Charles Dickens vu à travers la loupe de Stefan Sweig, sous l’onglet littérature.

A biblioteca recomenda este mes a lectura de Mendel el de los libros, un pequeno conto do xenial Stefan Zweig que trata a relación dun libreiro coa sua clientela ambientado na época da 2ª Guerra Mundial.

Escrito en 1929, Mendel el de los libros narra la trágica historia de un excéntrico librero de viejo que pasa sus días sentado siempre a la misma mesa en uno de los muchos cafés de la ciudad de Viena. Con su memoria enciclopédica, el inmigrante judío ruso no sólo es tolerado, sino querido y admirado por el dueño del café Gluck y por la culta clientela que requiere sus servicios. Sin embargo, en 1915 Jakob Mendel es enviado a un campo de concentración, acusado injustamente de colaborar con los enemigos del Imperio austrohúngaro. Un breve y brillante relato sobre la exclusión en la Europa de la primera mitad del siglo xx.

“There you are!” So begins the latest Zweig novella to be made available in English by translator Anthea Bell and Pushkin Press. Zweig’s fiction has provoked a similar response from many readers, seeing something in his work that is perhaps lacking in much modern literature. Certainly, the form is appealing – easily consumed in one sitting, and benefiting from that intensity of experience. At the heart of the appeal, however, is probably raw and unembarrassed emotion, not always expressed openly, but felt deeply.

In Journey into the Past the emotion, as so often, is love. The novella begins by reuniting Ludwig with the woman he has loved for nine years while they have been separated, first by the necessity of him travelling to work in Mexico, and then by the First World War. All the old emotions seem to be in place:

“…he felt that she was the only person really present, removed from time and space in a strange trance of passionate bemusement.”

When Ludwig first met her, she was the wife of his employer, a man much older than her, confined to bed, who hires Ludwig to work as his private secretary. Their relationship is only friendly until Ludwig learns he is to be sent to Mexico and given the responsibility of building a new branch of the company in that part of the world and harnessing the available raw materials. At the thought of leaving, he realises how much he has come to love her:

“My God, he said to himself, leaving her. Like a knife, the thought cut through the proudly swelling sail of his delight.”

The image of travel sabotaged is not misplaced: most of the story is presented to us in the form of memories occurring as the pair travel together to Heidelberg on the train. This is the literal journey into the past, as they return to a place they remember with fondness. When he reaches Mexico one of the ways he attempts to put her from his mind is “by exhausting himself physically with long rides and expeditions into the country.” Time itself becomes a journey for him:

“And like a man chopping trees down in the jungle, he chopped into the wild and still impenetrably menacing time ahead of him with berserk strength and frenzy.”

His love is not unrequited. When she hears the news of his imminent departure, she, too, cannot hide her feelings. Their love, however, is never consummated – only on the last day does this almost happen, but:

“…when in that moment of surrender, the gift of her body was almost his, then in her passion, she stammered out a last plea, ‘Not now! Not here! I beg you!’”

Instead she promises that she will be his when he returns to Germany. It is perhaps this moment, as much as anything, that he seeks to recapture. However, when they find themselves in the same room nine years later, she again resists him:

“And so irresistibly did her own strength dominate his will that, just as in the past, he obeyed her without a word.”

And so, in a sense, the past is recreated – not the passion, but the ‘almost’ moment, and the journey that follows, down the stairs “to the reception rooms, through the front hall and to the door.” In response to this, Ludwig suggests the journey to Heidelberg, a place where they were happy together before they admitted their love to each other. They are greeted there by marching crowds – “a patriotic demonstration of veterans’ associations and students in support of the Fatherland” – a reminder that Germany itself at this time has an uncomfortable relationship with its past. To the couple, this echo of the war only serves to remind them of their separation. His earlier thoughts – “Time is helpless…in the face of our feelings” are replaced with a sense that:

“The past always comes between us, the time that has gone by.”

The novella finishes with a beautiful image. Watching their shadows he at first sees:

“…the shadows ahead merged as if embracing, stretching, longing for one another…”

But this is only an illusion:

“Neither she nor he was the same any more, yet they were searching for each other in a vain effort, fleeing one another, persisting in disembodied, powerless efforts like these black spectres at their feet.”

The final lines are ambiguous, but, once again, Zweig has given us a beautifully rendered relationship, in this instance defeated by time.

Impression personnelle

“Il est étonnant comme la critique et l’appréciation d’un livre est propre à chacun et renvoie au domaine du subjectif. L’évocation d’un moment précis, d’une scène, va plus parler aux uns et moins aux autres. Certains vont penser à un passage de leurs vies personnelles et donc retenir leur attention sur ce point du livre.

Dans le cas de 24 heures de la vie d’une femme, certains vont penser que c’est un livre qui parle d’amour passionnel, d’autres vont parler de la reconnaissance ou de la déception dans un couple. Dans tous les cas, c’est une bien belle nouvelle.”

Est-ce que 24 heures de la vie d’une personne peuvent changer une vie entière ?

Est-ce qu’une personne peut quitter tout ce qu’elle possède pour suivre une personne qu’elle ne connait qu’à peine ?

Peut-on donner le meilleur de soi-même pour une personne qui vous ignore et rejette ?

C’est ce dont traite la nouvelle de l’auteur autrichien Stefan Zweig avec brio. Le récit parle d’une passion foudroyante mais écourtée tout aussi soudainement; magnifiquement sublimée par l’auteur. Les sentiments sont décris avec une profondeur extrême, honnête et émouvante. C’est la marque de fabrique de Stefan Zweig qui explique en grande partie, c’est mon opinion, le succès qu’à connu cette oeuvre.

Pour ma part, ce sont les passages traitant de la reconnaissance envers les personnes qui nous veulent du bien et de la déception qui m’ont le plus marqué mais c’est propre à mon histoire personnelle.

Beaucoup de personnes ne savent pas exprimer leur gratitude envers leurs amis et bienfaiteurs ou le font de manière maladroite. Pire, certains n’y pensent même pas. Ce moment du livre m’a renvoyé vers une histoire personnelle et en cela m’a touché.

La partie déception traite de la situation dans laquelle on peut se trouver quand nous donnons tout à une personne qui vous trahit et/ou vous ignore. C’est habilement bien raconté dans 24 heures de la vie d’une femme.

Après avoir lu  “Lettre d’une inconnue” je dois avouer que M. Zweig vient de m’étonner une nouvelle fois avec ce bouquin. Il me tarde de commencer “Amok” qui sera sûrement le prochain livre de l’auteur que je lirai.

Impression personnelle:

“Je ne savais réellement pas ce qui m’attendait en lisant ce livre et ne fus pas déçu. Lettre d’une inconnue est un hymne à l’amour inconditionnel, ce sentiment pur, parfois ridicule, qui peut faire mal à en mourir. 83 ans après sa publication en France, Lettre d’une Inconnue reste totalement transposable aujourd’hui.

Une oeuvre courte, intense et intemporelle.”

Comment ai-je connu l’auteur autrichien Stefan Zweig ?

J’habite aujourd’hui la banlieue parisienne.

Je rejoignais un soir dans Paris une amie proche qui venait dans la capitale pour le weekend. Nous sommes allés diner dans le quartier latin puis nous sommes promenés entre Odéon et Mabillon. Lors de cette virée tranquille, mon amie s’arrêta devant une colonne hausmannienne. Celle-ci était pourvue d’affiches pour des pièces de théâtre dont le fameux “24 heures de la vie d’une femme” d’un certain Stefan Zweig.

Inconnu au bataillon. C’était la première fois que j’entendais prononcer le nom de cet auteur.

Aujourd’hui, je remercie milles fois mon amie de m’en avoir parlé car j’ai dévoré passionnément le livre “Lettre d’une inconnue”, acheté quelques mois plus tard.

Un homme qui lit du Stefan Zweig ?

Pas très commun comme situation, du moins c’est mon avis. Aujourd’hui, à part lire l’Equipe, GQ ou le Monde pour faire genre, je ne pense pas que beaucoup de mecs liront d’eux-mêmes du Stefan Zweig. C’était personnellement mon cas jusqu’à il y a peu.

A mon avis, la lecture de “Lettre d’une inconnue” pourrait mettre mal à l’aise certaines personnes du sexe “fort” (qui ose encore utiliser cette expression?). Mal à l’aise car derrière nos carapaces de “machisteries” et de comportements pseudos-virils, se cachent des êtres sensibles (et oui mesdames et mesdemoiselles) ayant vécu de belles histoires amoureuses, soufferts de refus et d’amours non réciproques pour certains, pour ne pas dire, beaucoup.

C’est pourquoi en tant qu’homme, la lecture de ce livre nous amène à comprendre et être rapidement en empathie avec les deux personnages principaux c’est à dire la fille qui aime à en mourir et l’homme aimé mais papilloneur et qui ne la reconnait pas. J’avais l’impression d’avoir un double miroir façe à moi pendant la lecture de ce livre que j’ai dévoré en 2 soirs. Tout d’abord le miroir des amours profonds que j’ai pu ressentir dans le passé avec son lot de choses romantiques et parfois ridicules que j’ai pu réalisé; et en même temps le miroir de l’homme papillonneur instable que je tends à être aujourd’hui.

Selon moi, une femme qui lit ce livre s’identifiera plus facilement à la fille amoureuse plutôt qu’au jeune homme même si des filles papillonneuses, j’en connais. Dans tous les cas, la lecture nous déstabilise, tiraillé par ces deux positions, ces deux visions de la vie et de l’amour.

Lettre d’une Inconnue est un véritable cri d’amour et Stefan Zweig utilise une prose et des situations qui subliment ce sentiment, qui représente la quête du Graal pour les uns ou l’enfer pour les autres.

L’intrigue est bien menée, l’histoire haletante et on finit le livre comme on l’a commencé c’est à dire avec le souffle coupé.

Vraiment, je vous le conseille ! De mon côté, je suis en train de commencer une autre oeuvre phare si ce n’est la Grande Oeuvre de Zweig qui est “24h de la vie d’une femme”. A bientôt pour la revue d’un nouveau bouquin.

Mot de l’éditeur

« C’est depuis cette seconde que je t’ai aimé. Je sais que les femmes t’ont souvent dit ce mot, à toi leur enfant gâté. Mais crois-moi, personne ne t’a aimé aussi fort – comme une esclave, comme un chien –, avec autant de dévouement que cet être que j’étais alors et que pour toi je suis restée. Rien sur la terre ne ressemble à l’amour inaperçu d’une enfant retirée dans l’ombre ; cet amour est si désintéressé, si humble, si soumis, si attentif et si passionné que jamais il ne pourra être égalé par l’amour, fait de désir, et, malgré tout, exigeant, d’une femme épanouie. »

Un amour total, passionnel, désintéressé, tapi dans l’ombre, n’attendant rien en retour que de pouvoir le confesser. Une blessure vive, la perte d’un enfant, symbole de cet amour que le temps n’a su effacer ni entamer. L’être aimé objet d’une admiration infinie mais lucide. Une déclaration fanatique, fiévreuse, pleine de tendresse et de folie. La voix d’une femme qui se meurt doucement, sans s’apitoyer sur elle-même, tout entière tournée vers celui qu’elle admire plus que tout. La voix d’une femme qui s’est donnée tout entière à un homme, qui jamais ne l’a reconnue.
Avec Lettre d’une inconnue, Stefan Zweig pousse plus loin encore l’analyse du sentiment amoureux et de ses ravages, en nous offrant un cri déchirant d’une profonde humanité. Ici nulle confusion des sentiments : la passion est absolue, sans concession, si pure qu’elle touche au sublime.

Bon à savoir

Un élève médiocre

Stefan entre au Maximilian Gymnasium en 1891, un lycée que ses parents ont choisi parmi les meilleurs de Vienne et qui lui confère une solide culture classique. Il y suit ses études en toute liberté, n’écoutant que son goût, et se passionne très jeune pour la littérature, la philosophie, l’histoire et l’univers de l’art. Dans ce lycée, qu’il décrit comme un bagne, Stefan est un élève moyen et morose. Il semble attendre que le temps passe pour enfin disposer de la liberté promise.

La vie de café

Avec ses amis de lycée, Stefan Zweig découvre la vie de café en 1895. Le Beethoven, le Rathaus, ou le Reyl, célèbres établissements viennois, sont leurs lieux de rendez-vous. Ils y consomment cafés et chocolats crémeux. Stefan s’y plaît et s’y sent tranquille. Il discute des heures, joue aux échecs (un jeu qui le fascine) lit tous les journaux et revues culturelles exposés sur une table ou suspendus aux murs.

Source: Evene

Pour acheter le livre Amazon Fnac

Der Literaturhistoriker Uwe-K. Ketelsen, der bis vor einigen Jahren noch in Bochum lehrte, hat nun einen schmalen Sammelband vorgelegt, der im Jahr 1929 als Jahresgabe des „Essener Bibliophilen-Abends“ erschienen ist. Die noch im Reprint bewundernswürdige Ausstattung des Bandes von 1929 besorgte Max Buchartz, die Textauswahl stammt vom Essener Dramaturgen Hannes Küpper, der auch als Herausgeber der Zeitschrift der Essener Bühnen „Der Scheinwerfer“ bekannt geworden ist. „Der Scheinwerfer“, den Küpper zwischen 1927 und 1933 betreute, ist eines der renommiertesten und aufschlussreichsten Dokumente der Neuen Sachlichkeit und literarischen Modernisierung, die nicht im Oberzentrum der Moderne in Deutschland, Berlin, erschienen ist.

Dennoch sind die Verbindungen zu den Berliner Neuerern stark genug: Als Bertolt Brecht 1927 seinen Skandal um den Lyrikpreis der Zeitschrift „Die Literarische Welt“ entfachte, hielt er den bekenntnishaften Zeugnissen einer epigonalen und ausgebrannten Jung-Lyrik ein Gedicht eines gewissen Hannes Küpper vor, das einen Sechstagerennfahrer namens Reggie MacNamara pries. Ketelsen weist Küppers denn auch zurecht dem Brecht-Kreis zu. Und Küpper setzte das Brecht’sche Modernisierungsprogramm in seinen Publikationen aggressiv mit um. Burchartz nun, der Dozent der Essener Folkwang-Schule war, war von der modernen Bauhaus-Gestaltung beeinflusst und zudem – nebenbei – wohl der Mitgründer einer der ersten modernen Werbeagenturen in Deutschland.

…

Dominant ist unter den Texten dabei die faszinierte und sympathetische Annäherung an die Technik. Küpper selbst steuerte ein dreistrophiges Gedicht bei, das der Elektrizität huldigte. Franz Lüdtke, den Ketelsen als nationalistischen Autor kennzeichnet, schließt sich Küpper mit einem „Funkturm“-Gedicht ohne weiteres an. Eine politische Tendenz ist beiden Texten jedenfalls nicht anzusehen.

Aufschlussreich ist, dass Küpper nicht nur Gegenwartsautoren heranzieht, sondern auch tief in die Literaturgeschichte greift: Robert Müllers Ausschnitt aus „Tropen“ schließt an den Dschungel-Topos an, der bis heute mit der Großstadt verbunden wird. Ein idyllisierendes Gedicht von Justinus Kerner kontert Küpper – Hört! Hört! – mit einer direkten Kritik von Gottfried Keller, der den technischen Fortschritt mit starken Worten lobt. …

Stefan Zweig ist mit einem Fliegergedicht dabei, und Walt Whitman hat der Dampflokomotive ein Loblied gesungen. Dem schließt sich die „Fahrt über die Kölner Rheinbrücke bei Nacht“ von Ernst Stadler an, das bereits in Kurt Pinthus’ Sammlung expressionistischer Lyrik, „Menschheitsdämmerung“ von 1919, aufgenommen worden war. Bert Brecht darf naheliegend nicht fehlen, hier mit dem Gedicht „Kohlen für Mike“, das Küpper noch an die „Hauspostille“ verweist, wo es allerdings nicht erschienen ist. / Walter Delabar, literaturkritik.de

Uwe-K. Ketelsen (Hg.): Technische Zeit. Dichtungen.
Aisthesis Verlag, Bielefeld 2007.
100 Seiten, 19,80 EUR.
ISBN-13: 9783895286582

New reading list: Signpost books, those with place names in the title.

I’ve finished Zweig’s ‘The World of Yesterday’ – he’s made several more guest appearances. It is a fascinating portrait of an era, or rather several eras, as Zweig points out: fin de siecle, war, interwar, war again.

You could make a strong case for this autobiography as an example of trauma writing, although I’m not particularly saying this because he committed suicide shortly after completing it. But instead of the usual fragmentation of the self that is seen as a mark of trauma writing, this book contains more of a submerged self, a self that is overwhelmed by history. As well as being a sign of his private nature, the lack of personal detail in the autobiography can be read as a sign of the impact of totalitarianism, where nothing is personal; although I’m on shakier ground here as he never actually lived in a totalitarian state, it can certainly be argued that he felt the impact of his century’s shift to totalitarianism.

He writes about having once been successful, having once had fame as a writer, before his books were burned in Nazi Germany; his identity as a writer is swept away, just as his prized collection of other writers’ manuscripts is dispersed before he goes into exile (which is, come to think of it, a fragmentation). The continuity of life is broken up: he writes about having had ‘lives’ rather than a singular ‘life’. His overarching struggle was an attempt at the cultural unification of Europe, at emphasising philosophical, artistic and cultural similarities over differences, at developing links between the writers, artists and composers of all countries on the Continent (not so much the U.K.) as a way of combating the destructive spread of nationalism which had destroyed the peaceful world of his youth.

Zweig strongly identified with the fifteenth century scholar Erasmus, who was condemned to see both sides of the argument and thus be vilified by almost everyone during the Reformation. Erasmus, he felt, saw the danger inherent in the religious territorialism which broke out after Luther, leading to war: his fate was that of an ignored prophet. Likewise Zweig at the beginning of the Great War could see the destruction that was to come, but was condemned as unpatriotic when he spoke out against it. Balint Abady from Banffy’s The Writing on the Wall is in a similar position at the end of that trilogy, and his character is said to be close to Banffy himself in terms of opinions.

It’s the fate of prophets only to be heard when they have been proven correct by history. But then, paradoxically, often if they were to be heard, the course of history would change, and they would no longer be prophets.

Plus, as it turns out, Zweig lived for a bit in Bath, so it’s no wonder I like him.

Zweig is still slipping elusively through the pages of his own autobiography. His sketches of his famous friends are all fascinating, and vividly drawn, and in describing them he is often forced to give away details of his own life – mainly in terms of his travels.

But I’ve decided I like this kind of narration after all. The First World War has just broken out, and for a few pages you lose all sight of the individual as the impact of the war sets in. Reading The World of Yesterday is the equivalent of watching long single-shot pans across a variety of cityscapes: sometimes the camera takes in the details of some individual drama – like in the terribly funny scene where Zweig inadvertently starts killing off various famous actors by writing plays for them – and sometimes it just lets the overall picture wash over you.

In other news, Tracey Emin’s threat to leave the country if the 50p tax is passed is the best argument I’ve heard yet in its favour.

Sometimes, while I’m waiting for a bus or something, I think this: would it be possible to write a novel with no characters in it? Does one exist? It’s my brain’s equivalent of wondering about the sound of one hand clapping – an exercise in auto-annoyance. With the exception of abstract philosophical texts, most books have characters: fiction, obviously, but also history and biography. Characters are central to plot, to state the obvious. Could you have a plot without characters? To paraphrase Patrick Heron it would be like having colour without form.

The reason this is coming back into my head is because I’m reading ‘The World of Yesterday’ by Stefan Zweig now, his semi-autobiography. I say ’semi’ because he avoids revealing too much personal information, an interesting technique to adopt in an autobiography. Zweig (1881-1942) states that he wanted to describe the times he lived through rather than his own life.

The result is that for the first 100 pages or so, he manages to write a book without characters. People do appear, but they are incidental; the point is to conjure up an impression of fin de siecle Vienna. When Zweig refers to himself it is only to illustrate some small point, rather than to drive the plot. The voice is more often first person plural than singular, but unlike in Eugenides‘ ‘The Virgin Suicides’, where the narrative voice is also first person plural, it is not focused on another character. The focus of ”The World of Yesterday’’s beginning is on something more ephemeral – you could call it the spirit of the age he describes.

So, is it effective? It is a bit of a relief when Zweig the person shuffles forward as he goes off to university. So far he’s still quite an incidental figure, but he’s enough of a focaliser. The beginning of the book is well-written and interesting but if it carried on so characterlessly it would be hard to read. So the answer seems to be that you can write a reasonably interesting book without characters – although it’s a damn sight better with them.

Zweig and his wife killed themselves in Brazil, a year after he finished writing ‘The World of Yesterday’. The events of the twentieth century had chased them out of Austria, and then out of Europe. He wrote in his remarkably cheerful suicide note that he was getting old, and couldn’t bring himself to start building a new life – exile being a young man’s endeavour. Although critics seem to think that his biographies are his greatest achievement, I love his fiction – short stories and novellas. There’s no shortage of characters in his work in general; I’ll have to see how this one proceeds.

Pensei em vários vencidos da vida e vencidos da morte quando passei os olhos pela resenha de Contra a Felicidade, Em Defesa da Melancolia, na Terceira Noite Bebiana. O livro, escrito por Eric G. Wilson, recupera a posição não inédita na carreira das letras de que uma existência melancólica ou acabrunhada é uma base comprovada de inspiração e produção artística. Nesse sentido, ela seria uma condição salutar, uma espécie de alegre fim em si mesmo.

Raramente se pensa em pessoas como Antonin Artaud quando se faz este género de observações. A apologia intelectual de uma determinada postura em função do nível ou qualidade de um hipotético produto fraqueja diante das realidades, imperceptíveis para nós sorridentes happy few, que atravessa e experimenta um homem que “sofreu muito por causa da sua mente“. Em Van Cogh ou o Suicidado da Sociedade, Artaud não podia ter sido mais claro: “ninguém escreve, pinta, esculpe, modela, constrói ou inventa senão para fugir de facto ao inferno“.

Artaud ultrapassou os limites da melancolia para morrer em profunda demência. Por isso mesmo, é possível que não faça parte faça parte do elenco morno que Eric Wilson quer examinar; ele é uma excepção, uma extremidade afastada da média. No entanto, o dramaturgo foi inquestionavelmente produtivo: ler as suas obras completas, contestando cada palavra como certamente – e cruelmente – ele o desejaria, é tarefa para ocupar uma década de uma vida.

Não cheguemos tão longe, então. Stefan Zweig, um seu contemporâneo que se movia em círculos diferentes, não era certamente atormentado pela angústia mental sináptica de Antonin Artaud (que Derrida reconheceu num lance simulteamente preciso e comovente, ao escrever que “seria certamente calculista fechar os olhos, motivados por um sentimento literário ou um alheamento polido, àquilo que o próprio Artaud veio a descrever como a “perseguição neuropatológica“. De resto, esse género de calculismo seria insultuoso. O homem está doente. “) 

Zweig movia-se outrossim sob um signo de melancolia erudita, e a mesma motivação que febrilmente o levou a recuperar as coordenadas culturais do passado conduziu-o à morte quando, exilado em terras de Vera Cruz, não suportou as moções esse grande suicídio colectivo da Europa. Bate tudo certo, nesta tábua fria de factos: a melancolia, a produtividade, a sensibilidade e desconforto com o mundo em seu redor - nesse caso um Velho Mundo em estado de crisálida, mas que aos contemporâneos e subsequentes gerações não podia aparecer senão como um terrível cataclismo, mergulhando nas trevas.

Eric Wilson pode muito bem ter razão num ponto: a melancolia, ou a insatisfação ou desconforto (a despreocupada noção Romântica do termo faz hoje pouco sentido) perante uma existência contínua e exigente é a grande comichão que faz uma pessoa erguer a pena, escrever uma canção, ou pintar um quadro. Anular esse simples impulso humano com a ilusão da felicidade contida equivale a procurar um meio adicional de anestesia num mundo contemporâneo que infelizmente já contém demasiadas fugas ao nosso próprio engenho. Convém preservar este desassossego urgente, esta insatisfação dilacerante, sem cair no erro juvenil, para não dizer ingénuo, de que se deve sofrer pela arte que se pratica. Quererá ainda o infortúnio que não tenhamos tal escolha.

[Na imagem: Turner. Um pormenor do quadro War, the Exile, and the Rock Limpet, Tate Gallery.]

Chess masters Gary Kasparov and Anatoly Karpov shake hands before an earlier match. The two masters are playing a 12-game exhibition series on the 25th anniversary of their first contest.

They’re at it again.

A quarter century after they waged the first of their epic battles that spanned six years and saw the beginning of the downfall of the Soviet Union and its empire, Anatoly Karpov and Gary Kasparov are back at the chess board.

The stakes are lower than when they met to decide the identity of the world champion-Kasparov is now an outspoken governmental opponent, while Karpov recently was ranked among the world’s top 100 chess players, but has not been a major factor for close to 20 years-but that does not mean that they are taking the contest any less seriously than they did in 1984.

In all, Kasparov had a minor edge over Karpov in games won, 21 to 19, with more than 100 games ending in a draw.

This time, Kasparov has bolted out to a 2-0 lead in a timed format that appears to have worked to his advantage.

People wishing to learn more about these two warriors and the different parts of the Soviet Union would be well advised to read Daniel Johnson’s White King and Red Queen: How the Cold War Was Fought on the Chessboard. 

I wrote about this book, which friend and reader Evan Kaplan kindly gave to me, in March.   Johnson traces the rise of chess and the gradual emergence of a series of Soviet champions.  As the title suggests, the games on the board had heightened meaning in the post World War II period, when the Cold War raged between the world’s two superpowers.

While much of the book’s focus is on the famous 1972 contest between Bobby Fischer and Boris Spassky, each of whom represented their own countries, Johnson does have extensive material about Karpov, the ultimate product of the Soviet chess system, and Kasparov, a half-Jewish, half-Armenian and full outsider. 

In addition to this entertaining material, Johnson also writes about Vladimir Nabokov’s The Luzhin Defence, which I have not yet read, and Stefan Zweig’s collection of short stories, The Royal Game.

The exhibition between Kasparov and Karpov is slated to be a best of 12 game series.  Whether you read White King and Red Queen before or after their battle is over, it is definitely worth the time and energy.

To most of society the case of World War II is close. The Axis powers of Japan, Italy and Nazi Germany being at complete fault and essentially the “bad guys”. The Allies consisting of the United States, Britain, France, the USSR (usually not part of this fold in most American historical texts) and a host of a number of other countries are considered the “good guys”. It is really as simple as that in the way many of us view history. Human Smoke by Nicholson Baker attempts to redefine and essentially change the way we view historical triumphs and devolution. Devolution is certainly the topic most explored here; Baker illustrates how WWII may not have been one of our finest moments but rather one our most self destructive and possibly one of the most dehumanizing events in human history. Whether you agree or disagree with this basic outline, Human Smoke does certainly carry an interesting premise.

Baker’s argument is not carried out by rhetoric though, the majority of the book is shown through small and at times miniature anecdotes and excerpts backed up by a resounding number of sources(80 pages of the book covers all the footnotes and references used) from a wide variety of newspapers, books, speeches, personal accounts and news magazines. Of world leaders he is most critical, especially that of Winston Churchill who he not only draws up as a war monger but a manipulator and slanderer of all who stand to get in his way. Franklin Delano Roosevelt at times is portrayed as a man obsessed with Naval military dominance and a more subtle and artful manipulator than Churchill to his own credit. Hitler may be looked up as the ultimate evil even in this book but majority of leaders he contends with are looked upon as a sort of fuel to his tyranny rather than saviors of Europe or to a certain extent, the world. The book tends to put  figures who have been lost in the course of history high on a pedestal, figures such as Stefan Zweig and John Haynes Holmes. At times this strategy proves to very effective, in other instances it may not be as productive becoming almost seemingly trivial. Human Smoke is at its strongest at illustrating the events leading up to World War II; the deifying of the Nazi party and its leaders, American arms sales in the 1930s to Japan and Germany as well as the ambitions and personal goals portrayed by the many people covered in the book.

 Now, is this book recommendable? In my opinion, Human Smoke can be very informative and educational at times. Yet, it is important to have some basic understanding of this period of time before rushing into the premise and argument of this book. Nicholson Baker delivers and writes a very unorthodox book throughout. When it comes to his style of writing, to the argument and view he supports, to even the way the book is formatted there is at the very least a bit of surprise and shock that comes to the reader. Even if you disagree with the ideas supported in this book, there is no denying that Human Smoke becomes increasingly absorbing and engrossing as the book moves further along. The book leaves room for thought which serves as one its strong points. Where Human Smoke excels though is when it is subtle but considering World War II is hardly a subtle topic Nicholson Baker provides the necessary evidence and content to support his argument. When all is set and done though, it up to you to determine whether to agree with him or not.

 ”Un día, en Munich, Kandinsky ha entrevisto en el espacio de un instante un cuadro de una belleza extraordinaria – cuenta Brigitte Hermann en la biografía del pintor (Hazan) -. La extraordinaria impresión no ha durado mucho tiempo: se trataba de uno de sus propios cuadros que, colocado de lado y visto desde otro ángulo, se ha transformado instantaneamente en la imagen tornasolada de un azul sutil revelando el crepúsculo. El artista no lo había reconocido”.

Todos los comentaristas de Kandinsky recuerdan ese momento. Es un momento estelar, de los que le hubiera gustado fijar en la Historia a Stefan Zweig. En ese instante de Munich el pintor – recuerda otro crítico -”al ver a través de la ventana de su estudio sus cuadros al revés, le provocan una inmediata sensación de extrañeza, una profundísima emoción, prueba irrefutable de que lo esencial en un cuadro no era el reconocimiento de unas figuras concretas, sino precisamente de una sensación, en su caso, de una suerte de resplandor azul”. Este incidente, sin embargo, no fue fortuito. Se ha dicho que Kandinsky llevaba tiempo dando vueltas a nuevas posibilidades. Una representación de Lohengrin en Moscú le hizo pensar que la pintura podía tener la misma capacidad que la música para transmitir sensaciones a través de lo abstracto: en música, ritmos, intensidades, pausas; en pintura, color, forma, composición.

1909  es el año en el que Kandinsky empieza a elaborar en su mente lo que escribiría en 1910, su gran libro - ”De lo espiritual en el arte” -, publicado en 1912.  ”Las almas son diferentes, sus sonoridades son diferentes, y por consecuencia, las formas artísticas son diferentes”.- dirá ese año al comentar una exposición -. “De ahí, una gran variedad en los colores, en la construcción, en el grafismo. Lo que no impide que todo obedezca a un deseo común, aquel del diálogo entre las almas. Y he aquí lo que explica la grande, feliz unidad de esta exposición“.

Diálogo entre las almas. Diálogo entre diversos colores y diálogo entre la pintura y la música. Lo que Kandinsky llamará sus “impresiones” son los estudios que él pinta o dibuja tomados de la naturaleza exterior; sus “improvisaciones” serán en cambio la expresión de acontecimientos interiores: ambas obras nacidas de anotaciones directas. En cuanto a lo que él designa como “composiciones” serán expresiones interiores elaboradas muy lentamente para producir un efecto conscientemente organizado. Convencido de que los colores tenían correspondencia con sonidos, y en general, con sentimientos y sensaciones, Kandisnky veía todo el cuadro dentro de él antes de ponerse a pintarlo. También Kandinsky es atraído por el poderío de una especial montaña, como Cézanne  Si Cézanne quedó imantado por la “Montagne Saint Victoire“, Kandinsky pinta también su personal “Montaña azul“. 

 Pero todo nacía de aquel momento estelar fulgurante que él había vivido. Momento estelar o – también podría quizá llamarse  ( como se ha denominado especialmente en literatura) -, epifanía.

(Imágenes:-1.-Mujer en Moscú.-1912/2.-amarillo,rojo,azul.-1925/3.-Improvisación 11.-1910/4.-La montaña azul.-1908.-Museum Syindicate)

Mein Lieblingsautor ist der Österreicher Stefan Zweig und mit diesem Buch begann vor vielen Jahren diese Liebe: Joseph Fouche: Bildnis eines politischen Menschen. Was Zweigs Biographien von historischen Persönlichkeiten so besonders lesenswert macht, sind mindestens zwei Punkte:

1. Zweig geht bei der Zeichnung der Charaktere stark psychologisierend vor. Er betont, dass er – soweit möglich – Nachforschungen über die historischen Sachverhalte angestellt hat. Wo aber Lücken und Unsicherheiten bleiben, entscheidet er sich meist für eine Lesart der Dinge, die seiner Meinung nach “in das Gesamtbild der Person” passt. Über diese Methodik kann kann man von einem geschichtswissenschaftlichen Standpunkt aus sicherlich streiten. Es gelingt ihm aber damit, eine in sich schlüssige Figur zu zeichnen – und man denkt sich: Es könnte so gewesen sein (auch wenn es wahrscheinlich nicht so war).
2. Zweig entwirft – gerade mit seiner psychologisierenden Methode – Personenbilder, bei denen bestimmte menschliche Eigenschaften stark (bis ins Extrem hinein) überzeichnet sind. An diesen Eigenschaften demonstriert er dann eine Lektion über die Menschheit oder das Leben an sich.

Damit tragen auch die historischen Figuren bei Zweig ganz stark seine Handschrift und sind in manchem seinen fiktiven Charakteren gar nicht so unähnlich. Dennoch bleibt immer der Reiz: Und vielleicht war er bzw. sie vielleict doch ein wenig – oder sogar sehr – so, wie Zweig es darstellt.

Im Fall von Fouché widmet er sich einer historischen Figur, die sich durch alle Wirren der französischen Revolution und der Zeit unter Napoleon hindurch im Zentrum der Macht positionieren konnte – obwohl oder gerade weil sie ständig die Fronten wechselte. Es ist das Charakterbild eines extrem anpassungsfähigen Mannes in der zweiten politischen Reihe, der Erfolg hatte, so lange er im Hintegrund blieb und dessen Untergang es war, doch noch erste Mann im Statt sein zu wollen.

Van dit boek bestaan verschillende Nederlandse vertalingen waaronder naar ik meen een redelijk recente. De verzie die ik een aantal jaar geleden las, ‘Edith’, was een soort verkorte uitgave; dat scheelt toch ruim 150 pagina’s. De versie die ik nu heb gelezen is in 1943 in Stockholm uitgegeven door Bermann – Fischer-Verlag. Bijzonder. De eerste uitgave: Bermann-Fischer, Stockholm / Allert de Lange, Amsterdam, 1939, 443 S.

Wat dus niet duidelijk werd in die Nederlandse vertaling is dat het eigenlijk een halve raamvertelling is. Het begint met het raam, maar eindigt met de vertelling. Dat is dan wel een beetje vreemd.
In de vertelling vertelt de hoofdpersoon aan de ik-persoon van het raam een verhaal over een bijzondere periode van zijn leven toen hij als vijfentwintigjarige luitenant vlak voor de eerste wereldoorlog in een stadje in Oostenrijk-Hongarije woonde.
Na een uitnodiging komt hij geregeld op het kasteel van Kekesvalva. Daar wonen een oude steenrijke vader, een deels verlamd dochter en een nichtje. De ik-persoon raakt uit medelijden en geen nee kunnen zeggen steeds meer betrokken bij het kasteel en haar bewoners. Er is een druk om dagelijks te komen waar niet onderuit te komen valt. Het verlamde meisje heet Esther en is heel gevoelig, een beetje borderline en het Ungeduld heeft deels betrekking op haar verlangen naar genezing. Het Ungeduld van de vader mag er trouwens ook wezen.
Verderop ontmoeten we Condor, de arts uit Wenen die Esther behandelt en de ik-persoon bijpraat over het verleden van de vader wat een verhaal op zich is.
De ik-persoon is een zwakke stemmingsgevoelige beïnvloedbare figuur die door deze dokter nog wat in het gareel wordt gehouden. Door verschrikkelijke draaikonterij werkt de ik-figuur zich dusdanig in de nesten – ondertussen verloofd met Esther – dat hij zelfmoord wil plegen. De commandant weet dit om te draaien in een acute overplaatsing. Het gevolg is dat hij na zijn reis verneemt dat Esther van de toren van het kasteel gesprongen is waar ze al mee had gedreigd.
Het is een prachtige psychologische roman die zich in een rustig tempo zorgvuldig ontrolt en eindigt met de zin: ‘Aber ziet jener Stunde weiss ich neuerlings: keine Schuld ist vergessen, solange noch dat Gewissen um sie weiss.’