough to fill up the gaps. At any rate, reading the essay on
Kipling that Mr. Edmund Wilson has just published or is just about to
publish [Note, below], I was struck by the number of things that are
boringly familiar to us and seem to be barely intelligible to an American.
But from the body of Kipling's early work there does seem to emerge a vivid
and not seriously misleading picture of the old pre-machine-gun army--
the sweltering barracks in Gibraltar or Lucknow, the red coats, the
pipeclayed belts and the pillbox hats, the beer, the fights, the
floggings, hangings and crucifixions, the bugle-calls, the smell of oats
and horsepiss, the bellowing sergeants with foot-long moustaches, the
bloody skirmishes, invariably mismanaged, the crowded troopships, the
cholera-stricken camps, the 'native' concubines, the ultimate death in
the workhouse. It is a crude, vulgar picture, in which a patriotic
music-hall turn seems to have got mixed up with one of Zola's gorier
passages, but from it future generations will be able to gather some idea
of what a long-term volunteer army was like. On about the same level they
will be able to learn something of British India in the days when
motor-cars and refrigerators were unheard of. It is an error to imagine
that we might have had better books on these subjects if, for example,
George Moore, or Gissing, or Thomas Hardy, had had Kipling's
opportunities. That is the kind of accident that cannot happen. It was
not possible that nineteenth-century England should produce a book like
WAR AND PEACE, or like Tolstoy's minor stories of army life, such as
Sebastopol or THE COSSACKS, not because the talent was necessarily
lacking but because no one with sufficient sensitiveness to write such
books would ever have made the appropriate contacts. Tolstoy lived in a
great military empire in which it seemed natural for almost any young man
of family to spend a few years in the army, whereas the British Empire
was and still is demilitarized to a degree which continental observers
find almost incredible. Civilized men do not readily move away from the
centres of civilization, and in most languages there is a great dearth of
what one might call colonial literature. It took a very improbable
combination of circumstances to produce Kipling's gaudy tableau, in which
Private Ortheris and Mrs. Hauksbee pose against a background of palm
trees to the sound of temple bells, and one necessary circumstance was
that Kipling himself was only half civilized.


[Note: Published in a volume of Collected Essays, THE WOUND AND THE
BOW. Author's footnote 1945]


Kipling is the only English writer of our time who has added phrases to
the language. The phrases and neologisms which we take over and use
without remembering their origin do not always come from writers we
admire. It is strange, for instance, to hear the Nazi broadcasters
referring to the Russian soldiers as 'robots', thus unconsciously
borrowing a word from a Czech democrat whom they would have killed if
they could have laid hands on him. Here are half a dozen phrases coined
by Kipling which one sees quoted in leaderettes in the gutter press or
overhears in saloon bars from people who have barely heard his name. It
will be seen that they all have a certain characteristic in common:

East is East, and West is West.
The white man's burden.
What do they know of England who only England know?
The female of the species is more deadly than the male.
Somewhere East of Suez.
Paying the Dane-geld.

There are various others, including some that have outlived their context
by many years. The phrase 'killing Kruger with your mouth', for instance,
was current till very recently. It is also possible that it was Kipling
who first let loose the use of the word 'Huns' for Germans; at any rate
he began using it as soon as the guns opened fire in 1914. But what the
phrases I have listed above have in common is that they are all of them
phrases which one utters semi-derisively (as it might be 'For I'm to be
Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May'), but which one is
bound to make use of sooner or later. Nothing could exceed the contempt
of the NEW STATESMAN, for instance, for Kipling, but how many times
during the Munich period did the NEW STATESMAN find itself quoting that
phrase about paying the Dane-geld[Note, below]? The fact is that Kipling,
apart from his snack-bar wisdom and his gift for packing much cheap
picturesqueness into a few words ('palm and pine'--'east of Suez'--'the
road to Mandalay'), is generally talking about things that are of urgent
interest. It does not matter, from this point of view, that thinking and
decent people generally find themselves on the other side of the fence
from him. 'White man's burden' instantly conjures up a real problem, even
if one feels that it ought to be altered to 'black man's burden'. One may
disagree to the middle of one's bones with the political attitude implied
in 'The Islanders', but one cannot say that it is a frivolous attitude.
Kipling deals in thoughts which are both vulgar and permanent. This
raises the question of his special status as a poet, or verse-writer.


[Note: On the first page of his recent book, ADAM AND EVE, Mr. Middleton
Murry quotes the well-known lines:

There are nine and sixty ways
Of constructing tribal lays,
And every single one of them is right.

He attributes these lines to Thackeray. This is probably what is known as
a 'Freudian error.' A civilized person would prefer not to quote Kipling
--i.e. would prefer not to feel that it was Kipling who had expressed his
thought for him. (Author's footnote 1945.)]


Mr. Eliot describes Kipling's metrical work as 'verse' and not 'poetry',
but adds that it is 'GREAT verse', and further qualifies this by saying
that a writer can only be described as a 'great verse-writer' if there is
some of his work 'of which we cannot say whether it is verse or poetry'.
Apparently Kipling was a versifier who occasionally wrote poems, in which
case it was a pity that Mr. Eliot did not specify these poems by name.
The trouble is that whenever an aesthetic judgement on Kipling's work
seems to be called for, Mr. Eliot is too much on the defensive to be able
to speak plainly. What he does not say, and what I think one ought to
start by saying in any discussion of Kipling, is that most of Kipling's
verse is so horribly vulgar that it gives one the same sensation as one
gets from watching a third-rate music-hall performer recite 'The Pigtail
of Wu Fang Fu' with the purple limelight on his face, AND yet there is
much of it that is capable of giving pleasure to people who know what
poetry means. At his worst, and also his most vital, in poems like 'Gunga
Din' or 'Danny Deever', Kipling is almost a shameful pleasure, like the
taste for cheap sweets that some people secretly carry into middle life.
But even with his best passages one has the same sense of being seduced
by something spurious, and yet unquestionably seduced. Unless one is
merely a snob and a liar it is impossible to say that no one who cares
for poetry could get any pleasure out of such lines as:


For the wind is in the palm trees, and the temple bells they say,
'Come you back, you British soldier, come you back to Mandalay!'


and yet those lines are not poetry in the same sense as 'Felix Randal' or
'When icicles hang by the wall' are poetry. One can, perhaps, place
Kipling more satisfactorily than by juggling with the words 'verse' and
'poetry', if one describes him simply as a good bad poet. He is as a poet
what Harriet Beecher Stowe was as a novelist. And the mere existence of
work of this kind, which is perceived by generation after generation to
be vulgar and yet goes on being read, tells one something about the age
we live in.


There is a great deal of good bad poetry in English, all of it, I should
say, subsequent to 1790. Examples of good bad poems--I am deliberately
choosing diverse ones--are 'The Bridge of Sighs', 'When all the world is
young, lad', 'The Charge of the Light Brigade', Bret Harte's 'Dickens in
Camp', 'The Burial of Sir John Moore', 'Jenny Kissed Me', 'Keith of
Ravelston', 'Casabianca'. All of these reek of sentimentality, and yet--
not these particular poems, perhaps, but poems of this kind, are capable
of giving true pleasure to people who can see clearly what is wrong with
them. One could fill a fair-sized anthology with good bad poems, if it
were not for the significant fact that good bad poetry is usually too
well known to be worth reprinting.

It is no use pretending that in an age like our own, 'good' poetry can
have any genuine popularity. It is, and must be, the cult of a very few
people, the least tolerated of the arts. Perhaps that statement needs a
certain amount of qualification. True poetry can sometimes be acceptable
to the mass of the people when it disguises itself as something else. One
can see an example of this in the folk-poetry that England still
possesses, certain nursery rhymes and mnemonic rhymes, for instance, and
the songs that soldiers make up, including the words that go to some of
the bugle-calls. But in general ours is a civilization in which the very
word 'poetry' evokes a hostile snigger or, at best, the sort of frozen
disgust that most people feel when they hear the word 'God'. If you are
good at playing the concertina you could probably go into the nearest
public bar and get yourself an appreciative audience within five minutes.
But what would be the attitude of that same audience if you suggested
reading them Shakespeare's sonnets, for instance? Good bad poetry,
however, can get across to the most unpromising audiences if the right
atmosphere has been worked up beforehand. Some months back Churchill
produced a great effect by quoting Clough's 'Endeavour' in one of his
broadcast speeches. I listened to this speech among people who could
certainly not be accused of caring for poetry, and I am convinced that
the lapse into verse impressed them and did not embarrass them. But not
even Churchill could have got away with it if he had quoted anything much
better than this.

In so far as a writer of verse can be popular, Kipling has been and
probably still is popular. In his own lifetime some of his poems
travelled far beyond the bounds of the reading public, beyond the world
of school prize-days, Boy Scout singsongs, limp-leather editions,
pokerwork and calendars, and out into the yet vaster world of the music
halls. Nevertheless, Mr. Eliot thinks it worth while to edit him, thus
confessing to a taste which others share but are not always honest enough
to mention. The fact that such a thing as good bad poetry can exist is a
sign of the emotional overlap between the intellectual and the ordinary
man. The intellectual is different from the ordinary man, but only in
certain sections of his personality, and even then not all the time. But
what is the peculiarity of a good bad poem? A good bad poem is a graceful
monument to the obvious. It records in memorable form--for verse is a
mnemonic device, among other things--some emotion which very nearly
every human being can share. The merit of a poem like 'When all the world
is young, lad' is that, however sentimental it may be, its sentiment is
'true' sentiment in the sense that you are bound to find yourself
thinking the thought it expresses sooner or later; and then, if you
happen to know the poem, it will come back into your mind and seem better
than it did before. Such poems are a kind of rhyming proverb, and it is a
fact that definitely popular poetry is usually gnomic or sententious. One
example from Kipling will do:

White hands cling to the bridle rein,
Slipping the spur from the booted heel;
Tenderest voices cry 'Turn again!'
Red lips tarnish the scabbarded steel:
Down to Gehenna or up to the Throne,
He travels the fastest who travels alone.

There is a vulgar thought vigorously expressed. It may not be true, but
at any rate it is a thought that everyone thinks. Sooner or later you
will have occasion to feel that he travels the fastest who travels alone,
and there the thought is, ready made and, as it were, waiting for you. So
the chances are that, having once heard this line, you will remember it.

One reason for Kipling's power as a good bad poet I have already
suggested--his sense of responsibility, which made it possible for him
to have a world-view, even though it happened to be a false one. Although
he had no direct connexion with any political party, Kipling was a
Conservative, a thing that does not exist nowadays. Those who now call
themselves Conservatives are either Liberals, Fascists or the accomplices
of Fascists. He identified himself with the ruling power and not with the
opposition. In a gifted writer this seems to us strange and even
disgusting, but it did have the advantage of giving Kipling a certain
grip on reality. The ruling power is always faced with the question, 'In
such and such circumstances, what would you DO?', whereas the opposition
is not obliged to take responsibility or make any real decisions. Where
it is a permanent and pensioned opposition, as in England, the quality of
its thought deteriorates accordingly. Moreover, anyone who starts out
with a pessimistic, reactionary view of life tends to be justified by
events, for Utopia never arrives and 'the gods of the copybook headings',
as Kipling himself put it, always return. Kipling sold out to the British
governing class, not financially but emotionally. This warped his
political judgement, for the British ruling class were not what he
imagined, and it led him into abysses of folly and snobbery, but he
gained a corresponding advantage from having at least tried to imagine
what action and responsibility are like. It is a great thing in his
favour that he is not witty, not 'daring', has no wish to ÉPATER LES
BOURGEOIS. He dealt largely in platitudes, and since we live in a world
of platitudes, much of what he said sticks. Even his worst follies seem
less shallow and less irritating than the 'enlightened' utterances of the
same period, such as Wilde's epigrams or the collection of
cracker-mottoes at the end of MAN AND SUPERMAN.

source: http://www.george-orwell.org

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Quote on Art and Literature

    "There is only one school of literature - that of talent."
~ Vladimir Nabokov (1899 - 1977)



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