When I see a painting in a gallery or museum I avoid at all costs the name of the artist until I have experienced and been impacted by the work itselfWhen I see a painting in a gallery or museum I avoid at all costs the name of the artist until I have experienced and been impacted by the work itself. It is a task in self discipline not to peek at the plate where the artist’s name is engraved waiting to create swathes of widening black bordered edges, its brushed strokes leaving my preconceived ideas, my self imposed biases, concerning the artist, the genre, the…the…shrinking and distorting of the painting out of its context, paling beyond recognition.
Jacob Von Guten was the perfect example of this in my reading. This Walser novel instead of the bemused walk, the perfectly distanced ironic smile I came to love and revere in his other books, I found, as his translator Christopher Middleton in his introduction pointed out, that Walser’s writing switched to an inner exploration of consciousness and beyond. In this case an ongoing inner dialogue in first person diary form of a precocious teen stuck in an odd school where little to nothing is taught except to perfect the art of obeying. The pages turn with his inner life filled with paradoxes, conflicts, and acute observations. Although not new Walser brings the setup to life.
The problem is that expecting one thing and getting another kept me disappointed but turning the pages with the expectations that the my first Walser would appear. I readied myself to greet him with open tears, a warm hug, food and drink. But by page 70 of this 176 page book I have broken camp and am heading home. I know, I quit. I am waiting for the authorities at any moment to come rapping at my door. I tap at the keyboard quietely. Quieter.
Shhh. There now. I must let you know that this novel seems to me, might have been, might be, if I wasn’t biased by my grand preconceptions of Walser, a fine work. So, I don’t want to discourage anyone, as a matter of fact I would like to encourage others to cleanse away their preconceptions of Walser’s other works; The Walk, Collected Stories, etc. and read Jacob Von Guten. Wait a second there’s the rap on the door…I have no pride. I’ll open the book. Look like I am still reading. No, right side up. There we go. Sirs, what can I do for you?...more
A 350 page paperback book which should be bulkier in weight but the pages purposively made small makes it surprisingly light. Despite no sense of any A 350 page paperback book which should be bulkier in weight but the pages purposively made small makes it surprisingly light. Despite no sense of any formal plot I read for long stretches, growing tired, the book becoming heavier. Its weight alternated and at times defied external prodding's.
Simon Tanner flits what appears as lightly through his life. At times his manic enjoyment of nature is breathtaking. It seemed to me there was an element of desperation in this lightness. His flight was something away from not towards anything graspable. Looked at it was his, Walser's, rush from the shadows of melancholia and whatever ills of the spirit that waited in the wings. Walser never says this outright. His method is one of absence. The inner struggle-the story in this novel that has no beginning or end-is evoked in what is not said or shown. The fearful shadowed part of his being is carved out by his distinctive reveries, conscious attempts at acceptable appearance in others eyes, the slippage of manic rhetoric, his refusals to participate and succeed in life. What is left is the heart of the novel, its bleeding guts. This for me was not lightness but the lightness was the grim heaviness of Simon's life. The simplicity of the writing was the art of evocation. It made something which was not there spellbinding.
The confines wrought out of the desperation to manage such a life left him with an unobstructed view of others, the manners and strivings of society around him, the herald of success if one's being and spirit were sacrificed to obey its rules. It appeared absurd, pathetic, possibly silly but not comedic. How was he to participate and why? This left him with no commonality. Isolated, he had no community yet there were isolated moments where others saw a quest for connection in his eyes and a desire on their part to know him. Any further details about these relevant situations will be spoilers and I am trying hard to invite rather than preclude anyone form reading this unique and near flawless book. I can splash all over the page what is known of Walser's life and make what sounds like smooth equations to the characters and situations inhabiting the book. I might even sound smart-to myself-but this would be an affront to Walser and, The Tanners.
When I think of spiritual quests I tend towards thoughts of conventional organized religious practices. This book has further confirmed for me that the reading of fine literature is well placed in this list. The Tanners, along with being a vast literary experience was also spiritual in its reading and afterwards. Ineffable and enigmatic there was something pure, woven from silken thread so fine as not to be seen, always graspable there in front of me yet as I opened my hand it was gone....more
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