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The Death of Virgil
It is the reign of the Emperor Augustus, and Publius Vergilius Maro, the poet of the Aeneid and Caesar's enchanter, has been summoned to the palace, where he will shortly die. Out of the last hours of Virgil's life and the final stirrings of his consciousness, the Austrian writer Hermann Broch fashioned one of the great works of twentieth-century modernism, a book that embraces an entire world and renders it with an immediacy that is at once sensual and profound.
Begun while Broch was imprisoned in a German concentration camp, The Death of Virgil is part historical novel and part prose poem - and always an intensely musical and immensely evocative meditation on the relation between life and death, the ancient and the modern.
Begun while Broch was imprisoned in a German concentration camp, The Death of Virgil is part historical novel and part prose poem - and always an intensely musical and immensely evocative meditation on the relation between life and death, the ancient and the modern.
493 pages, Paperback
First published June 1, 1945
About the author
Hermann Broch
121 books311 followersBroch was born in Vienna to a prosperous Jewish family and worked for some time in his family's factory in Teesdorf, though he maintained his literary interests privately. He attended a technical college for textile manufacture and a spinning and weaving college. Later, in 1927, he sold the textile factory and decided to study mathematics, philosophy and psychology at the University of Vienna.
In 1909 he converted to Roman Catholicism and married Franziska von Rothermann, the daughter of a knighted manufacturer. This marriage dured until 1923.
He started as a full-time writer when he was 40. When "The Sleepwalkers," his first novel, was published, he was 45. The year was 1931.
In 1938, when the Nazis annexed Austria, he emigrated to Britain after he was briefly arrested. After this, he moved to the United States. In his exile, he helped other persecuted Jews.
In 1945 was published his masterpiece, "The Dead of Virgil." After this, he started an essay on mass behaviour, which remained unfinished.
Broch died in 1951 in New Haven, Connecticut. He was nominated for the Nobel Prize and considered one of the major Modernists.
In 1909 he converted to Roman Catholicism and married Franziska von Rothermann, the daughter of a knighted manufacturer. This marriage dured until 1923.
He started as a full-time writer when he was 40. When "The Sleepwalkers," his first novel, was published, he was 45. The year was 1931.
In 1938, when the Nazis annexed Austria, he emigrated to Britain after he was briefly arrested. After this, he moved to the United States. In his exile, he helped other persecuted Jews.
In 1945 was published his masterpiece, "The Dead of Virgil." After this, he started an essay on mass behaviour, which remained unfinished.
Broch died in 1951 in New Haven, Connecticut. He was nominated for the Nobel Prize and considered one of the major Modernists.
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August 18, 2023
“Then are they happy, when by length of time The scurf is worn away of each committed crime; No speck is left of their habitual stains, But the pure ether of the soul remains.” Virgil – The Aeneid Book VI: The Underworld
The Death of Virgil consists of four books and four books are four elements: water, fire, earth and air… And air turns into ether – an element of nonbeing.
The novel is written in a very convoluted modernistic manner.
The last day of the poet’s life… He is feverish and hectic… And his febrile consciousness carries him through all the elements of the cosmos… Inflamed memories of the past… Pyretic delirium of poetry, philosophy and mythology… Fiery visions of time and space… Wavery hallucinations of the surreal and unreal…
Poems written by the poet are his immortal soul. The poet passes away – his poems stay.
The Death of Virgil consists of four books and four books are four elements: water, fire, earth and air… And air turns into ether – an element of nonbeing.
The novel is written in a very convoluted modernistic manner.
He had been a peasant from birth, a man who loved the peace of earthly life, one whom a simple secure life in a village community would have fitted, one for whom because of his birth it would have been seemly to be allowed, even to be forced to abide there, but who in conformity with a higher destiny was not allowed to be free from nor free to stay at home; this destiny had pushed him out from the community into the nakedest, direst, most savage loneliness of the human crowd, it had hunted him from the simplicity of his origins, hunted him abroad into the open, to ever-increasing multiplicity, and if thereby something had become greater and broader, it was only the distance from real life, verily it was this distance alone which had grown. Only at the edge of his fields had he walked, only at the edge of his life had he lived. He had become a rover, fleeing death, seeking death, seeking work, fleeing work, a lover and yet at the same time a harassed one, an errant through the passions of the inner life and the passions of the world, a lodger in his own life.
The last day of the poet’s life… He is feverish and hectic… And his febrile consciousness carries him through all the elements of the cosmos… Inflamed memories of the past… Pyretic delirium of poetry, philosophy and mythology… Fiery visions of time and space… Wavery hallucinations of the surreal and unreal…
…time-crests and time-hollows, oh, myriad creatures, having been carried over them by the aeons, still being carried over them constantly in the endless twilit stream of their totality, and not one of them but intended, but would continue to intend, to float forever as an eternal soul in infinity, floating freely in timeless freedom, sundered from the stream, released from the crowd, indisplaceable, no longer a creature, only a transparent flower, growing up, trailing up alone unto the stars, released and secluded, its heart trembling like a transparent blossom on the tendril no longer to be seen…
Poems written by the poet are his immortal soul. The poet passes away – his poems stay.
July 6, 2024
According to Kundera, this novel, the greatest, the most intense, and the most beautiful of all Broch's stories, plunges the reader into a trance. It is a visionary text where the fever of the character whose inner delirium we accompany transports us somewhere in the limbo of the sublime to a place where literature, rather than seeking to reproduce reality, develops a world that is its own. It certainly takes courage and perseverance to overcome, but this book gear "will not let you go until you have given your mind a turn," as Victor Hugo said.
July 27, 2018
I was immediately captivated by the first section (Water - The Arrival) of The Death of Virgil, with its masterful, lyrical prose: even in translation it flows naturally, the writing cascading like a poem (bravo, by the way, to the translator of this novel - I cannot image a more difficult work to reshape into another language). What follows does not deliver to the promise of this opening: Fire - The Descent abandons the external world, turning inwards to the tortured mind of the declining Virgil. In this dark, furious dreamscape, we stand upon ever shifting terrain, never in control, unable to separate the real from the imagined. From this foundation rises Earth - The Expectation, which in the dialogue with Augustus - one that discusses the nature of art, power, death, glory and duty - that forms the heart of the novel, returns us to the world of the real, though the fantastic is close at hand. Finally, in Air - The Homecoming, all fetters are removed, and the mind soars where it may.
For all its ambition, much of The Death of Virgil is undeniably dense, abstruse, and difficult to follow. Its philosophy, though rich, is loosely articulated and hidden in language that tends to obscure meaning in ambiguity and tautology. What really elevates this novel is its aspiration, its experimentation, its history: the echo of the experience of Broch's flight from the Nazis with his own manuscript is ever-present, lending the work an additional gravity that roots it deeply in the dark truths of the modern world, even when the narrative seems to have lost all grip on reality. Though it is inconsistent, and difficult, this late work of modernism is notable for what it strives to be, for what it challenges, and for the potentials it reveals in the literary form. The breadth of its ideas and the corresponding lack of structure make for a challenging read, but a rich source for contemplation.
For all its ambition, much of The Death of Virgil is undeniably dense, abstruse, and difficult to follow. Its philosophy, though rich, is loosely articulated and hidden in language that tends to obscure meaning in ambiguity and tautology. What really elevates this novel is its aspiration, its experimentation, its history: the echo of the experience of Broch's flight from the Nazis with his own manuscript is ever-present, lending the work an additional gravity that roots it deeply in the dark truths of the modern world, even when the narrative seems to have lost all grip on reality. Though it is inconsistent, and difficult, this late work of modernism is notable for what it strives to be, for what it challenges, and for the potentials it reveals in the literary form. The breadth of its ideas and the corresponding lack of structure make for a challenging read, but a rich source for contemplation.
August 20, 2013
So, I finished. What I want to know is, where is my prize? This is definitely a book that needs to come with a merit certificate at the finish line. A purportedly stream of consciousness serving as Virgil’s swan song in Brundisium, it is a tax on consciousness and a stream of strum. Which apparently reads as a poem in German, and a labour of, well, labour in English.
As is my wont, I approached with no background ammo: let the text speak, hear, hear. Right at the beginning I floundered: an adulatory personality cult muchadumbre in Brindisium, gathered to the accolade of emperor Augustus, Virgil’s patron, is described as a sea of evil. In depth, and existentially. It jarred. Of all the descriptors, ever, I’ve come across to paint a picture of a crowd, evil seems such an incongruous word. Evil is a conscious choice whereas crowds have no consciousness. And I’m just not sure the concept as such applies to Rome. Quick look up: and yes. Broch wrote DOV whilst incarcerated by the Nazis and suffering terrible deprivations. So. Herein lies the greatest problem with this tome. Throughout, Broch applies Judeo-Christian etymology and imagery in an ancient Greco-Roman setting. Effectively, he rewrites Virgil through the kaleidoscope of 20c mantra. At first cautiously (introducing themes of rebirth and existential extrapolations on time and being lifted directly from Heidegger), and finally abandoning all subtlety and throwing in the Messianic birth to a Virgin and the ensuing holy trinity as a prophecy, 20 years before the birth of Christ and on page 266. Like I said: jarrrrrrrr. I don’t know why he bothers with Virgil at all: he is certainly not interested in extrapolating Roman philosophy, his efforts of portraying Roman society are inaccurate and foolhardy, and given his modus operandi: inner monologue broken by a 100 page discussion between Virgil and Augustus, why not just do what Pessoa did and dispense with unnecessary plot and just pen those essays on Being away. Or heck, just develop that monologue dialog theme a la Ayn Rand (although Broch would claim he was emulating Plato’s Republic. He is). And, yes, I’m aware Virgil is credited with predicting the birth of the Messiah.
But lets not quibble. OK, so Virgil is a randomly chosen vehicle for existential angst. So, what have we got? Well, holy shmoly. What haven’t we got, all gurgled forth in a Thomas Bernhardian repetitious hypnosis. But so. At the top of the pyramid I put sfumato. Equally opposing forces drawn kicking and screaming into an unholy unity. Unity of opposites is the end goal Broch pursues, and unholy it is because the atoms just don’t bond. Or rather, Broch fails to sew it all up together. First he bombards us with Socrates’ doctrine of recollection, whose essence is etched in every permutation of Virgil’s vigil, because, I suspect, that is the only way Broch can encounter infinity. Then, he introduces ‘love’ as the antidote of evil and the meaning of life, and also at the same time as the Jesus prophecy. The kind of Sunday school Christian love is what we’re talking about. And subsequently, here comes Plotia. Now, an aside. Virgil seems, by all counts, to have been a homosexual individual. He allegedly had an affinity to a woman called Plotia, but refused carnal relations with her. And he also worshiped his mother. But Broch wades in, Wellington boots high, and ‘redeems’ Virgil through a ‘Platonic’ love fest with Plotia (but remember all is inner monologue), at his deathbed. I say Platonic because Broch says it. Can he possibly not know what platonic love is? Tsk. Now, I do find the fleshless union with Plotia, along with part 4, the Homecoming, to be the most lyrical and magical renditions in the book, but still. I’m a big girl now, I don’t need homosexuality glossed over. And neither does Virgil: he’d prolly turn in his grave if he could read this version of his salvation. Phew.
So finally, why doth one need a prize for ploughing through this black lava flow of a narrative? Well, here is an example of what is in store for the stalwart who embark:
‘The image of his ship was his own image emerging from darkness, heading towards darkness sinking into darkness, he himself was the boundless ship that at the same time was boundlessness, and he himself was was the flight that was aiming toward the boundlessness; he was the fleeing ship, he himself the goal, he himself was boundlessness too vast to be seen, an endless boundlessness of darkness‘
And that is how the whole book reads. No wonder it defeats many, many readers. Of course, what with me being older and wiser, I know exactly how to handle this type of situation. First, I mix 150 ml of Tia Maria with 50 ml of Kahlua and a thimbleful of Baileys. Next I add a splash of Stoli and a sprinkle of Drambui. Well, a thumb full. Ok. Half a cup. Then, I re-read the above, and I’m like, ‘what! Thats it? No way. What just happened. Surely he was also the boundlessness aiming towards the flight!’
I’m just going to say one thing in parting. Not a good thing to have two cocktails at once. I did, at one point, and had to suspend all existential diarrhoea in favour of Wodehouse’s Summer Moonshine till it wore off.
As is my wont, I approached with no background ammo: let the text speak, hear, hear. Right at the beginning I floundered: an adulatory personality cult muchadumbre in Brindisium, gathered to the accolade of emperor Augustus, Virgil’s patron, is described as a sea of evil. In depth, and existentially. It jarred. Of all the descriptors, ever, I’ve come across to paint a picture of a crowd, evil seems such an incongruous word. Evil is a conscious choice whereas crowds have no consciousness. And I’m just not sure the concept as such applies to Rome. Quick look up: and yes. Broch wrote DOV whilst incarcerated by the Nazis and suffering terrible deprivations. So. Herein lies the greatest problem with this tome. Throughout, Broch applies Judeo-Christian etymology and imagery in an ancient Greco-Roman setting. Effectively, he rewrites Virgil through the kaleidoscope of 20c mantra. At first cautiously (introducing themes of rebirth and existential extrapolations on time and being lifted directly from Heidegger), and finally abandoning all subtlety and throwing in the Messianic birth to a Virgin and the ensuing holy trinity as a prophecy, 20 years before the birth of Christ and on page 266. Like I said: jarrrrrrrr. I don’t know why he bothers with Virgil at all: he is certainly not interested in extrapolating Roman philosophy, his efforts of portraying Roman society are inaccurate and foolhardy, and given his modus operandi: inner monologue broken by a 100 page discussion between Virgil and Augustus, why not just do what Pessoa did and dispense with unnecessary plot and just pen those essays on Being away. Or heck, just develop that monologue dialog theme a la Ayn Rand (although Broch would claim he was emulating Plato’s Republic. He is). And, yes, I’m aware Virgil is credited with predicting the birth of the Messiah.
But lets not quibble. OK, so Virgil is a randomly chosen vehicle for existential angst. So, what have we got? Well, holy shmoly. What haven’t we got, all gurgled forth in a Thomas Bernhardian repetitious hypnosis. But so. At the top of the pyramid I put sfumato. Equally opposing forces drawn kicking and screaming into an unholy unity. Unity of opposites is the end goal Broch pursues, and unholy it is because the atoms just don’t bond. Or rather, Broch fails to sew it all up together. First he bombards us with Socrates’ doctrine of recollection, whose essence is etched in every permutation of Virgil’s vigil, because, I suspect, that is the only way Broch can encounter infinity. Then, he introduces ‘love’ as the antidote of evil and the meaning of life, and also at the same time as the Jesus prophecy. The kind of Sunday school Christian love is what we’re talking about. And subsequently, here comes Plotia. Now, an aside. Virgil seems, by all counts, to have been a homosexual individual. He allegedly had an affinity to a woman called Plotia, but refused carnal relations with her. And he also worshiped his mother. But Broch wades in, Wellington boots high, and ‘redeems’ Virgil through a ‘Platonic’ love fest with Plotia (but remember all is inner monologue), at his deathbed. I say Platonic because Broch says it. Can he possibly not know what platonic love is? Tsk. Now, I do find the fleshless union with Plotia, along with part 4, the Homecoming, to be the most lyrical and magical renditions in the book, but still. I’m a big girl now, I don’t need homosexuality glossed over. And neither does Virgil: he’d prolly turn in his grave if he could read this version of his salvation. Phew.
So finally, why doth one need a prize for ploughing through this black lava flow of a narrative? Well, here is an example of what is in store for the stalwart who embark:
‘The image of his ship was his own image emerging from darkness, heading towards darkness sinking into darkness, he himself was the boundless ship that at the same time was boundlessness, and he himself was was the flight that was aiming toward the boundlessness; he was the fleeing ship, he himself the goal, he himself was boundlessness too vast to be seen, an endless boundlessness of darkness‘
And that is how the whole book reads. No wonder it defeats many, many readers. Of course, what with me being older and wiser, I know exactly how to handle this type of situation. First, I mix 150 ml of Tia Maria with 50 ml of Kahlua and a thimbleful of Baileys. Next I add a splash of Stoli and a sprinkle of Drambui. Well, a thumb full. Ok. Half a cup. Then, I re-read the above, and I’m like, ‘what! Thats it? No way. What just happened. Surely he was also the boundlessness aiming towards the flight!’
I’m just going to say one thing in parting. Not a good thing to have two cocktails at once. I did, at one point, and had to suspend all existential diarrhoea in favour of Wodehouse’s Summer Moonshine till it wore off.
November 9, 2020
This is probably the slowest book I’ve ever read. And I’ve read Musil, Joyce and Wallace. Some sentences run 5 pages. It is a very hard work. And yet it is worth reading. It is poetic, it is about overcoming limits and seeing beyond them.
Not sure when I will have a chance, but there is a lot to say about this one. And it is one of those that I appreciated much more after Ive finished.
Not sure when I will have a chance, but there is a lot to say about this one. And it is one of those that I appreciated much more after Ive finished.
February 9, 2017
'The old is dying, the new cannot be born' - Gramsci
Burn the Aeneid.
As a friend and I were just discussing, Broch's masterpiece seems especially poignant and relevant today. World historically speaking, probably a good time to get right with one's creator.
As another friend told me, Reading is mostly vanity. Choose the good.
*
A lot of people claim this book is boring or extremely difficult. While I don't mean to dispute other people's incorrigible mental states, I must submit my own testimony. For me reading Death of Virgil was a downright ecstatic experience. I finished it in just a few days, practically in a trance. I had an extremely beat-up copy from a used bookstore which nearly turned to dust as I turned the pages. This seemed appropriate, as the subject is at once immortality and evanescence; the power of love and the vanity of human creation.
Very few novels actually push the form to its limit and make you reconsider everything; Death of Virgil is one of them.
Burn the Aeneid.
As a friend and I were just discussing, Broch's masterpiece seems especially poignant and relevant today. World historically speaking, probably a good time to get right with one's creator.
As another friend told me, Reading is mostly vanity. Choose the good.
*
A lot of people claim this book is boring or extremely difficult. While I don't mean to dispute other people's incorrigible mental states, I must submit my own testimony. For me reading Death of Virgil was a downright ecstatic experience. I finished it in just a few days, practically in a trance. I had an extremely beat-up copy from a used bookstore which nearly turned to dust as I turned the pages. This seemed appropriate, as the subject is at once immortality and evanescence; the power of love and the vanity of human creation.
Very few novels actually push the form to its limit and make you reconsider everything; Death of Virgil is one of them.
Read
July 6, 2018Guy Davenport says this book "may be the final elegy closing the long duration of a European literature from Homer to Joyce." Gotta get on this one asap.
Read
April 25, 2024Ovaj roman je sam goli vrh evropskog visokog modernizma: za razliku od Muzilovog ili Prustovog dela, dovršen; za razliku od Tomasa Mana, pljucka na podilaženja čitaocu tipa jasna komunikacija i uočljivi lajtmotivi kao potpora za tumačenje poruke; za razliku od Džojsa, nema skatološkog humora ni u najavi. Takođe za razliku od Džojsa, Broh je odabrao da svoje delo ne veže za Odiseju (koju i danas deca mogu da čitaju i da se lože na uzbudljivu radnju) već za Eneidu (...ne tako uzbudljivu...) koja je i sama prožeta intertekstualnim vezama s Homerom i delo jedne mnogo rafiniranije i učenije umetnosti.
Spoljna radnja romana je vrhunski sažeta: poslednja 24 sata (Vikipedija kaže 18 sati i verovatno je u pravu, ali eto, jedno popodne, noć i deo idućeg dana) u životu pesnika Vergilija, razdeljena na četiri poglavlja i četiri klasična elementa. Vergilije se već smrtno bolestan iskrcava u Brindizijumu, provodi mučnu, košmarnu noć, a sledećeg dana se s prijateljima i carem Avgustom spori oko sudbine gotovo dovršene Eneide i zahteva da se ona spali. Pod pritiskom vladara, ipak odustaje, a ubrzo potom umire u bunilu.
Da li to zaista zahteva četiri stotine gustih strana koje i vizuelno podsećaju na armirani beton, sem tamo gde se pretaču u dugi slobodni stih, ili ređe u dijalog? I da i ne. Imao je Broh i priču od četiri-pet strana s identičnom temom i u nju je kvarno sažeo sve što je ovde razvukao na stoput duži obim. Ali ovaj roman ne treba čitati - i kao što sam na svoju žalost iskusila - on se NE MOŽE čitati kao normalan pripovedni tekst s glavom i repom; ovo je jezički ekvivalent simfonija Antona Bruknera, tehnički virtuozan, stravično zahtevan i za izvođenje ali i za recepciju, beskrajno složen, i na mahove ga apsolutno ne treba čitati tražeći smisao nego se samo prepustiti moćnoj plimi jezika koji, mucajući, stalno iznova varira određene fraze i iskaze na granici smisla, pokušavajući da je prekorači i da nam prikaže nezamislivo: umiranje i sam trenutak smrti.
Na momente, to ume da bude previše. Gotovo celo drugo poglavlje "Vatra" predstavlja mučenje i za protagonistu i za čitaoca koji prati i fizičku patnju samrtnika i rastakanje njegovog identiteta, prikazano gotovo hajdegerovski svojeglavim i na sebe usmerenim jezikom, zadihanim i zapinjućim u beskrajnim rečenicama.
Ko to pregura (lično ne osuđujem ni onog ko preskoči a bogami ni onog ko odustane i zakune se da više nikad ništa od Broha u ruke uzeti neće) biće nagrađen mnogo jasnijim stilom i ovozemaljskim temama u trećem poglavlju koje je po uspelosti neosporno vrhunac knjige: prisno-neprijateljski razgovor između vladara i njegovog najvažnijeg državnog pesnika otvara pitanja o funkciji umetnosti, o odnosu umetnosti i života/države/vlasti/mecenata, o odnosu države i naroda (ko tu kome služi?) i o tome dokle sežu granice ove konkretne vladarske vlasti. Ima li Avgust pravo da Vergiliju zabrani da spali Eneidu? Može li Vergilije ikad Avgusta da vidi kao prijatelja a ne samo kao gospodara? Da li nesavršeno delo ima prava da postoji? Lepota ovog razgovora - koji se stalno zapliće i luta kao i um zanemoćalog samrtnika - jeste u tome što Broh pokušava da pošteno odgovori na postavljena pitanja, i ne pruža pesniku laku pobedu niti povlači jeftine analogije sa svojim vremenom (roman je objavljen 1945.) i u tom smislu je zaista mnogo, usudimo se reći, etičniji nego Dr. Faustus koji se pojavio koju godinu kasnije.
Da dodam: sigurno je da će dobar latinista i dobar poznavalac Vergilija iz ove knjige izvući beskrajno više od mene. Uz pojedine citate koji su obeleženi kao takvi, Broh malo-malo pa uvede neki motiv ili parafrazu, ne samo iz Eneide već i iz Bukolika i Georgika, a istovremeno uporno ali diskretno povezuje Vergilija i s njegovim hrišćanskim sledbenicima i tumačima poput Dantea, ali i sa svojim savremenicima (Lisanije je nedvosmisleni odjek Tađa iz Smrti u Veneciji). I četvrto poglavlje je u tom smislu sigurno najzahvalnije jer se Vergilijeve kosmičke samrtničke vizije obilato služe antičkim pesništvom ali ga utkivaju u vrlo dvadesetovekovnu tehniku toka (pomućene) svesti.
I još nešto: prevod Vere Stojić je vrhunski, počev od drugog poglavlja (naravno) uzela sam da čitam naporedo original i prevod iz čistog očajanja što me Broh toliko maltretira, i istinski ne mogu da zamislim da ovaj beskrajno zahtevan tekst bude preveden bolje i lepše.
Da zaključim: drago mi je što sam ovo čitala, stvarno je bio 11/10 doživljaj; neću ga skoro ponavljati, preporučujem samo ljudima koje ne odbija intelektualna snobovština zahtevno elitističko štivo.
Spoljna radnja romana je vrhunski sažeta: poslednja 24 sata (Vikipedija kaže 18 sati i verovatno je u pravu, ali eto, jedno popodne, noć i deo idućeg dana) u životu pesnika Vergilija, razdeljena na četiri poglavlja i četiri klasična elementa. Vergilije se već smrtno bolestan iskrcava u Brindizijumu, provodi mučnu, košmarnu noć, a sledećeg dana se s prijateljima i carem Avgustom spori oko sudbine gotovo dovršene Eneide i zahteva da se ona spali. Pod pritiskom vladara, ipak odustaje, a ubrzo potom umire u bunilu.
Da li to zaista zahteva četiri stotine gustih strana koje i vizuelno podsećaju na armirani beton, sem tamo gde se pretaču u dugi slobodni stih, ili ređe u dijalog? I da i ne. Imao je Broh i priču od četiri-pet strana s identičnom temom i u nju je kvarno sažeo sve što je ovde razvukao na stoput duži obim. Ali ovaj roman ne treba čitati - i kao što sam na svoju žalost iskusila - on se NE MOŽE čitati kao normalan pripovedni tekst s glavom i repom; ovo je jezički ekvivalent simfonija Antona Bruknera, tehnički virtuozan, stravično zahtevan i za izvođenje ali i za recepciju, beskrajno složen, i na mahove ga apsolutno ne treba čitati tražeći smisao nego se samo prepustiti moćnoj plimi jezika koji, mucajući, stalno iznova varira određene fraze i iskaze na granici smisla, pokušavajući da je prekorači i da nam prikaže nezamislivo: umiranje i sam trenutak smrti.
Na momente, to ume da bude previše. Gotovo celo drugo poglavlje "Vatra" predstavlja mučenje i za protagonistu i za čitaoca koji prati i fizičku patnju samrtnika i rastakanje njegovog identiteta, prikazano gotovo hajdegerovski svojeglavim i na sebe usmerenim jezikom, zadihanim i zapinjućim u beskrajnim rečenicama.
Ko to pregura (lično ne osuđujem ni onog ko preskoči a bogami ni onog ko odustane i zakune se da više nikad ništa od Broha u ruke uzeti neće) biće nagrađen mnogo jasnijim stilom i ovozemaljskim temama u trećem poglavlju koje je po uspelosti neosporno vrhunac knjige: prisno-neprijateljski razgovor između vladara i njegovog najvažnijeg državnog pesnika otvara pitanja o funkciji umetnosti, o odnosu umetnosti i života/države/vlasti/mecenata, o odnosu države i naroda (ko tu kome služi?) i o tome dokle sežu granice ove konkretne vladarske vlasti. Ima li Avgust pravo da Vergiliju zabrani da spali Eneidu? Može li Vergilije ikad Avgusta da vidi kao prijatelja a ne samo kao gospodara? Da li nesavršeno delo ima prava da postoji? Lepota ovog razgovora - koji se stalno zapliće i luta kao i um zanemoćalog samrtnika - jeste u tome što Broh pokušava da pošteno odgovori na postavljena pitanja, i ne pruža pesniku laku pobedu niti povlači jeftine analogije sa svojim vremenom (roman je objavljen 1945.) i u tom smislu je zaista mnogo, usudimo se reći, etičniji nego Dr. Faustus koji se pojavio koju godinu kasnije.
Da dodam: sigurno je da će dobar latinista i dobar poznavalac Vergilija iz ove knjige izvući beskrajno više od mene. Uz pojedine citate koji su obeleženi kao takvi, Broh malo-malo pa uvede neki motiv ili parafrazu, ne samo iz Eneide već i iz Bukolika i Georgika, a istovremeno uporno ali diskretno povezuje Vergilija i s njegovim hrišćanskim sledbenicima i tumačima poput Dantea, ali i sa svojim savremenicima (Lisanije je nedvosmisleni odjek Tađa iz Smrti u Veneciji). I četvrto poglavlje je u tom smislu sigurno najzahvalnije jer se Vergilijeve kosmičke samrtničke vizije obilato služe antičkim pesništvom ali ga utkivaju u vrlo dvadesetovekovnu tehniku toka (pomućene) svesti.
I još nešto: prevod Vere Stojić je vrhunski, počev od drugog poglavlja (naravno) uzela sam da čitam naporedo original i prevod iz čistog očajanja što me Broh toliko maltretira, i istinski ne mogu da zamislim da ovaj beskrajno zahtevan tekst bude preveden bolje i lepše.
Da zaključim: drago mi je što sam ovo čitala, stvarno je bio 11/10 doživljaj; neću ga skoro ponavljati, preporučujem samo ljudima koje ne odbija
January 1, 2018
Όταν η ποίηση παντρεύεται το πεζό κείμενο με τόσο αριστουργηματικό τρόπο, είναι να απορεί κανείς ΠΏΣ ένα τέτοιο έργο δεν είναι πιο γνωστό!
Αν το βρείτε σε κάποιο βιβλιοπωλείο, ανοίξτε το και διαβάστε μια τυχαία σελίδα. Αν σας αρέσει αυτό που διαβάσατε τότε αγοράστε το χωρίς δεύτερη σκέψη. Όλο το βιβλίο διατηρεί το ίδιο ύφος και γλώσσα. Αν σας κουράσει ή σας δυσκολέψει καλύτερα να μην το επιχειρήσετε...(Προσωπικά το λάτρεψα.)
Φοβάμαι ότι οτιδήποτε παραπάνω αν γράψω θα το αδικήσω. Έχω να πω μόνο ότι ήταν ΑΡΙΣΤΟΎΡΓΗΜΑ. Από τα μεγαλύτερα διαμάντια της σειράς Orbis Literae!
Αν το βρείτε σε κάποιο βιβλιοπωλείο, ανοίξτε το και διαβάστε μια τυχαία σελίδα. Αν σας αρέσει αυτό που διαβάσατε τότε αγοράστε το χωρίς δεύτερη σκέψη. Όλο το βιβλίο διατηρεί το ίδιο ύφος και γλώσσα. Αν σας κουράσει ή σας δυσκολέψει καλύτερα να μην το επιχειρήσετε...(Προσωπικά το λάτρεψα.)
Φοβάμαι ότι οτιδήποτε παραπάνω αν γράψω θα το αδικήσω. Έχω να πω μόνο ότι ήταν ΑΡΙΣΤΟΎΡΓΗΜΑ. Από τα μεγαλύτερα διαμάντια της σειράς Orbis Literae!
July 14, 2021
her şeyden önce dil. anlatının özgün biçimini kurması dışında içerik olarak da dil tüm işlevleri ve sınırlarıyla anlatının asıl meselesinin, bilgiyi aramanın, anlayabilmenin, anlamlandırabilmenin ve anlatabilmenin belirleyicisi. bu zor, ağır romanı hakkıyla okuyabilmek için öncelikle bu dil bağını anlayabilmek, daha doğrusu hissedebilmek, sezebilmek gerekiyor. sayfalarca sayfalarca bitmek bilmeyen cümleler bazen derine, bazen belirsizliğe, çoğu zaman ancak etrafında dönüp durulabilecek bir bilinmeze doğru akıyor. akmak tabiri burada ritmle ilgili elbette. anlaşılmaz diye nitelendirilen çoğu büyük, dev roman gibi bu romanın da büyüsü anlattığında değil, hissettirdiğinde. ve hissettmenin aracı ritm.
içerikten bahsetmek gerekirse, bana şaşırtıcı gelen, çoğu değerlendirmede romanın merkezine sanatın konması oldu. romanın gücü bir sanat eleştirisi ortaya koymasına bağlanıyor ancak sanatı da içine alan geniş bir eleştiri söz konusu: ölümün eşiğinde bir hayat muhasebesi, hayat eleştirisi. ölümün eşiğindeki kahramanın vergilius olması daha incelikli, daha derinlikli hale getiriyor bu eleştiriyi üstelik. vergilius sadece bir şair değil zira, aeneis şiirden ibaret değil. romandaki uzun tartışma bölümünde vergilius'un bir kurucu, bir rehber olarak augustus'la karşı karşıya geldiğini görüyoruz. ve aeneis augustus'un eseriyle, bizzat imparatorlukla karşılaştırılıyor çarpıcı biçimde.
vergilius, aeneis ve roma imparatorluğu'nun kuruluşuna dair temel bilgi ve okur sabrıyla birlikte okunmasını tavsiye edeceğim bir roman vergilius'un ölümü. kesinlikle zorluyor, çaba istiyor, sadece kendine ayrılacak ciddi bir zaman talep ediyor ama karşılığını veriyor kesinlikle. özgün, birçok yönüyle eşsiz ve belirtmeden, başlı başına bir okuma sebebi olarak vurgulamadan geçemeyeceğim, son bölümü iliklere işleyecek güçte.
içerikten bahsetmek gerekirse, bana şaşırtıcı gelen, çoğu değerlendirmede romanın merkezine sanatın konması oldu. romanın gücü bir sanat eleştirisi ortaya koymasına bağlanıyor ancak sanatı da içine alan geniş bir eleştiri söz konusu: ölümün eşiğinde bir hayat muhasebesi, hayat eleştirisi. ölümün eşiğindeki kahramanın vergilius olması daha incelikli, daha derinlikli hale getiriyor bu eleştiriyi üstelik. vergilius sadece bir şair değil zira, aeneis şiirden ibaret değil. romandaki uzun tartışma bölümünde vergilius'un bir kurucu, bir rehber olarak augustus'la karşı karşıya geldiğini görüyoruz. ve aeneis augustus'un eseriyle, bizzat imparatorlukla karşılaştırılıyor çarpıcı biçimde.
vergilius, aeneis ve roma imparatorluğu'nun kuruluşuna dair temel bilgi ve okur sabrıyla birlikte okunmasını tavsiye edeceğim bir roman vergilius'un ölümü. kesinlikle zorluyor, çaba istiyor, sadece kendine ayrılacak ciddi bir zaman talep ediyor ama karşılığını veriyor kesinlikle. özgün, birçok yönüyle eşsiz ve belirtmeden, başlı başına bir okuma sebebi olarak vurgulamadan geçemeyeceğim, son bölümü iliklere işleyecek güçte.
June 20, 2011
This novel reads more like an epic poem than a novel, which is only right as the novel deals with the demise of the Aeneid's brilliant author. A sensitive and patient reader will be generously rewarded by the sheer poetry of the rich and meaningful language written by a first-rate, unheralded genius in Hermann Broch. One sees many shades of Aeneas in this tale about Virgil's trip to visit Caesar to present him the Aeneid. There is much in this tale about the challenges of writers to capture the true essence of life and the torment by Virgil about his inability to truly capture it in the Aeneid. Virgil is so tormented by the inadequacies he finds in his masterpiece that he threatens to burn the Aeneid but is forbidden by Augustus to do so. If it were not for Nora Barnacle, wife of James Joyce, much of that work of genius would have been lost to a fire from which in a bit of quick witted work she managed to retrieve it. Broch presents the rich, dense, intellectual sensibilities of Virgil with a style that will challenge and immensely satisfy readers of gorgeous literary novels. The innovative, prose style of Broch reminded me of Proust with some of the longest and most beautiful sentences that I have ever read. As beautifully as this book is written, the translation by Jean Starr Untermeyer utterly blew me away -- this is a highly nuanced and complex novel about poetic sensibilities which dive deep into the abyss and float high into the "second immensity" of the "cupola of the stars". Untermeyer provides full poetic justice in her translation to richly bring to life in English a truly memorable work and one of life's greatest literary treasures. Broch's novel ranks near the very top of the world's most masterfully articulated, literary novels and is truly worthy of the high critical acclaim it has received on this site by extremely bright readers. Seize the day: this novel is truly one of a kind --like the Aeneid, which so deeply inspired Broch, this novel is one for the ages.
November 13, 2013
“The philosophical content (of The Death of Virgil) itself resembles a Spinozistic Cosmos- and Logos-speculation in which all things we know to be separate and particular appear as the ever changing aspects of an eternal One, so that the manifold is understood as the merely temporary individualization of the all-comprehensive whole.” - Hannah Arendt
“The Death of Virgil, one of the major works of our age, attempts to vitalize language with the contrapuntal logic and dynamic simultaneities of music. More radically than Joyce, it subverts the time-structure and linear progressions on which prose fiction is normally built. Broch’s style has an uncanny spell, because tangential to it are intimations of entirely different codes of statement, such as the use of silence…, or the projection into language of the grammar of mathematics. Contemporary writing has scarcely begun to avail itself of Broch’s instigations.” George Steiner
I have read this book three or four times now and, in preparation for writing this, I opened the first page and almost got sucked straight back in:
“Steel-blue and light, ruffled by a soft, scarcely perceptible cross-wind, the waves of the Adriatic streamed against the imperial squadron as it steered toward the harbor of Brundisium, the flat hills of the Calabrian coast coming gradually nearer on the left...Of the seven high-built vessels that followed one another, keels in line, only the first and last, both slender rams-prowed pentaremes, belonged to the war-fleet; the remaining five, heavier and more imposing, deccareme and duodeccareme, were of an ornate structure in keeping with the Augustan imperial rank, and the middle one, the most sumptuous, its bronze mounted bow gilded, gilded the ring-bearing lion's head under the railing, the rigging wound with colors, bore under purple sails, the festive and grand, the tent of Caesar. Yet on the ship that immediately followed was the poet of the Aeneid and death's signet was graved upon his brow.”
Though of course I know that this entrance to the text is a deceptive one, that we move swiftly to the internal, the eternal and the metaphysical, and never again will we be so firmly and clearly situated. It is strange that I should love this book so much, filled as it is with occasionally laughable (almost New-Agey) philosophy, often more in love with the sound of its own saying than with any sense, or any real concern with some sort of “truth”. I have a very low tolerance for such writing and, when I come across things like this, divorced from their context, I wonder how I can have got through the novel once, let alone four times:
” Plotia’s nakedness was likewise unremarkable, for without this detracting from her bodily charm, he was scarcely able to see her any more as a woman, he saw her as it were from within, and beheld from the core of her individual essence, she was scarcely any longer a body but rather a transparent intrinsic substance, no longer a woman, no longer a virgin, but rather a smile, the smile which gives meaning to everything human, the human countenance opening in a smile, freed of shame, and exalted through a forlorn preparation incapable of consummation, sublimated to a transported-transporting love; strangely touching, strangely wintry, was this smiling, loving gesture toward the star swimming there in cool, virginal light, and strangely cool, aye, almost childish in its virginal, sex-stripped lucidity was this yearning gesture sent up to the utter clarity of the remotest spheres”
Stuff like that makes my hackles rise, and I am filled with an urge to slap someone repeatedly round the face.
Any yet, as much as this novel fails (and it could never succeed) there is something within in, something that occurs during the process of reading, during the, yes, symphonic nature of the text and the concepts contained therein – it is almost as though, on their own, each idea is meaningless, yet somehow, when woven together, they can gesture towards something fundamental, and fundamentally inexpressible.
One additional pleasure to be found in the text is its beauty on a purely musical level. Reading this novel is like being floated gently downstream, submerged in warm and fragrant water. I would therefore suggest reading it relatively quickly, and not lingering on each individual pronouncement of profundity. Just go with it, Man. Turn off your mind, relax and float downstream….(I jest, of course, but only in part).
“The Death of Virgil, one of the major works of our age, attempts to vitalize language with the contrapuntal logic and dynamic simultaneities of music. More radically than Joyce, it subverts the time-structure and linear progressions on which prose fiction is normally built. Broch’s style has an uncanny spell, because tangential to it are intimations of entirely different codes of statement, such as the use of silence…, or the projection into language of the grammar of mathematics. Contemporary writing has scarcely begun to avail itself of Broch’s instigations.” George Steiner
I have read this book three or four times now and, in preparation for writing this, I opened the first page and almost got sucked straight back in:
“Steel-blue and light, ruffled by a soft, scarcely perceptible cross-wind, the waves of the Adriatic streamed against the imperial squadron as it steered toward the harbor of Brundisium, the flat hills of the Calabrian coast coming gradually nearer on the left...Of the seven high-built vessels that followed one another, keels in line, only the first and last, both slender rams-prowed pentaremes, belonged to the war-fleet; the remaining five, heavier and more imposing, deccareme and duodeccareme, were of an ornate structure in keeping with the Augustan imperial rank, and the middle one, the most sumptuous, its bronze mounted bow gilded, gilded the ring-bearing lion's head under the railing, the rigging wound with colors, bore under purple sails, the festive and grand, the tent of Caesar. Yet on the ship that immediately followed was the poet of the Aeneid and death's signet was graved upon his brow.”
Though of course I know that this entrance to the text is a deceptive one, that we move swiftly to the internal, the eternal and the metaphysical, and never again will we be so firmly and clearly situated. It is strange that I should love this book so much, filled as it is with occasionally laughable (almost New-Agey) philosophy, often more in love with the sound of its own saying than with any sense, or any real concern with some sort of “truth”. I have a very low tolerance for such writing and, when I come across things like this, divorced from their context, I wonder how I can have got through the novel once, let alone four times:
” Plotia’s nakedness was likewise unremarkable, for without this detracting from her bodily charm, he was scarcely able to see her any more as a woman, he saw her as it were from within, and beheld from the core of her individual essence, she was scarcely any longer a body but rather a transparent intrinsic substance, no longer a woman, no longer a virgin, but rather a smile, the smile which gives meaning to everything human, the human countenance opening in a smile, freed of shame, and exalted through a forlorn preparation incapable of consummation, sublimated to a transported-transporting love; strangely touching, strangely wintry, was this smiling, loving gesture toward the star swimming there in cool, virginal light, and strangely cool, aye, almost childish in its virginal, sex-stripped lucidity was this yearning gesture sent up to the utter clarity of the remotest spheres”
Stuff like that makes my hackles rise, and I am filled with an urge to slap someone repeatedly round the face.
Any yet, as much as this novel fails (and it could never succeed) there is something within in, something that occurs during the process of reading, during the, yes, symphonic nature of the text and the concepts contained therein – it is almost as though, on their own, each idea is meaningless, yet somehow, when woven together, they can gesture towards something fundamental, and fundamentally inexpressible.
One additional pleasure to be found in the text is its beauty on a purely musical level. Reading this novel is like being floated gently downstream, submerged in warm and fragrant water. I would therefore suggest reading it relatively quickly, and not lingering on each individual pronouncement of profundity. Just go with it, Man. Turn off your mind, relax and float downstream….(I jest, of course, but only in part).
August 14, 2019
--The Death of Virgil
Translator's Note
Sources
Translator's Note
Sources
September 16, 2018
La bellezza non salverà il mondo.
Una sfida. Un libro ostico, oscuro, a tratti incomprensibile. Una lettura faticosa, spesso estenuante. Frasi lunghe, ampollose, ridondanti, che più di una volta fanno venir voglia di scagliare il libro contro il muro (e trattandosi nel mio caso di lettura su kindle, la cosa potrebbe essere pericolosa). Una scrittura pesante, respingente, lontana anni luce dalla prosa che siamo abituati a leggere, che rischia spesso di far calare l’attenzione del lettore, costringendoci a tornare sulla stessa frase più volte. Ci vuole pazienza con quest’opera, la tentazione è quella di correre avanti, di saltare qualche paragrafo poco chiaro per rincorrere la storia, i fatti, le azioni, ma l’autore è li con noi e ci costringe a rallentare per provare a capire, ad aspettare, a non trascurare nessuna delle sue parole.
Se le cose stanno così (e, credetemi, stanno davvero così), perché continuare? Perché La morte di Virgilio è un libro che merita il nostro sforzo, perché Broch è Broch e la sua lettura premia sempre il lettore.
La trama è il racconto delle ultime ventiquattro ore della vita di Virgilio, da quando il poeta, malato e ormai lucido solo a tratti, arriva a Brindisi al seguito della flotta di Ottaviano Augusto, fino alla sua morte. La storia è come una sinfonia musicale in quattro parti, caratterizzate ognuna da un ritmo diverso e sviluppate con uno stile che avvicina la poesia lirica.
Virgilio, prossimo alla fine, prova a fare un bilancio della sua vita e si rende conto di non aver ottenuto nulla di quello che si proponeva, quello che rimane del suo tentativo di trascendere la natura umana per raggiungere un’eternità impossibile è un pugno di mosche, la consapevolezza che la vita dell’uomo è simile a quella di un naufrago e che alla fine di tanto vagare ci si ritrova sempre al punto di partenza. Virgilio ha fallito perché la poesia (lo strumento al quale il poeta si era affidato per arrivare alla Verità) ha fallito e la Bellezza alla quale egli anelava non era altro che la fuga in un mondo di illusioni, una prigione sterile perché incapace di ulteriori sviluppi.
Per Virgilio/Broch la Bellezza non salverà il mondo, e l’Artista che si abbandona ad essa sacrifica la ricerca della conoscenza, sacrifica il contenuto in nome della forma. Bruciare l’Eneide è la conseguenza di questo suo ragionamento e se alla fine il poeta desisterà dal suo intento è solo per ottenere dall’Imperatore la libertà dei suoi schiavi e del denaro per il popolo di Brindisi, riscattando così in qualche modo il suo fallimento.
L’ultima parte di quest’opera è poi una specie di inno con pagine di rara bellezza formale, un viaggio verso l’Assoluto e un ritorno nel mondo degli uomini nel quale tutto si mescola e si confonde come in una grafica di Escher, come se il Tempo fosse un unico istante, con il giovane Lisania a farci da guida simile al Virgilio della Commedia che poi muta in una Plozia molto vicina alla Beatrice del Paradiso, in una metamorfosi continua di incomparabile bellezza.
Con La morte di Virgilio Broch si muove lungo una linea ideale che è quella dell’Ulisse dantesco, del Rilke delle Elegie Duinesi, della Cvetaeva e che arriva, azzardo, fino a Cărtărescu. Una corda sospesa sulla testa degli uomini, un tentativo di indossare le ali di Icaro sapendo già di finire bruciati.
Il filosofo Günther Anders ha definito questo libro “un libro per nessuno” e credo che non abbia tutti i torti. In effetti si tratta di una lettura che non mi sento di consigliare a nessuno ma anche di un viaggio affascinante ai confini dell’uomo che porterò sempre con me.
Una sfida. Un libro ostico, oscuro, a tratti incomprensibile. Una lettura faticosa, spesso estenuante. Frasi lunghe, ampollose, ridondanti, che più di una volta fanno venir voglia di scagliare il libro contro il muro (e trattandosi nel mio caso di lettura su kindle, la cosa potrebbe essere pericolosa). Una scrittura pesante, respingente, lontana anni luce dalla prosa che siamo abituati a leggere, che rischia spesso di far calare l’attenzione del lettore, costringendoci a tornare sulla stessa frase più volte. Ci vuole pazienza con quest’opera, la tentazione è quella di correre avanti, di saltare qualche paragrafo poco chiaro per rincorrere la storia, i fatti, le azioni, ma l’autore è li con noi e ci costringe a rallentare per provare a capire, ad aspettare, a non trascurare nessuna delle sue parole.
Se le cose stanno così (e, credetemi, stanno davvero così), perché continuare? Perché La morte di Virgilio è un libro che merita il nostro sforzo, perché Broch è Broch e la sua lettura premia sempre il lettore.
La trama è il racconto delle ultime ventiquattro ore della vita di Virgilio, da quando il poeta, malato e ormai lucido solo a tratti, arriva a Brindisi al seguito della flotta di Ottaviano Augusto, fino alla sua morte. La storia è come una sinfonia musicale in quattro parti, caratterizzate ognuna da un ritmo diverso e sviluppate con uno stile che avvicina la poesia lirica.
Virgilio, prossimo alla fine, prova a fare un bilancio della sua vita e si rende conto di non aver ottenuto nulla di quello che si proponeva, quello che rimane del suo tentativo di trascendere la natura umana per raggiungere un’eternità impossibile è un pugno di mosche, la consapevolezza che la vita dell’uomo è simile a quella di un naufrago e che alla fine di tanto vagare ci si ritrova sempre al punto di partenza. Virgilio ha fallito perché la poesia (lo strumento al quale il poeta si era affidato per arrivare alla Verità) ha fallito e la Bellezza alla quale egli anelava non era altro che la fuga in un mondo di illusioni, una prigione sterile perché incapace di ulteriori sviluppi.
Per Virgilio/Broch la Bellezza non salverà il mondo, e l’Artista che si abbandona ad essa sacrifica la ricerca della conoscenza, sacrifica il contenuto in nome della forma. Bruciare l’Eneide è la conseguenza di questo suo ragionamento e se alla fine il poeta desisterà dal suo intento è solo per ottenere dall’Imperatore la libertà dei suoi schiavi e del denaro per il popolo di Brindisi, riscattando così in qualche modo il suo fallimento.
L’ultima parte di quest’opera è poi una specie di inno con pagine di rara bellezza formale, un viaggio verso l’Assoluto e un ritorno nel mondo degli uomini nel quale tutto si mescola e si confonde come in una grafica di Escher, come se il Tempo fosse un unico istante, con il giovane Lisania a farci da guida simile al Virgilio della Commedia che poi muta in una Plozia molto vicina alla Beatrice del Paradiso, in una metamorfosi continua di incomparabile bellezza.
Con La morte di Virgilio Broch si muove lungo una linea ideale che è quella dell’Ulisse dantesco, del Rilke delle Elegie Duinesi, della Cvetaeva e che arriva, azzardo, fino a Cărtărescu. Una corda sospesa sulla testa degli uomini, un tentativo di indossare le ali di Icaro sapendo già di finire bruciati.
Il filosofo Günther Anders ha definito questo libro “un libro per nessuno” e credo che non abbia tutti i torti. In effetti si tratta di una lettura che non mi sento di consigliare a nessuno ma anche di un viaggio affascinante ai confini dell’uomo che porterò sempre con me.
July 13, 2018
Νομίζω οτι είναι απο τα πιο δύσκολα βιβλία που έχω διαβάσει,ίσως το δυσκολότερο,αλλά πραγματικά άξιζε τον κόπο.
Το βιβλίο έχει μορφή επικού ποιήματος και περιγράφει τις τελευταίες ώρες του Βιργίλιου ο οποίος νιώθοντας οτι πεθαίνει αποφασίζει να καταστρέψει το χειρόγραφο της Αινειάδας.Η γλώσσα είναι υπέροχη,είναι μια απόλαυση να το διαβάζεις,κι αυτό πιστεύω οτι εν μέρει ωφείλεται και στην εξαιρετική μετάφραση η οποία νομίζω οτι ήταν ένας αθλος για τον μεταφραστή.
Πολλές φορές βρέθηκα να γυρίζω πίσω και να ξαναδιαβάζω κάποιες παραγράφους επειδή το κείμενο ήταν τόσο όμορφο που μια φορά δεν ήταν αρκετή(ειδικά όταν αναφερόταν στην ποίηση ή στον έρωτα) κι ακόμα περισσότερες γιατί απλά αδυνατούσα να καταλάβω τι διαβάζω.Συναντούσα λέξεις και φράσεις που δεν έχω ξανασυναντήσει ,ή που δεν υπάρχουν καν(αχουβαϊβαΐζοντες πχ) και χανόμουνα μέσα στο φιλοσοφικό παραλήρημα του Βιργίλιου που μίλαγε με ανθρώπους που δεν ήταν εκεί,ταξίδευε νοερά σε άλλα μέρη,άλλες εποχές, κι εγώ έψαχνα να δω που βρίσκομαι.
Απαιτητικό,αρκετά κουραστικό αλλά αξίζει να διαβαστεί.Αν του παραδοθείς θα σε ανταμείψει.
Το βιβλίο έχει μορφή επικού ποιήματος και περιγράφει τις τελευταίες ώρες του Βιργίλιου ο οποίος νιώθοντας οτι πεθαίνει αποφασίζει να καταστρέψει το χειρόγραφο της Αινειάδας.Η γλώσσα είναι υπέροχη,είναι μια απόλαυση να το διαβάζεις,κι αυτό πιστεύω οτι εν μέρει ωφείλεται και στην εξαιρετική μετάφραση η οποία νομίζω οτι ήταν ένας αθλος για τον μεταφραστή.
Πολλές φορές βρέθηκα να γυρίζω πίσω και να ξαναδιαβάζω κάποιες παραγράφους επειδή το κείμενο ήταν τόσο όμορφο που μια φορά δεν ήταν αρκετή(ειδικά όταν αναφερόταν στην ποίηση ή στον έρωτα) κι ακόμα περισσότερες γιατί απλά αδυνατούσα να καταλάβω τι διαβάζω.Συναντούσα λέξεις και φράσεις που δεν έχω ξανασυναντήσει ,ή που δεν υπάρχουν καν(αχουβαϊβαΐζοντες πχ) και χανόμουνα μέσα στο φιλοσοφικό παραλήρημα του Βιργίλιου που μίλαγε με ανθρώπους που δεν ήταν εκεί,ταξίδευε νοερά σε άλλα μέρη,άλλες εποχές, κι εγώ έψαχνα να δω που βρίσκομαι.
Απαιτητικό,αρκετά κουραστικό αλλά αξίζει να διαβαστεί.Αν του παραδοθείς θα σε ανταμείψει.
October 30, 2021
So I was working through the last few stragglers in the bibliographies of Musil, Mann et al. and unexpectedly ran across the best novel written since 1923 . . . ?!?!. Death of Virgil is one of those cases where I was underlining so many passages that I gave up and put the pen down.
Just as Ulysses is the greatest novel in the English language and À la recherche is the greatest novel in the French language, this is the clear winner, imo, for German. Like Joyce and Proust, Broch occasionally steps over the line into pretentiousness or tedium -- in the case of Virgil, a certain Wagnerian tone that gets out of hand at times, especially in the second part -- but the general quality is so high that you can't really hold it against him.
Also, the philosophical depth of Broch far outstrips any other novelist that I'm aware of (see also his essays and Arendt's intro to the English edition) -- Death of Virgil is the answer to the question, "What if Schelling wrote a high modernist novel?" Virgil's 200-page conversation with Octavian et al. wouldn't be out of place in a Platonic dialogue. I was somewhat surprised to learn that Broch studied with various Vienna School philosophers, and held his philosophical and cultural writings to be greater than his fiction (falsely, to say the least!), so you really could say that this is a philosopher's novel.
While I have yet to work through Death of Virgil in the original -- I'm actually quite looking forward to it (and will report back!) -- the translation appears to be very good. The English edition was actually published before the German edition, and Untermeyer collaborated so closely with Broch that most critics consider her to be almost his co-author; in short, this is one case where you aren't losing too much in translation, I think. There's an interesting essay on this topic from a 2001 Yale Symposium on Broch:
It's hard to think of a more emphatic endorsement of a translation than this.
It's also interesting to see how Broch was clearly influenced by Ulysses (he was friends with Joyce, unsurprisingly) -- hallucinatory poetic passages, monologue intérieur, philosophical and historical reflections in the context of an ancient epic poem, a variety of literary styles, the book's narrative spans a single day, etc. -- but not overdetermined by this influence. Broch had also received a copy of Finnegans Wake from Thornton Wilder relatively early in the writing process, which seemed to have an influence.
The Death of Virgil is ultimately a darker and more fatalistic version of Ulysses (appropriately for the early 1940s, alas) where Broch achieves something truly new and incredibly powerful. This is, I think, the last great modernist novel, the death-knell of the Western artistic tradition, the final stop before the train derailed into the postmodern repudiation of all that came before -- appropriately enough, Gaddis started writing The Recognitions a year or two later.
EDIT: tracked down the German edition; this is definitely a very good English translation, but if anything Untermeyer followed the German too closely, if that makes sense; sentences that feel more natural in German actually come across as a tiny bit stilted in English, but I'm guessing she decided there was just no easier or more elegant way to do it (probably rightly); and also, as I'm gathering from Broch's letters, this was probably at his insistence in some cases.
Broch's invented compound words look a bit more natural in German and there's far more 'rhyming', as it were, in the German prose, with how he uses root words -- that is, where you have to use different English words to represent words that sound far more similar in German. In any event, thankfully the translation from German to English is a relatively small leap given the similarity between the languages (I have no idea how a Japanese translation would work, e.g.), and Untermeyer has done an admirable job.
The only actual disagreement that I have with her word choice is "perception" for Erkenntnis, in the third part; given how important this particular word is for the philosophical structure of the novel (Erkenntnis might actually be the most important concept in the book), "perception" is definitely not the right word. Any reader who knows German would likely assume that "perception" was a translation of Wahrnehmung, rather; but the character of Virgil is talking about something quite different. As long as the bodily aspect of the English "perception" is ignored, I suppose it works? Anyway, fyi, when you see the word "perception" in the novel, just think of it as immaterial/noetic "perceiving," knowledge rather than sensory perception.
Just as Ulysses is the greatest novel in the English language and À la recherche is the greatest novel in the French language, this is the clear winner, imo, for German. Like Joyce and Proust, Broch occasionally steps over the line into pretentiousness or tedium -- in the case of Virgil, a certain Wagnerian tone that gets out of hand at times, especially in the second part -- but the general quality is so high that you can't really hold it against him.
Also, the philosophical depth of Broch far outstrips any other novelist that I'm aware of (see also his essays and Arendt's intro to the English edition) -- Death of Virgil is the answer to the question, "What if Schelling wrote a high modernist novel?" Virgil's 200-page conversation with Octavian et al. wouldn't be out of place in a Platonic dialogue. I was somewhat surprised to learn that Broch studied with various Vienna School philosophers, and held his philosophical and cultural writings to be greater than his fiction (falsely, to say the least!), so you really could say that this is a philosopher's novel.
While I have yet to work through Death of Virgil in the original -- I'm actually quite looking forward to it (and will report back!) -- the translation appears to be very good. The English edition was actually published before the German edition, and Untermeyer collaborated so closely with Broch that most critics consider her to be almost his co-author; in short, this is one case where you aren't losing too much in translation, I think. There's an interesting essay on this topic from a 2001 Yale Symposium on Broch:
Stefan Zweig, then visiting the USA, had pronounced Virgil “the greatest work to have come out of Europe in a hundred years,” but “untranslatable.” Broch thereupon showed him Untermeyer’s translation, and Zweig was deeply impressed. [. . .]
Broch also called in others to go over the German with her, as well as reviewing every sentence and punctuation mark of the English translation. . . . he concluded: "I can only repeat that this translation is a miracle for me, and that also the method of the projection of the German style into English was absolutely ideal."
It's hard to think of a more emphatic endorsement of a translation than this.
It's also interesting to see how Broch was clearly influenced by Ulysses (he was friends with Joyce, unsurprisingly) -- hallucinatory poetic passages, monologue intérieur, philosophical and historical reflections in the context of an ancient epic poem, a variety of literary styles, the book's narrative spans a single day, etc. -- but not overdetermined by this influence. Broch had also received a copy of Finnegans Wake from Thornton Wilder relatively early in the writing process, which seemed to have an influence.
The Death of Virgil is ultimately a darker and more fatalistic version of Ulysses (appropriately for the early 1940s, alas) where Broch achieves something truly new and incredibly powerful. This is, I think, the last great modernist novel, the death-knell of the Western artistic tradition, the final stop before the train derailed into the postmodern repudiation of all that came before -- appropriately enough, Gaddis started writing The Recognitions a year or two later.
EDIT: tracked down the German edition; this is definitely a very good English translation, but if anything Untermeyer followed the German too closely, if that makes sense; sentences that feel more natural in German actually come across as a tiny bit stilted in English, but I'm guessing she decided there was just no easier or more elegant way to do it (probably rightly); and also, as I'm gathering from Broch's letters, this was probably at his insistence in some cases.
Broch's invented compound words look a bit more natural in German and there's far more 'rhyming', as it were, in the German prose, with how he uses root words -- that is, where you have to use different English words to represent words that sound far more similar in German. In any event, thankfully the translation from German to English is a relatively small leap given the similarity between the languages (I have no idea how a Japanese translation would work, e.g.), and Untermeyer has done an admirable job.
The only actual disagreement that I have with her word choice is "perception" for Erkenntnis, in the third part; given how important this particular word is for the philosophical structure of the novel (Erkenntnis might actually be the most important concept in the book), "perception" is definitely not the right word. Any reader who knows German would likely assume that "perception" was a translation of Wahrnehmung, rather; but the character of Virgil is talking about something quite different. As long as the bodily aspect of the English "perception" is ignored, I suppose it works? Anyway, fyi, when you see the word "perception" in the novel, just think of it as immaterial/noetic "perceiving," knowledge rather than sensory perception.
January 9, 2023
I’ve always been a little overwhelmed by the classics. Overwhelmed maybe but astounded that people could write like that. Brilliance from thousands of years ago.
The Death of Virgil is a truly mesmerizing masterpiece of literature. I was simply blown away by the writing. Every sentence to every paragraph is just gorgeous. I’m also stunned that this isn’t mentioned when people are discussing the great novels of all time. This is really, really stunning. And easily one of the best novels I’ve ever read.
The Death of Virgil is a truly mesmerizing masterpiece of literature. I was simply blown away by the writing. Every sentence to every paragraph is just gorgeous. I’m also stunned that this isn’t mentioned when people are discussing the great novels of all time. This is really, really stunning. And easily one of the best novels I’ve ever read.
May 20, 2018
...como disse Frida Khalo: "Onde não puderes amar, não te demores."
...li 50 páginas...
...li 50 páginas...
February 14, 2020
I lack both the linguistic capacity and mental clarity to even attempt a review, so I stand in slack-jawed awe instead.
Coulda used some cartoons, though.
Coulda used some cartoons, though.
November 12, 2019
Der Tod des Vergil ist der Versuch, das Ereignis des Todes aus der Sicht des Sterbenden zu erzählen und dafür eine gänzlich neue und wirklich adäquate Sprache zu finden.
Die Handlung selbst ist einfach und schnell zusammengefasst: Kaiser Augustus holt den todkranken Dichter Vergil von Griechenland nach Italien zurück. In Brundisium angekommen verbringt Vergil eine Nacht in Fieberträumen. Am nächsten Morgen besuchen ihn alte Freunde und der Kaiser, mit denen er seinen Nachlass regelt. Dann betritt sein Bewußtsein ein Zwischenreich und verlässt langsam das menschliche Sein und Hausen. Diese letzten achtzehn Stunden des Dichters werden in vier sehr unterschiedlich gefärbten Teilen erzählt:
I. Wasser - die Ankunft
Erhaben, feierlich wie der erste Satz einer Symphonie, beschreibt der erste Teil die Ankunft der kaiserlichen Flotte im Hafen von Brundisium, den Weg Vergils durch die Stadt und den Einzug in den Palast.
Die Brückenplanken wippten steif, als die Sänfte im gemessenen Gleichschritt der Träger darüber hin befördert wurde; unten schwappte bedächtig das schwarze Wasser, eingeengt zwischen dem schwarzen schweren Schiffskörper und der schwarzen schweren Kaimauer, das schwerflüssige glatte Element, sich selbst ausatmend, Unrat ausatmend, Abfälle und Gemüseblätter und verfaulte Melonen, alles was da unten herumsuppte, schlaffe Wellen eines schweren süßlichen Todeshauches, Wellen eines verfaulenden Lebens, des einzigen, das zwischen den Steinen bestehen kann, lebend nur noch in der Hoffnung auf die Wiedergeburt aus seiner Verwesung.
II. Feuer - Der Abstieg
Der lange, dunkle zweite Teil führt hinunter ins Schattenreich des Bewusstseins. Es ist Nacht, Vergil taucht in den Halbschlaf, deliriert in Fieberträumen durch sein vergangenes Schicksal, stellt alles in Zweifel, sein Leben, seine Dichtung, jeglichen Sinn. Ist Erkenntnis denn überhaupt möglich? Und wenn, ist sie denn von Relevanz? Er glaubt sich in einer Vorhölle, erkennt die steinerne Zwecklosigkeit menschlichen Rasens. Sein entrückter Geist treibt in einem Strom von Visionen durch die tiefsten Abgründe der Existenz. Irgendwann beschließt er, sein Lebenswerk, die Äneis als Opfer für sein Scheitern zu verbrennen. So verbringt er seine letzte Nacht in einem Fegefeuer aus Gedanken und Träumen bis er zum Morgen einen geläuterten, gelösten Zustand erreicht.
... es geschah ihm das, was ihm seit jeher, deutlicher und deutlicher werdend, stets aufs neue geschehen war, er tat das, was er ein ganzes Leben lang getan hatte, aber nun wußte er die Antwort: er lauschte dem Sterben.
III. Erde - Die Erwartung
Der anbrechende Tag lässt im dritten Teil die äußere Welt ein letztes Mal in aller Schärfe und Vernunft erscheinen. Der Dichter spricht mit seinen Freunden und dem Cäsar über seinen Nachlass, über Dichtung, Politik und Macht, über Leben und Sterben.
Es entstand eine Pause; das leise erdbebenhafte Pendeln des Seins hielt an, indes der Cäsar achtete noch immer nicht darauf, vielmehr schien er von dem Gehörten nun doch betroffen. Und es dauerte eine gute Weile, bis er antwortete: »Der Tod gehört zum Leben; wer das Leben erkennt, der erkennt auch den Tod.«
War dies richtig? es klang wie Wahrheit, und war doch nicht wahr oder war nicht mehr wahr: »Es hat keinen Augenblick meines Lebens gegeben, Octavian, den ich nicht hätte festhalten wollen, aber auch keinen, in dem ich nicht zu sterben gewünscht hätte.«
Vergil lässt sich von seinem Vorsatz, die Äneis zu verbrennen abhalten und übergibt sie dem Cäsar und dem römischen Volk.
IV. Äther - Die Heimkehr
Endlich tritt er seine letzte Fahrt an und gleitet friedlich in einem Nachen über das Meer der Ewigkeit entgegen.
Unbekannt war das Ziel, unbekannt der Ausgangshafen; von keiner Mole war man abgestoßen, aus Unendlichkeiten kommend, ins Unendliche strebend ging die Fahrt vor sich, dennoch streng und scharf in ihrer Richtung, geleitet von sicherer Hand, und wäre es gestattet gewesen, sich umzuwenden, man hätte den Steuermann am Heck erblicken müssen, den Beistand im Richtungslosen, den Lotsen, der den Ausgang aus dem Hafen kennt.
Am Ende der Fahrt tönt ihm das reine Wort aus einem Brausen, schwebt über dem All, über dem Nichts: er konnte es nicht festhalten; unerfaßlich, unaussprechbar war es für ihn, denn es war jenseits der Sprache.
Es ist ein schwieriges und unzugängliches Buch. Nicht nur zu lesen, auch darüber zu schreiben. Ich kann mich an kein Buch erinnern, das mich derart gefordert hat und müsste es noch ein paar Mal lesen, um annähernd die Worte zu finden, die ihm gebühren. Es hat mich fasziniert und gefesselt, es war aber auch mühsam und anstrengend. Besonders stark war der Eindruck, eigentlich ein Musikstück zu lesen - nicht nur die äußere Form mit den vier charakteristischen Kapiteln gleicht einer Symphonie, auch die innere Struktur mit ihren oft seitenlangen Sätzen läßt mich an Motive, Melodien und Klänge denken.
Thomas Mann hat den Tod des Vergil eines der ungewöhnlichsten und gründlichsten Experimente genannt, das je mit dem flexiblen Medium Roman unternommen wurde. Es ist die Einbettung des Bewusstseinsstroms in lyrische Prosa, was dieses Experiment so einzigartig macht. Da der Prozess des Sterbens mit der Vernunft nicht zu fassen ist, bildet Broch den sonst zum psychologisieren und analysieren neigenden inneren Monolog in der bildlichen Sprache der Lyrik ab, die ja immer auch das Irrationale zu transportieren geeignet war. Diese Sprache ermöglicht es auch, Bilder und Klänge aus dem historischen Rahmen herauf zu beschwören und so Vergils Äneis zu einem zweiten Leben zu erwecken.
Bei Bewusstseinsstrom denkt man unweigerlich an James Joyce, und auch Broch selbst stellt sich diesem Vergleich in seinen Kommentaren immer wieder. Darin distanziert er sich nämlich ganz ausdrücklich von Joyce, nicht nur weil sich das Joycesche Genie ohnedies nicht nachahmen läßt. In der Tat ist die Brochsche Methode strukturell völlig anders und mit nichts vergleichbar.
Man verzeihe mir, wenn ich noch ein Textzitat bemühe, das den typischen Brochschen Duktus besonders treffend illustriert. Neben seinem lyrischen Charakter ist der Text eine wahre Freakshow von Pleonasmen, Tautologien, Oxymoronen, Hendiadyoine und wie all diese Monster von Stilfiguren sonst noch heissen mögen (... und nebenbei ein wahres Fressen für die Rechtschreibprüfung der Textverarbeitung ;-)
Unbewältigt und unbewältigbar in ihrer Preisgegebenheit war die fremd gewordene Nacht vor seinen fiebernden Blicken aufgetan, unverändert unbeweglich, dennoch fremd, wurde sie von des Mondes mildhartem Atem bestrichen, unverändert unbeweglich von der Milchstraße sanftleise durchflutet, einversenkt in das schweigende Sternsingen, einversenkt in die Schönheit und in ihre verzauberte Zaubereinheit, in die verschwebende Einheit der schöngewordenen Welt, einversenkt in deren erstarrt-erstarrende Überferne, und raumschön, raumstarr, raumgroß wie diese, dämonisch gleich dieser zu Fremdheit verzaubert, wurde sie mit ihr durch die Zeiten dahingetragen, Nacht und doch das Unsterbliche innerhalb der Zeit; äonisch und doch ohne Ewigkeit, fremdgeworden allem Menschlichen, fremd der Menschenseele, da die stille Einswerdung, die sich fernedurchtränkt, fernedurchtränkend so vollzog, keinerlei Teilhaftigwerden mehr erlaubte; der Vorhof der Wirklichkeit hatte sich zu dem der Unwirklichkeit verwandelt.
Auf eine tiefergehende inhaltliche Deutung möchte ich mich nicht einlassen. Aufgrund der Dichte und Undurchsichtigkeit könnte man seitenlang schwadronieren ohne auf einen Punkt zu kommen. Aber da es um das Sterben geht, geht es naturgemäß auch um das Leben mit all seinen Aspekten, um Sinn, Erkenntnis und Glauben, aber das sind im Angesicht dieses geheimnisvollen Textes nur Gemeinplätze.
Ganz persönlich ist mir die Botschaft in manchen Teilen suspekt, vielleicht zu religiös, oder besser zu esoterisch (im ursprünglichen Sinn), zu idealistisch oder zu transzendenz-orientiert. Wenn Vergil im Fieberwahn die Quelle metaphysischer Sehnsucht und Sinnsuche ganz tief in seiner triebhaften, viszeralen Urnatur entdeckt und erkennt, dass nur der Glaube Wahrheit und Erkenntnis enthält, regt sich in mir Widerstand. Das ist allerdings nur mein Problem und weiter nicht relevant.
Man muss auch bedenken, dass Broch den Roman im Angesicht einer allgemeinen Wertezersplitterung und grauenhafter Ereignisse wie dem Tod in industrieller Form, aus einem inneren Impuls, als Privatangelegenheit des eigenen Seelenheils geschrieben hat, wie er in den Kommentaren bemerkt. Der Tod war uns, die wir nun am Rande des Konzentrationslager lebten, plötzlich so handgreiflich nahe gerückt, das die metaphysische Auseinandersetzung mit ihm schlechterdings nicht mehr aufschiebbar war.
Broch hat den historischen Stoff um Vergil nicht zufällig ausgewählt. Wer die Äneis (womöglich im Original) gelesen und sich mit Kultur und Geschichte der Zeit um Augustus beschäftigt hat, wird sicher erkennen können, welche Berührungspunkte zwischen dem historischen Vergil, dem Inhalt der Äneis und dem Brochschen Vergil bestehen, wird Parallelen in der Zeitgeschichte und eine Menge interessanter Zusammenhänge entdecken, und damit noch viel mehr herausholen können. Leider bin ich in den Fächern Latein und Geschichte traumatisiert und ein Ignorant geblieben.
Wer jetzt immer noch da ist und sich immer noch nicht abschrecken liess, dem sei dringend die kommentierte Werkausgabe (Suhrkamp Taschenbuch) empfohlen. Diese ist mit den umfangreichen persönlichen Kommentaren Hermann Brochs und zusätzlichen Anmerkungen des Herausgebers ergänzt, was ziemlich hilfreich ist, um nach der Lektüre nicht gänzlich ratlos übrig zu bleiben.
Ich stehe vor diesem Werk wie vor einem gewaltigen Mahnmal und fühle mich nichtig und klein. Auch wenn mir Inhalt und Bedeutung nicht ganz geheuer und auch nicht immer ganz klar sind, waren Sprache und Stil so faszinierend und einzigartig, dass mir das schon fünf Sterne wert ist.
Die Handlung selbst ist einfach und schnell zusammengefasst: Kaiser Augustus holt den todkranken Dichter Vergil von Griechenland nach Italien zurück. In Brundisium angekommen verbringt Vergil eine Nacht in Fieberträumen. Am nächsten Morgen besuchen ihn alte Freunde und der Kaiser, mit denen er seinen Nachlass regelt. Dann betritt sein Bewußtsein ein Zwischenreich und verlässt langsam das menschliche Sein und Hausen. Diese letzten achtzehn Stunden des Dichters werden in vier sehr unterschiedlich gefärbten Teilen erzählt:
I. Wasser - die Ankunft
Erhaben, feierlich wie der erste Satz einer Symphonie, beschreibt der erste Teil die Ankunft der kaiserlichen Flotte im Hafen von Brundisium, den Weg Vergils durch die Stadt und den Einzug in den Palast.
Die Brückenplanken wippten steif, als die Sänfte im gemessenen Gleichschritt der Träger darüber hin befördert wurde; unten schwappte bedächtig das schwarze Wasser, eingeengt zwischen dem schwarzen schweren Schiffskörper und der schwarzen schweren Kaimauer, das schwerflüssige glatte Element, sich selbst ausatmend, Unrat ausatmend, Abfälle und Gemüseblätter und verfaulte Melonen, alles was da unten herumsuppte, schlaffe Wellen eines schweren süßlichen Todeshauches, Wellen eines verfaulenden Lebens, des einzigen, das zwischen den Steinen bestehen kann, lebend nur noch in der Hoffnung auf die Wiedergeburt aus seiner Verwesung.
II. Feuer - Der Abstieg
Der lange, dunkle zweite Teil führt hinunter ins Schattenreich des Bewusstseins. Es ist Nacht, Vergil taucht in den Halbschlaf, deliriert in Fieberträumen durch sein vergangenes Schicksal, stellt alles in Zweifel, sein Leben, seine Dichtung, jeglichen Sinn. Ist Erkenntnis denn überhaupt möglich? Und wenn, ist sie denn von Relevanz? Er glaubt sich in einer Vorhölle, erkennt die steinerne Zwecklosigkeit menschlichen Rasens. Sein entrückter Geist treibt in einem Strom von Visionen durch die tiefsten Abgründe der Existenz. Irgendwann beschließt er, sein Lebenswerk, die Äneis als Opfer für sein Scheitern zu verbrennen. So verbringt er seine letzte Nacht in einem Fegefeuer aus Gedanken und Träumen bis er zum Morgen einen geläuterten, gelösten Zustand erreicht.
... es geschah ihm das, was ihm seit jeher, deutlicher und deutlicher werdend, stets aufs neue geschehen war, er tat das, was er ein ganzes Leben lang getan hatte, aber nun wußte er die Antwort: er lauschte dem Sterben.
III. Erde - Die Erwartung
Der anbrechende Tag lässt im dritten Teil die äußere Welt ein letztes Mal in aller Schärfe und Vernunft erscheinen. Der Dichter spricht mit seinen Freunden und dem Cäsar über seinen Nachlass, über Dichtung, Politik und Macht, über Leben und Sterben.
Es entstand eine Pause; das leise erdbebenhafte Pendeln des Seins hielt an, indes der Cäsar achtete noch immer nicht darauf, vielmehr schien er von dem Gehörten nun doch betroffen. Und es dauerte eine gute Weile, bis er antwortete: »Der Tod gehört zum Leben; wer das Leben erkennt, der erkennt auch den Tod.«
War dies richtig? es klang wie Wahrheit, und war doch nicht wahr oder war nicht mehr wahr: »Es hat keinen Augenblick meines Lebens gegeben, Octavian, den ich nicht hätte festhalten wollen, aber auch keinen, in dem ich nicht zu sterben gewünscht hätte.«
Vergil lässt sich von seinem Vorsatz, die Äneis zu verbrennen abhalten und übergibt sie dem Cäsar und dem römischen Volk.
IV. Äther - Die Heimkehr
Endlich tritt er seine letzte Fahrt an und gleitet friedlich in einem Nachen über das Meer der Ewigkeit entgegen.
Unbekannt war das Ziel, unbekannt der Ausgangshafen; von keiner Mole war man abgestoßen, aus Unendlichkeiten kommend, ins Unendliche strebend ging die Fahrt vor sich, dennoch streng und scharf in ihrer Richtung, geleitet von sicherer Hand, und wäre es gestattet gewesen, sich umzuwenden, man hätte den Steuermann am Heck erblicken müssen, den Beistand im Richtungslosen, den Lotsen, der den Ausgang aus dem Hafen kennt.
Am Ende der Fahrt tönt ihm das reine Wort aus einem Brausen, schwebt über dem All, über dem Nichts: er konnte es nicht festhalten; unerfaßlich, unaussprechbar war es für ihn, denn es war jenseits der Sprache.
Es ist ein schwieriges und unzugängliches Buch. Nicht nur zu lesen, auch darüber zu schreiben. Ich kann mich an kein Buch erinnern, das mich derart gefordert hat und müsste es noch ein paar Mal lesen, um annähernd die Worte zu finden, die ihm gebühren. Es hat mich fasziniert und gefesselt, es war aber auch mühsam und anstrengend. Besonders stark war der Eindruck, eigentlich ein Musikstück zu lesen - nicht nur die äußere Form mit den vier charakteristischen Kapiteln gleicht einer Symphonie, auch die innere Struktur mit ihren oft seitenlangen Sätzen läßt mich an Motive, Melodien und Klänge denken.
Thomas Mann hat den Tod des Vergil eines der ungewöhnlichsten und gründlichsten Experimente genannt, das je mit dem flexiblen Medium Roman unternommen wurde. Es ist die Einbettung des Bewusstseinsstroms in lyrische Prosa, was dieses Experiment so einzigartig macht. Da der Prozess des Sterbens mit der Vernunft nicht zu fassen ist, bildet Broch den sonst zum psychologisieren und analysieren neigenden inneren Monolog in der bildlichen Sprache der Lyrik ab, die ja immer auch das Irrationale zu transportieren geeignet war. Diese Sprache ermöglicht es auch, Bilder und Klänge aus dem historischen Rahmen herauf zu beschwören und so Vergils Äneis zu einem zweiten Leben zu erwecken.
Bei Bewusstseinsstrom denkt man unweigerlich an James Joyce, und auch Broch selbst stellt sich diesem Vergleich in seinen Kommentaren immer wieder. Darin distanziert er sich nämlich ganz ausdrücklich von Joyce, nicht nur weil sich das Joycesche Genie ohnedies nicht nachahmen läßt. In der Tat ist die Brochsche Methode strukturell völlig anders und mit nichts vergleichbar.
Man verzeihe mir, wenn ich noch ein Textzitat bemühe, das den typischen Brochschen Duktus besonders treffend illustriert. Neben seinem lyrischen Charakter ist der Text eine wahre Freakshow von Pleonasmen, Tautologien, Oxymoronen, Hendiadyoine und wie all diese Monster von Stilfiguren sonst noch heissen mögen (... und nebenbei ein wahres Fressen für die Rechtschreibprüfung der Textverarbeitung ;-)
Unbewältigt und unbewältigbar in ihrer Preisgegebenheit war die fremd gewordene Nacht vor seinen fiebernden Blicken aufgetan, unverändert unbeweglich, dennoch fremd, wurde sie von des Mondes mildhartem Atem bestrichen, unverändert unbeweglich von der Milchstraße sanftleise durchflutet, einversenkt in das schweigende Sternsingen, einversenkt in die Schönheit und in ihre verzauberte Zaubereinheit, in die verschwebende Einheit der schöngewordenen Welt, einversenkt in deren erstarrt-erstarrende Überferne, und raumschön, raumstarr, raumgroß wie diese, dämonisch gleich dieser zu Fremdheit verzaubert, wurde sie mit ihr durch die Zeiten dahingetragen, Nacht und doch das Unsterbliche innerhalb der Zeit; äonisch und doch ohne Ewigkeit, fremdgeworden allem Menschlichen, fremd der Menschenseele, da die stille Einswerdung, die sich fernedurchtränkt, fernedurchtränkend so vollzog, keinerlei Teilhaftigwerden mehr erlaubte; der Vorhof der Wirklichkeit hatte sich zu dem der Unwirklichkeit verwandelt.
Auf eine tiefergehende inhaltliche Deutung möchte ich mich nicht einlassen. Aufgrund der Dichte und Undurchsichtigkeit könnte man seitenlang schwadronieren ohne auf einen Punkt zu kommen. Aber da es um das Sterben geht, geht es naturgemäß auch um das Leben mit all seinen Aspekten, um Sinn, Erkenntnis und Glauben, aber das sind im Angesicht dieses geheimnisvollen Textes nur Gemeinplätze.
Ganz persönlich ist mir die Botschaft in manchen Teilen suspekt, vielleicht zu religiös, oder besser zu esoterisch (im ursprünglichen Sinn), zu idealistisch oder zu transzendenz-orientiert. Wenn Vergil im Fieberwahn die Quelle metaphysischer Sehnsucht und Sinnsuche ganz tief in seiner triebhaften, viszeralen Urnatur entdeckt und erkennt, dass nur der Glaube Wahrheit und Erkenntnis enthält, regt sich in mir Widerstand. Das ist allerdings nur mein Problem und weiter nicht relevant.
Man muss auch bedenken, dass Broch den Roman im Angesicht einer allgemeinen Wertezersplitterung und grauenhafter Ereignisse wie dem Tod in industrieller Form, aus einem inneren Impuls, als Privatangelegenheit des eigenen Seelenheils geschrieben hat, wie er in den Kommentaren bemerkt. Der Tod war uns, die wir nun am Rande des Konzentrationslager lebten, plötzlich so handgreiflich nahe gerückt, das die metaphysische Auseinandersetzung mit ihm schlechterdings nicht mehr aufschiebbar war.
Broch hat den historischen Stoff um Vergil nicht zufällig ausgewählt. Wer die Äneis (womöglich im Original) gelesen und sich mit Kultur und Geschichte der Zeit um Augustus beschäftigt hat, wird sicher erkennen können, welche Berührungspunkte zwischen dem historischen Vergil, dem Inhalt der Äneis und dem Brochschen Vergil bestehen, wird Parallelen in der Zeitgeschichte und eine Menge interessanter Zusammenhänge entdecken, und damit noch viel mehr herausholen können. Leider bin ich in den Fächern Latein und Geschichte traumatisiert und ein Ignorant geblieben.
Wer jetzt immer noch da ist und sich immer noch nicht abschrecken liess, dem sei dringend die kommentierte Werkausgabe (Suhrkamp Taschenbuch) empfohlen. Diese ist mit den umfangreichen persönlichen Kommentaren Hermann Brochs und zusätzlichen Anmerkungen des Herausgebers ergänzt, was ziemlich hilfreich ist, um nach der Lektüre nicht gänzlich ratlos übrig zu bleiben.
Ich stehe vor diesem Werk wie vor einem gewaltigen Mahnmal und fühle mich nichtig und klein. Auch wenn mir Inhalt und Bedeutung nicht ganz geheuer und auch nicht immer ganz klar sind, waren Sprache und Stil so faszinierend und einzigartig, dass mir das schon fünf Sterne wert ist.
March 10, 2021
Almost 500 pages in a single sentence. Not quite, but sometimes it felt like it. Long paragraphs running on sometimes for several pages, as Virgil on his death bed reviews his life, meets with friends, talks to old lovers, writes his will and ultimately surrenders the manuscript of The Aeneid to Augustus. The descriptions of the "after death state" could have come from the Bardo Thodel, or the Egyptian book of the Dead, except they are far more poetic and transcendent. This is not an easy read, it took me over a year to complete, but it is worthwhile, even in translation.
July 25, 2022
“evet, hakikat şu ki, yalnızca ölümü bilen, hayatı da bilebilir…”
(s.317)
Hayatımın çok garip bir döneminde karşıma çıkan bir kitap oldu. Mayıs ayında bir göğüs ağrısı ile acile başvurmam neticesinde yakalandığımı öğrendiğim miyokardit hastalığı nedeniyle yaşadığım bir ruhsal dalgalanmaya yani. Ölüm korkusunu iliklerimde hissettiğim bir yoğun bakım macerası. Bir odada, kablolar, hortumlara bağlı düşünmek, saatlerce.
Neden yaşadığımız, nereye gidiyor olduğumuz sorusunu önceden de sormuştum elbette ancak bu defa hissettim iliklerimde. Her zaman başkalarının başına geldiğini okuduğumuz, duyduğumuz, bildiğimiz hikayelerin bu defa kendi başımıza da gelebileceğini, bir nevi fani olduğumuz gerçeğini öğrenmek bir defa daha.
“Söylenebilir değil, öyle olduğu kesin ve hayatın uçsuz bucaksız anlamı ancak ölümün taşıdığı anlam bütünlüğünden kaynaklanabilir.” (s.317)
Ölümle tanışmak, farklı bir duygu. Garip bir duygu. Sonrasında “ama şimdi yaşıyorum” demenin sevinci. Hastaneden taburcu olduğumda ağaçlara bakarak sevinmek.
Bu kitapta Vergilius’un iç dünyasıyla dış dünyası arasındaki bir kesişmedeyiz adeta. Kitap iki bölümden oluşuyor gibi. İlk başta Vergilius’un ruhunun derinliklerinde, dondurulmuş bir zaman içindeyiz.
Yoğun bir felsefi derinlik, hayatın anlamına dair sorgulamalar.
İkinci bölümde ise Sezar ile konuşmalarında daha sakin, diyalog şeklinde aynı duyguların dışa vurumuyla karşı karşıyayız. İkinci bölümün okuması daha kolay, ilk bölümün ise derinliği daha fazla.
“… hakikatin kendisi sonsuzdur, hayat gibi sonsuzdur, ve elbette hayat gibi anlamsızdır, ve de anlamsızlığa yargılı kalır, ta ki hayatın önünde olduğu gibi onun önünde de ölüm, yani ölümsüz ölmenin ışığı, bilinmiş ve kendisi de bilen niteliği ile açılana kadar; bu, insanın varoluşunun en yalın anlamı ve bütün Yaradılışın hakikat olarak bütünlüğüdür…” (s.316)
Anlamsızlıktaki anlamı, karmaşadaki huzuru hissettiren bir roman. Ölümü anlamadan yaşamı anlayamayız, Vergilius için de böyle.
Ankara
25.07.2022
Yaşıyoruz bir şekilde. Yaşamı anlamak için, önce anlamamız lazım ölümü.
Hayatımın çok garip bir döneminde karşıma çıkan bir kitap oldu. Mayıs ayında bir göğüs ağrısı ile acile başvurmam neticesinde yakalandığımı öğrendiğim miyokardit hastalığı nedeniyle yaşadığım bir ruhsal dalgalanmaya yani. Ölüm korkusunu iliklerimde hissettiğim bir yoğun bakım macerası. Bir odada, kablolar, hortumlara bağlı düşünmek, saatlerce.
Neden yaşadığımız, nereye gidiyor olduğumuz sorusunu önceden de sormuştum elbette ancak bu defa hissettim iliklerimde. Her zaman başkalarının başına geldiğini okuduğumuz, duyduğumuz, bildiğimiz hikayelerin bu defa kendi başımıza da gelebileceğini, bir nevi fani olduğumuz gerçeğini öğrenmek bir defa daha.
“Söylenebilir değil, öyle olduğu kesin ve hayatın uçsuz bucaksız anlamı ancak ölümün taşıdığı anlam bütünlüğünden kaynaklanabilir.” (s.317)
Ölümle tanışmak, farklı bir duygu. Garip bir duygu. Sonrasında “ama şimdi yaşıyorum” demenin sevinci. Hastaneden taburcu olduğumda ağaçlara bakarak sevinmek.
Bu kitapta Vergilius’un iç dünyasıyla dış dünyası arasındaki bir kesişmedeyiz adeta. Kitap iki bölümden oluşuyor gibi. İlk başta Vergilius’un ruhunun derinliklerinde, dondurulmuş bir zaman içindeyiz.
Yoğun bir felsefi derinlik, hayatın anlamına dair sorgulamalar.
İkinci bölümde ise Sezar ile konuşmalarında daha sakin, diyalog şeklinde aynı duyguların dışa vurumuyla karşı karşıyayız. İkinci bölümün okuması daha kolay, ilk bölümün ise derinliği daha fazla.
“… hakikatin kendisi sonsuzdur, hayat gibi sonsuzdur, ve elbette hayat gibi anlamsızdır, ve de anlamsızlığa yargılı kalır, ta ki hayatın önünde olduğu gibi onun önünde de ölüm, yani ölümsüz ölmenin ışığı, bilinmiş ve kendisi de bilen niteliği ile açılana kadar; bu, insanın varoluşunun en yalın anlamı ve bütün Yaradılışın hakikat olarak bütünlüğüdür…” (s.316)
Anlamsızlıktaki anlamı, karmaşadaki huzuru hissettiren bir roman. Ölümü anlamadan yaşamı anlayamayız, Vergilius için de böyle.
Ankara
25.07.2022
Yaşıyoruz bir şekilde. Yaşamı anlamak için, önce anlamamız lazım ölümü.
January 1, 2021
Ich bin nicht sicher, wie ich das, was ich gelesen habe, bewerten soll: Auf der Haben- Seite stehen die ungeheuer dichten kunstphilosophischen Überlegungen in Vergils Auseinandersetzung mit Octavian, dem unbestreitbaren Höhepunkt des Romans. Wobei „Roman“ schon eine äußerst merkwürdige Zuschreibung für einen derart handlungsarmen, im Prinzip rein reflexiven Text ist. Ein bisschen nervig sind hingegen die langsame Entfaltung des Problemfelds und dann vor allem das langatmige Delirium zum Tode. Beide Teile des Romans sind in poetischer, ans Lyrische gemahnender „schöner Sprache“ geschrieben, die anfangs wohl das Prinzip der „Schönheit in der Kunst (Vergils)“ und im Ausgang dann das Paradiesische der im Christentum sinnbildlichen Lösung preisen soll, in der Sache aber wenig leistet. Aus heutiger Sicht wirkt das angestaubt, vor allem, weil die meisten Leser sich die Zeit nicht mehr nehmen werden, in den Sätzen das Leuchten aufzusuchen, das immer wieder aus ihnen hervorbricht. Kein unterhaltsamer „Alltagstext“ also; eher fast schon gesunkenes Bildungsgut für die Mußestunden des Alters. Zum Glück las ich das Buch, inzwischen ein bisschen alt geworden, in der besinnlichen Weihnachtszeit als de facto Arbeitsloser – und so passte es…
Was hat Broch nun über Literatur (Kunst) zu sagen? Ziemlich trivial im Angesicht der Zeitläufte (40-iger Jahre des letzten Jahrhunderts im Exil) ist die Einsicht, dass es nicht die „Schönheit“, nicht die „Erhabenheit“ und schon gar nicht das „interessenlose Wohlgefallen“ sind, die den Wert von Kunst ausmachen. Damit ist Kants Ästhetik erledigt. Broch lässt seinen Vergil die verändernde, nützende, dem Volk dienende „Tat“ (wie mir schien im Sinne Spenglers) höher als das ornamentale, den Krieg und seine Helden verehrende Wort schätzen. Konsequenterweise will der Autor daher seine „Aeneis“ vernichten, womit er in Konflikt mit Octavian gerät, dem der Gründungsmythos Roms im Sinne des Staatswohls wichtig ist. Eine solche Dichtung gehöre nicht mehr dem Dichter allein, sondern dem Volk, das sich in ihrem Geiste wiedererkenne. Die Argumentation postuliert den wohl eingerichteten Staat als den historischen Moment, in dem die Idee einer Dichtung, die dessen Geist begründet wie aus innerer Notwendigkeit heraus erfasst, im politischen Werk aufgeht. Hegel lässt grüßen. Aber auch diese Vereinnahmung ist nicht Brochs letztes Wort, obwohl er die Berechtigung einer solchen Denkweise prinzipiell anerkennt. Vergil sieht im Kaisertum Octavians und damit in der Staatskunst des Augustus ein auf die „pax romana“ gerichtetes Wirken, das Recht und Gesetz (den „römischen Geist“) in die Welt trägt. Er erkennt allerdings dort eine weltumspannende Friedens- Mission, wo Octavian nur die Grenzen des Reichs stabilisieren will. Im Bild des Sklaven, der von der Erlösung in der „Liebe des Herren“ spricht, scheint „Rom“ auf als das irdische Jerusalem, von dem ein Paradies auf Erden ausgehen könnte, wenn Octavians „Pax“ im Verbund mit dem Recht ergänzt würde durch die Liebe zum Menschen und seinem einfachen, produktiven Leben. In diesem Sinne hätten Autoren, die durch ein Werk über den Landbau die Arbeit der Bauern verbesserten, mehr geleistet als der Dichter der „Aeneis“. Auch dieser Gedankengang bestärkt Vergil in der Absicht, sein Werk zu vernichten.
Aber dann gibt es eine erstaunliche Wendung: Octavian ist sichtbar verärgert, weil Vergil ihm nicht nur den Zugriff auf das Werk entziehen will, sondern damit alle seine Hoffnungen begräbt, durch eine Zueignung des Dichters als Person unsterblich zu werden. Welch Übersteigerung der Rolle von Kunst! Vergil stutzt einen Moment und ändert schlagartig seine Meinung: Er widmet dem Cäsar das Werk und lässt vom Vernichtungswillen ab, sichert allerdings kurz darauf testamentarisch die Herausgabe und Überarbeitung durch die Hand befreundeter Künstler. Was er von Octavian will, ist die Zusage, die Sklaven auf Vergils Besitztümern frei zu geben und als freie Bauern weiterleben zu lassen. Theorie wird praktisch. Bleibt das Kunstproblem: Broch verfolgt interessante Überlegungen zur „Zeit“, gefasst als „Zeitgeist“. Octavian muss sich anhören, selbst ein Getriebener seiner Zeit zu sein, weil niemand den Horizont seiner Zeit übersteigen und etwas tun könne, was nicht herangereift sei. Wie tut „die Zeit“ das, fragt Broch/ Vergil, und erkennt, dass es die Folge des Wirkens irrender Generationen ist, die trotz aller Irrtümer auch Erkenntnis auf Erkenntnis türmten, so dass immer mehr von der eigentlich verborgenen letzten Wirklichkeit sich in den Ideen und Gedanken enthüllt. Im Schaffen, im geistigen Schauen und Gestalten wird Ahnung, was dann in die Tat umgesetzt werden kann. Insofern ist die „Aeneis“ ein Schritt in der Abfolge der so begriffenen Zeitalter und der Dichter hat kein Recht, die von ihm als falsch begriffenen Schilderungen (Äußerlichkeiten!) zuungunsten der Ahnungen, die sein Werk trotz allem enthält, zu vernichten. Auch verteidigen die Freunde die Schönheit der Verse, in die ihr Autor bei aller Einsicht in ihr Ungenügen verliebt bleibt. Vergil begreift die Beschränktheit des Politikers, dessen Vorhaben einer „pax romana“ er nichtsdestoweniger als in seiner „Aeneis“ angelegt sieht. Er kann sein Werk im Sinne der Verherrlichung des augusteischen Zeitalters mit der Architektur, die Roms Größe als „neue Ordnung“ und quasi als ein „Weltzeichen“ in Szene setzt, vergleichen und sie daher dem Augusts widmen. Schlagartig wird Vergil klar, dass nicht diese Widmung, nicht die begrenzten Ziele des Politikers überleben werden, sondern dass die in der römischen Architektur, im Recht und der Wissenschaft wie in der Schönheit der Kunst (der „Aeneis“) enthaltenen Vor(ent)würfe auf eine friedliche, im Humanismus der Menschenliebe harmonische Welt die Essenz sind, die bleiben wird. Was für eine Deutung des bürgerlich- humanistischen, an der römischen Antike orientierten Ideals lateinischer Gymnasialbildung! Ein letztes Mal wird stringent auf den heute meist unverstandenen Wert des Lateinischen und der damit verbundenen Kultur und Geschichte verwiesen.
Aber darin ist – wie gesagt – bereits ein Perspektivwechsel Vergils enthalten: Der sterbende Dichter beharrt gegenüber dem Staatslenker darauf, dass des Menschen Leben mehr sei als die Pflicht gegen das Vaterland. Er habe sich dem Gemeinwohl nicht unterzuordnen, wie es zu Brochs Zeiten nicht nur ein Stalin vom Staatsbürger verlangte: „Magst du auch, o Cäsar, heute noch die Grenzen des Staates schützen müssen, grenzenlos wird das Reich sein; magst du dich heute auch noch genötigt fühlen, das größere vom kleineren Rechte zu scheiden, unteilbar wird die Gerechtigkeit werden, verletzlich die Gesamtheit in jedem Einzelnen, geschützt das Recht des Einzelnen in dem der Gesamtheit […]“ Damit ist Broch angekommen bei einer Hegel und den (durch Lenin entwickelten) hegelschen Sozialismus übersteigenden Vision, in der „die Freiheit des Einzelnen die Bedingung für die Freiheit aller“ (Marx/ Engels, Manifest) ist. Vergil endet den zitierten Satz: „und magst du heute auch noch gezwungen sein die Freiheit karg abzuzirkeln, dem Sklaven nichts von ihr zu belassen und dem Römer sehr wenig, auf daß die Freiheit des Ganzen gewahrt bleibe, im Reich der Erkenntnis wird die Freiheit des Menschen unumschränkt bestehen, und sie wird es sein, auf der allumfassend sich die Freiheit der Welt aufbauen wird. Denn das Reich der Erkenntnis, zu dem dein Staat erblühen wird, das Reich der wahren Wirklichkeit, wird nicht ein Reich der Volksmassen sein, ja, nicht einmal ein Reich der Völker, sondern ein Reich der Menschengemeinschaft, getragen von der menschlichen Einzelseele, von ihrer Würde und von ihrer Freiheit, getragen von ihrer göttlichen Ebenbildhaftigkeit“ (S. 380). Womit Broch im Moralphilosophischen entgegen dem sonst im Kriege grassierenden Behaviorismus wieder bei Kant angekommen ist.
Auf das künftige Paradies als der Erlösung schaut Vergil nun konsequenterweise mit den Augen eines Sklaven, was ihn das Bild der Mutter mit dem Kind als das stärkste Symbol für etwas erahnen lässt, das Anna Seghers fast zeitgleich „die Kraft der Schwachen“ genannt hat. Daher muss Vergil/ Broch die Kritik an der eigenen Person nicht zurücknehmen: Er war so ein Schwacher! Aber im Moment des herannahenden Todes wird ihm die Vision einer besseren Welt bunt und lebendig, vermischt sich mit den Erinnerungen an seine Jugend als Bauernjunge, der immer tätig, der dann Mediziner hatte sein wollen. Lässt „Wilhelm Meister“ grüßen? Broch kennt die Schwäche dieses Modells und beschreibt sie im Bilde des ihn behandelnden Hofmediziners. Das sinnerf��llte Leben bleibt ein Leben der Tat, es bleibt das arbeitsame Leben des Volkes (hier der freien Bauern), aber der Künstler darf nun daran seinen Teil haben. Seine „Ahnungen“ sind und bleiben als „künstlerische Erkenntnis“ ein legitimer Beitrag zum Fortschritt selbst dann, wenn jede einzelne als formulierte „Erkenntnis“ falsch ist. Im komplizierten Welt- und Lebenszusammenhang könne kein einzelner Mensch „richtig“ erkennen; alle Erkenntnis sei nur eine Stufe der Höherentwicklung. Die Sonderstellung des Künstlers ergibt sich nun daraus, dass er als einziger die Totalität des gesamtgesellschaftlichen Lebens in den Blick nehmen kann und soll. Der wahre Künstler ist mithin immer schon ein Gescheiterter, wenn er sein Werk beginnt. Und dennoch ist das Werk ein Beitrag zur Fortentwicklung der Menschheit zu dem endlichen Ziel, als dessen Sinnbild am Schluss des Buches das heraufdämmernde urchristliche Ideal der Freiheit, Gleichheit und Solidarität steht. Dieses wird dann in hymnischen Satzperioden als „Schönheit“ der Sprache wie der Vision besungen und gepriesen.
Ganz im Sinne der bürgerlichen Kunst der großen (Roman)Form ist Brochs „Vergil“ ein Teil dieser Kunstrichtung wie zugleich deren Ende. Die Erkenntnis ihres Scheiterns ist im Hinausgehen der Idee über die ihr im Roman mögliche Form folgerichtig die Absage an die klassisch- realistische Kunst. Das ist die große geistige Leistung eines Autors, der damit zugleich begründet hat, warum sein Werk in gewisser Weise mit seinem Erscheinen bereits „unmodern“ geworden ist. Doch, das müssen fünf Sterne sein! ;-)
Was hat Broch nun über Literatur (Kunst) zu sagen? Ziemlich trivial im Angesicht der Zeitläufte (40-iger Jahre des letzten Jahrhunderts im Exil) ist die Einsicht, dass es nicht die „Schönheit“, nicht die „Erhabenheit“ und schon gar nicht das „interessenlose Wohlgefallen“ sind, die den Wert von Kunst ausmachen. Damit ist Kants Ästhetik erledigt. Broch lässt seinen Vergil die verändernde, nützende, dem Volk dienende „Tat“ (wie mir schien im Sinne Spenglers) höher als das ornamentale, den Krieg und seine Helden verehrende Wort schätzen. Konsequenterweise will der Autor daher seine „Aeneis“ vernichten, womit er in Konflikt mit Octavian gerät, dem der Gründungsmythos Roms im Sinne des Staatswohls wichtig ist. Eine solche Dichtung gehöre nicht mehr dem Dichter allein, sondern dem Volk, das sich in ihrem Geiste wiedererkenne. Die Argumentation postuliert den wohl eingerichteten Staat als den historischen Moment, in dem die Idee einer Dichtung, die dessen Geist begründet wie aus innerer Notwendigkeit heraus erfasst, im politischen Werk aufgeht. Hegel lässt grüßen. Aber auch diese Vereinnahmung ist nicht Brochs letztes Wort, obwohl er die Berechtigung einer solchen Denkweise prinzipiell anerkennt. Vergil sieht im Kaisertum Octavians und damit in der Staatskunst des Augustus ein auf die „pax romana“ gerichtetes Wirken, das Recht und Gesetz (den „römischen Geist“) in die Welt trägt. Er erkennt allerdings dort eine weltumspannende Friedens- Mission, wo Octavian nur die Grenzen des Reichs stabilisieren will. Im Bild des Sklaven, der von der Erlösung in der „Liebe des Herren“ spricht, scheint „Rom“ auf als das irdische Jerusalem, von dem ein Paradies auf Erden ausgehen könnte, wenn Octavians „Pax“ im Verbund mit dem Recht ergänzt würde durch die Liebe zum Menschen und seinem einfachen, produktiven Leben. In diesem Sinne hätten Autoren, die durch ein Werk über den Landbau die Arbeit der Bauern verbesserten, mehr geleistet als der Dichter der „Aeneis“. Auch dieser Gedankengang bestärkt Vergil in der Absicht, sein Werk zu vernichten.
Aber dann gibt es eine erstaunliche Wendung: Octavian ist sichtbar verärgert, weil Vergil ihm nicht nur den Zugriff auf das Werk entziehen will, sondern damit alle seine Hoffnungen begräbt, durch eine Zueignung des Dichters als Person unsterblich zu werden. Welch Übersteigerung der Rolle von Kunst! Vergil stutzt einen Moment und ändert schlagartig seine Meinung: Er widmet dem Cäsar das Werk und lässt vom Vernichtungswillen ab, sichert allerdings kurz darauf testamentarisch die Herausgabe und Überarbeitung durch die Hand befreundeter Künstler. Was er von Octavian will, ist die Zusage, die Sklaven auf Vergils Besitztümern frei zu geben und als freie Bauern weiterleben zu lassen. Theorie wird praktisch. Bleibt das Kunstproblem: Broch verfolgt interessante Überlegungen zur „Zeit“, gefasst als „Zeitgeist“. Octavian muss sich anhören, selbst ein Getriebener seiner Zeit zu sein, weil niemand den Horizont seiner Zeit übersteigen und etwas tun könne, was nicht herangereift sei. Wie tut „die Zeit“ das, fragt Broch/ Vergil, und erkennt, dass es die Folge des Wirkens irrender Generationen ist, die trotz aller Irrtümer auch Erkenntnis auf Erkenntnis türmten, so dass immer mehr von der eigentlich verborgenen letzten Wirklichkeit sich in den Ideen und Gedanken enthüllt. Im Schaffen, im geistigen Schauen und Gestalten wird Ahnung, was dann in die Tat umgesetzt werden kann. Insofern ist die „Aeneis“ ein Schritt in der Abfolge der so begriffenen Zeitalter und der Dichter hat kein Recht, die von ihm als falsch begriffenen Schilderungen (Äußerlichkeiten!) zuungunsten der Ahnungen, die sein Werk trotz allem enthält, zu vernichten. Auch verteidigen die Freunde die Schönheit der Verse, in die ihr Autor bei aller Einsicht in ihr Ungenügen verliebt bleibt. Vergil begreift die Beschränktheit des Politikers, dessen Vorhaben einer „pax romana“ er nichtsdestoweniger als in seiner „Aeneis“ angelegt sieht. Er kann sein Werk im Sinne der Verherrlichung des augusteischen Zeitalters mit der Architektur, die Roms Größe als „neue Ordnung“ und quasi als ein „Weltzeichen“ in Szene setzt, vergleichen und sie daher dem Augusts widmen. Schlagartig wird Vergil klar, dass nicht diese Widmung, nicht die begrenzten Ziele des Politikers überleben werden, sondern dass die in der römischen Architektur, im Recht und der Wissenschaft wie in der Schönheit der Kunst (der „Aeneis“) enthaltenen Vor(ent)würfe auf eine friedliche, im Humanismus der Menschenliebe harmonische Welt die Essenz sind, die bleiben wird. Was für eine Deutung des bürgerlich- humanistischen, an der römischen Antike orientierten Ideals lateinischer Gymnasialbildung! Ein letztes Mal wird stringent auf den heute meist unverstandenen Wert des Lateinischen und der damit verbundenen Kultur und Geschichte verwiesen.
Aber darin ist – wie gesagt – bereits ein Perspektivwechsel Vergils enthalten: Der sterbende Dichter beharrt gegenüber dem Staatslenker darauf, dass des Menschen Leben mehr sei als die Pflicht gegen das Vaterland. Er habe sich dem Gemeinwohl nicht unterzuordnen, wie es zu Brochs Zeiten nicht nur ein Stalin vom Staatsbürger verlangte: „Magst du auch, o Cäsar, heute noch die Grenzen des Staates schützen müssen, grenzenlos wird das Reich sein; magst du dich heute auch noch genötigt fühlen, das größere vom kleineren Rechte zu scheiden, unteilbar wird die Gerechtigkeit werden, verletzlich die Gesamtheit in jedem Einzelnen, geschützt das Recht des Einzelnen in dem der Gesamtheit […]“ Damit ist Broch angekommen bei einer Hegel und den (durch Lenin entwickelten) hegelschen Sozialismus übersteigenden Vision, in der „die Freiheit des Einzelnen die Bedingung für die Freiheit aller“ (Marx/ Engels, Manifest) ist. Vergil endet den zitierten Satz: „und magst du heute auch noch gezwungen sein die Freiheit karg abzuzirkeln, dem Sklaven nichts von ihr zu belassen und dem Römer sehr wenig, auf daß die Freiheit des Ganzen gewahrt bleibe, im Reich der Erkenntnis wird die Freiheit des Menschen unumschränkt bestehen, und sie wird es sein, auf der allumfassend sich die Freiheit der Welt aufbauen wird. Denn das Reich der Erkenntnis, zu dem dein Staat erblühen wird, das Reich der wahren Wirklichkeit, wird nicht ein Reich der Volksmassen sein, ja, nicht einmal ein Reich der Völker, sondern ein Reich der Menschengemeinschaft, getragen von der menschlichen Einzelseele, von ihrer Würde und von ihrer Freiheit, getragen von ihrer göttlichen Ebenbildhaftigkeit“ (S. 380). Womit Broch im Moralphilosophischen entgegen dem sonst im Kriege grassierenden Behaviorismus wieder bei Kant angekommen ist.
Auf das künftige Paradies als der Erlösung schaut Vergil nun konsequenterweise mit den Augen eines Sklaven, was ihn das Bild der Mutter mit dem Kind als das stärkste Symbol für etwas erahnen lässt, das Anna Seghers fast zeitgleich „die Kraft der Schwachen“ genannt hat. Daher muss Vergil/ Broch die Kritik an der eigenen Person nicht zurücknehmen: Er war so ein Schwacher! Aber im Moment des herannahenden Todes wird ihm die Vision einer besseren Welt bunt und lebendig, vermischt sich mit den Erinnerungen an seine Jugend als Bauernjunge, der immer tätig, der dann Mediziner hatte sein wollen. Lässt „Wilhelm Meister“ grüßen? Broch kennt die Schwäche dieses Modells und beschreibt sie im Bilde des ihn behandelnden Hofmediziners. Das sinnerf��llte Leben bleibt ein Leben der Tat, es bleibt das arbeitsame Leben des Volkes (hier der freien Bauern), aber der Künstler darf nun daran seinen Teil haben. Seine „Ahnungen“ sind und bleiben als „künstlerische Erkenntnis“ ein legitimer Beitrag zum Fortschritt selbst dann, wenn jede einzelne als formulierte „Erkenntnis“ falsch ist. Im komplizierten Welt- und Lebenszusammenhang könne kein einzelner Mensch „richtig“ erkennen; alle Erkenntnis sei nur eine Stufe der Höherentwicklung. Die Sonderstellung des Künstlers ergibt sich nun daraus, dass er als einziger die Totalität des gesamtgesellschaftlichen Lebens in den Blick nehmen kann und soll. Der wahre Künstler ist mithin immer schon ein Gescheiterter, wenn er sein Werk beginnt. Und dennoch ist das Werk ein Beitrag zur Fortentwicklung der Menschheit zu dem endlichen Ziel, als dessen Sinnbild am Schluss des Buches das heraufdämmernde urchristliche Ideal der Freiheit, Gleichheit und Solidarität steht. Dieses wird dann in hymnischen Satzperioden als „Schönheit“ der Sprache wie der Vision besungen und gepriesen.
Ganz im Sinne der bürgerlichen Kunst der großen (Roman)Form ist Brochs „Vergil“ ein Teil dieser Kunstrichtung wie zugleich deren Ende. Die Erkenntnis ihres Scheiterns ist im Hinausgehen der Idee über die ihr im Roman mögliche Form folgerichtig die Absage an die klassisch- realistische Kunst. Das ist die große geistige Leistung eines Autors, der damit zugleich begründet hat, warum sein Werk in gewisser Weise mit seinem Erscheinen bereits „unmodern“ geworden ist. Doch, das müssen fünf Sterne sein! ;-)
August 13, 2016
Hermann Broch was fifty-one years old in 1937 when he began to write The Death of Virgil. In doing this he was adhering to certain principles that he had outlined in an essay, "Joyce and the Present Age", written in the previous year. In this essay he argued that "the work of art, the "universal work of art" becomes the mirror of the Zeitgeist"; that being the totality of the historic reality of the present age. This totality is reflected in great works of art like Faust and the late works of Beethoven. Reaching his fiftieth year was significant for Broch as a time that would allow him to achieve this sort of significance in his own writing. The work known as The Death of Virgil would be his "great work of art".
With the use of third person narrative that often seems like a "stream of consciousness" Hermann Broch is able to put the reader inside the head of Virgil for much of the book. From the opening pages we meet a poet/artist Virgil who is on the edge of life in several different respects. The edge between water and land is explored as Virgil's ship, one among the parade of ships escorting Augustus back to the port of Brundisium in Roman Italy, sails toward land on the first page of the novel.
"as the sunny yet deathly loneliness of the sea changed with the peaceful stir of friendly human activity where the channel, softly enhanced by the proximity of human life and human living, was populated by all sorts of craft". (p 11)
The sunny sea is seen as also deathly in its loneliness. This signals another edge that will be important throughout the novel as Virgil in his illness hovers between life and death. Further there is the personal and historical background with the tension between Virgil and Augustus mirroring that of Athens and Rome. Even though Virgil dearly loved the life of study and thought in Athens he was torn by his memories of home as he arrived in Brundisium:
"lifted up in the breath of the immutable coolness, borne forward to seas so enigmatic and unknown that it was like a homecoming, for wave upon wave of the great planes through which his keel had already furrowed, wave-planes of memory, wave-planes of seas, they had not become transparent, nothing in them had divulged itself to him, only the enigma remained, and filled with the enigma of the past overflowed its shores and reached into the present, so that in the midst of the resinous torch-smoke, in the midst of the brooding city fumes, , , how they all lay behind him, about him, within him, how entirely they were his own," (p 31)
Throughout the beginning of the novel, a section titled "Water--The Arrival", Virgil is filled with doubts. He is nearing the end of his life with a feeling that "it was time itself that called down scorn upon him, the unalterable flood of time with its manifold voices," and he may not be able to escape his fate. But what was that fate and why was it important to him as creator? This is something that he is unsure of even to the point of asking himself why he was writing this book (The Aeneid which is always by his side).
"Nothing availed the poet, he could right no wrongs; he is heeded only if he extols the world, never if he portrays it as it is. Only falsehood wins renown, not understanding! And could one assume that the Aeneid would be vouchsafed another or better influence?" (p 15)
His own Aeneid as quoted epigraphically by Broch suggests that Virgil is "exiled by fate" just as his creation, Aeneas, was. Is that the fate of all poets? Must they be exiled by their fate to become an artist of this world? Perhaps the final three sections of The Death of Virgil will suggest answers to these and other questions.
With the use of third person narrative that often seems like a "stream of consciousness" Hermann Broch is able to put the reader inside the head of Virgil for much of the book. From the opening pages we meet a poet/artist Virgil who is on the edge of life in several different respects. The edge between water and land is explored as Virgil's ship, one among the parade of ships escorting Augustus back to the port of Brundisium in Roman Italy, sails toward land on the first page of the novel.
"as the sunny yet deathly loneliness of the sea changed with the peaceful stir of friendly human activity where the channel, softly enhanced by the proximity of human life and human living, was populated by all sorts of craft". (p 11)
The sunny sea is seen as also deathly in its loneliness. This signals another edge that will be important throughout the novel as Virgil in his illness hovers between life and death. Further there is the personal and historical background with the tension between Virgil and Augustus mirroring that of Athens and Rome. Even though Virgil dearly loved the life of study and thought in Athens he was torn by his memories of home as he arrived in Brundisium:
"lifted up in the breath of the immutable coolness, borne forward to seas so enigmatic and unknown that it was like a homecoming, for wave upon wave of the great planes through which his keel had already furrowed, wave-planes of memory, wave-planes of seas, they had not become transparent, nothing in them had divulged itself to him, only the enigma remained, and filled with the enigma of the past overflowed its shores and reached into the present, so that in the midst of the resinous torch-smoke, in the midst of the brooding city fumes, , , how they all lay behind him, about him, within him, how entirely they were his own," (p 31)
Throughout the beginning of the novel, a section titled "Water--The Arrival", Virgil is filled with doubts. He is nearing the end of his life with a feeling that "it was time itself that called down scorn upon him, the unalterable flood of time with its manifold voices," and he may not be able to escape his fate. But what was that fate and why was it important to him as creator? This is something that he is unsure of even to the point of asking himself why he was writing this book (The Aeneid which is always by his side).
"Nothing availed the poet, he could right no wrongs; he is heeded only if he extols the world, never if he portrays it as it is. Only falsehood wins renown, not understanding! And could one assume that the Aeneid would be vouchsafed another or better influence?" (p 15)
His own Aeneid as quoted epigraphically by Broch suggests that Virgil is "exiled by fate" just as his creation, Aeneas, was. Is that the fate of all poets? Must they be exiled by their fate to become an artist of this world? Perhaps the final three sections of The Death of Virgil will suggest answers to these and other questions.
November 29, 2021
Baş yapıt. Felsefi dili, derinlikli bakış açışı farklı bir okuma deneyimi sunuyor.
Geminin limana yanaşmasından, saraya çıkmaları yüz sayfa sürmesi, bir fotoğrafdan bir peyzajdan böylesine uzun soluklu, sosyolojik, şairane, politik, felsefi anlatımlar çıkarabilmek, dönemin ruhuna sahip olmayı, tarihin tozunu yutmayı gerektirir. Yazarı ifade edemiyorum.. Ama Flozof diyebilirim..
Paragraf niceliğinde cümleler okumayı zorlaştırsa da, zor olduğu kadar düşünmenin sınırlarını zorlayacağınız kendinizi aşmak isteyeceğiniz bir roman olacaktır. Eksik kalmış bir şeyi tamamladım..:)
Geminin limana yanaşmasından, saraya çıkmaları yüz sayfa sürmesi, bir fotoğrafdan bir peyzajdan böylesine uzun soluklu, sosyolojik, şairane, politik, felsefi anlatımlar çıkarabilmek, dönemin ruhuna sahip olmayı, tarihin tozunu yutmayı gerektirir. Yazarı ifade edemiyorum.. Ama Flozof diyebilirim..
Paragraf niceliğinde cümleler okumayı zorlaştırsa da, zor olduğu kadar düşünmenin sınırlarını zorlayacağınız kendinizi aşmak isteyeceğiniz bir roman olacaktır. Eksik kalmış bir şeyi tamamladım..:)
December 11, 2016
This is a multiple work of art review because once again a serendipitous simultaneous reading developed my thoughts about this book.
Yesterday I was reading Eugen Ruge’s Cabo de Gata during the intermission of the Met Opera’s HD theater broadcast of Kaija Saariaho’s stunning L/Amour de Loin when I came across the folowing quote, right at the center of Ruge's book. Our emotionally wounded narrator has just realized that a convalescing woman he sees hobble down the village promenade each morning in a small Spanish town where he is holed up reminds him of his high school civics teacher in the former GDR:
Which is precisely the question that Virgil wrestles with at the center of Broch’s book. Virgil claims, as he asks his friends and then Augustus, to let him destroy the Aeneid because it is all surface; he has not succeeded in perceiving reality. I personally think the problem with the Aeneid is that it was written as flattery, since for me is is a deadly flat poem compared to other epics. (It only struck me after writing that that ‘flat' starts ‘flattery’.) And perhaps Broch agrees, because although Virgil’s spoken and interior arguments are about reality, it is the odious flattery in his every word to Augustus that make the most potent impression.
The Met opera also resonated with The Death..., as it explores idealized love versus the reality of knowing the humanity, good and bad, of the loved one. Virgil claims to have finally realized that love is the highest value, but it still seems he means idealized love in the amorous sense, while he accepts the faults of his friends.
One can’t possible address all the things Broch tries to tackle in a GR review, but I will note I have to agree with the artistic failure (for me) of the strange Christian presentiments scattered throughout.
I did try to take the advice to just read Broch and let the words wash over me, rather than trying to figure out what the heck he’s saying. In some cases the language is beautiful:
But in many many others it’s just bottomless verbage.
Broch was writing in the late 1930s, having fled Nazi Germany after being jailed, and Ruge is writing post GDR, with a narrator who has been abandoned by his long-time girlfriend, and has fled a gentrifying Prenzlauer Berg that dismays him. In addition to asking about perception, both are asking what has happened to my Germany, and how do I find my way forward? Ruge’s book is certainly not as weighty (in any sense of the word) as Broch’s, but based on the reviews of his In Times of Fading Light I conclude he has dealt with these questions more fully in that work. Ruge’s Gato is related to Death though, in that both are about writers: Ruge’s narrator is at the very rocky start of his writing career, while Virgil is obviously at the end of his. But both writers are obsessed with the search and how to know and capture reality. And both books end with a death.
Yesterday, after the second half of that beautiful opera, it hit me that the beautiful evanescent light bars and the boat that the Pilgrim poles back and forth across the sea-stage, in the Met production, are absolutely the perfect setting for Virgil’s voyages toward death. (Also, L’Amour de Loin echos the East/West tension and voyage across the Mediterranean of The Death. Even Cabo is set on the southern edge of Spain, looking toward Africa.) So, if you can see either the opera or the HD rebroadcast, I highly recommend it. If not, here is is a link to several clips that show how the ever-changing lights filling the stage evoke the surge of the sea, and the boat and its ‘captain’ call to mind Virgil’s real and imaginary voyages, particularly that of Part IV:
http://www.metopera.org/Season/2016-1...
Oh yes, where do I apply for my merit badge for finishing this? A month ago I realized I had made very little progress this year on my retirement project of working through Philip Ward’s 500 books list, so I figured this would count double credit. Boy did it. But I also chose another one off the list, a swashbuckler, to offset it: The Outlaws of the Marsh. Review coming after I finish that one.
Yesterday I was reading Eugen Ruge’s Cabo de Gata during the intermission of the Met Opera’s HD theater broadcast of Kaija Saariaho’s stunning L/Amour de Loin when I came across the folowing quote, right at the center of Ruge's book. Our emotionally wounded narrator has just realized that a convalescing woman he sees hobble down the village promenade each morning in a small Spanish town where he is holed up reminds him of his high school civics teacher in the former GDR:
Fraulein Kubic rocked her rounded body back and forth just like that, although she didn’t wear a plaster walking cast. Her curly hair stood out from her head in just that way. She chanted in just the same soporific tone of complaint as she walked--slowly, slowly--between our rows of desks, announcing the basic laws of the dialectical method--making the pauses between the words long enough for you to fall asleep as she asked the fundamental philosophical question for the hundredth time...
Can. Pause. The world. Pause. Be. Pause. Perceived?
And wasn’t she right, I think, as the imitation Fraulein Kubick totters past me, isn’t that really the fundamental question?
Which is precisely the question that Virgil wrestles with at the center of Broch’s book. Virgil claims, as he asks his friends and then Augustus, to let him destroy the Aeneid because it is all surface; he has not succeeded in perceiving reality. I personally think the problem with the Aeneid is that it was written as flattery, since for me is is a deadly flat poem compared to other epics. (It only struck me after writing that that ‘flat' starts ‘flattery’.) And perhaps Broch agrees, because although Virgil’s spoken and interior arguments are about reality, it is the odious flattery in his every word to Augustus that make the most potent impression.
The Met opera also resonated with The Death..., as it explores idealized love versus the reality of knowing the humanity, good and bad, of the loved one. Virgil claims to have finally realized that love is the highest value, but it still seems he means idealized love in the amorous sense, while he accepts the faults of his friends.
One can’t possible address all the things Broch tries to tackle in a GR review, but I will note I have to agree with the artistic failure (for me) of the strange Christian presentiments scattered throughout.
I did try to take the advice to just read Broch and let the words wash over me, rather than trying to figure out what the heck he’s saying. In some cases the language is beautiful:
These were the moments of resounding deathlessness, the moments of essential life emerged from its twilight, and it was in these moments that the true form of death revealed itself most clearly: rare moments of grace, rare moments of perfect freedom, unknown to most, striven for my many, achieved by few--, but among those who were permitted to retain such moments, to grasp the fugitive evanescence of death’s shape, he who succeeded in giving shape to death by incessant listening and searching would find together with its genuine form his own real shape as well, he was shaping his own death and with it his own shape...he looked back on this life of abnegation, of an actually still continuing renunciation, on this life that had been with resistance to death though full of resistance to participation and love, he looked back on this life of farewell that lay back of him in the dusk of rivers, in the dusk of poetry...
But in many many others it’s just bottomless verbage.
Broch was writing in the late 1930s, having fled Nazi Germany after being jailed, and Ruge is writing post GDR, with a narrator who has been abandoned by his long-time girlfriend, and has fled a gentrifying Prenzlauer Berg that dismays him. In addition to asking about perception, both are asking what has happened to my Germany, and how do I find my way forward? Ruge’s book is certainly not as weighty (in any sense of the word) as Broch’s, but based on the reviews of his In Times of Fading Light I conclude he has dealt with these questions more fully in that work. Ruge’s Gato is related to Death though, in that both are about writers: Ruge’s narrator is at the very rocky start of his writing career, while Virgil is obviously at the end of his. But both writers are obsessed with the search and how to know and capture reality. And both books end with a death.
Yesterday, after the second half of that beautiful opera, it hit me that the beautiful evanescent light bars and the boat that the Pilgrim poles back and forth across the sea-stage, in the Met production, are absolutely the perfect setting for Virgil’s voyages toward death. (Also, L’Amour de Loin echos the East/West tension and voyage across the Mediterranean of The Death. Even Cabo is set on the southern edge of Spain, looking toward Africa.) So, if you can see either the opera or the HD rebroadcast, I highly recommend it. If not, here is is a link to several clips that show how the ever-changing lights filling the stage evoke the surge of the sea, and the boat and its ‘captain’ call to mind Virgil’s real and imaginary voyages, particularly that of Part IV:
http://www.metopera.org/Season/2016-1...
Oh yes, where do I apply for my merit badge for finishing this? A month ago I realized I had made very little progress this year on my retirement project of working through Philip Ward’s 500 books list, so I figured this would count double credit. Boy did it. But I also chose another one off the list, a swashbuckler, to offset it: The Outlaws of the Marsh. Review coming after I finish that one.
July 19, 2014
There are passages in The Death of Virgil that are just breathtaking. At times the novel can be quite bewildering, at others it can be nearly dreadful, but the strong passages really make the confusion and the temporary frustration worth the while.
Broch, in fact, is at his best when putting the hallucinatory confusion and chaos he has sown around the reader to direct use. In one scene, Virgil sits in his room discussing the fate of his unfinished masterpiece with two of his friends. While talking with his two acquaintances Virgil has a series of overlapping illusions.
He has visions of a young boy who earlier in the book Virgil spied weaving his way through the clamoring mob. Virgil simultaneously speaks with the boy and speaks about the boy with his two friends who cannot see him. Its unclear who the boy is and why he keeps visiting Virgil and Virgil has a difficult time even discovering the young boys name. There's also a servant in the room. He speaks in vague platitudes and pseudo-christian prophecies which Virgil verbally muses upon while contemplating the true purpose of his art. Its also unclear whether the friends in the room can see the servant or if they are just ignoring him. The servant and the young boy take turns interrupting one another and Virgil as the layers of hallucination begin to pile up and a chorus of confusion rises to a fervent pitch. Virgil also hallucinates about a woman, perhaps a mother figure or a long lost lover. She beckons him to join her in a paradisaical alternative dimension that weaves its way through the conversation taking place in Virgil's room. Its all very bewildering and very beautiful.
Here are a couple of the passages I marked up:
"Was it not your path, oh, Virgil, that which was trod by Aeneas? You too pressed on in the darkness, pressed on for homecoming journey, there where the moonbeams quivered in light on the ebbing sea..."
"Yea, I was driven toward darkness, yet it was not of my willing, pressing on ever within it, I pierced at last to its womb, yet I did not dive under; stony the cave I found, no river ran through it, beyond all my search was the lake in the cavern of night's staring eye...Plotia I saw, but I found not my father, and she also vanished...no one was waiting to guide me, I foundered without resurrection; then came the voice, then I heard it, and now there is light..."
and also:
"- yet he was echoless, a dead reverberation in the desert mountains of Tartarus which had shot up to remain there forever, he was a mute echo of a breath-wringing gasp in the dry chasms and in the crystal shafts of petrification; he was a sightless skull, rolled out into the stone rubble on the shadowy shores of oblivion, rolled under the dry, dense shrubbery on the shores of the shadowy stream, rolled toward a void so totally without egress that it extinguished oblivion itself; he was nothing but a blind eye, without trunk, without voice, without breath, emptied of breath, and thus he was thrown out to the vacuous blindness of the underworld [...]"
In the last section of the book all of the dense imagery and the cosmic confusion take a stranglehold on the narrative and for about 60 pages Broch paints brilliant colorful surreal masterpieces one after the other. This was one of the more exhilarating and unique passages I have read in quite a while. In the end, the highs far outweigh the lows of this novel (though there are some pretty significant portions of the book that I could not get past fast enough). I'll definitely read more of Broch's work and would confidently recommend The Death of Virgil to any with an artistic or academic interest in modernism.
Broch, in fact, is at his best when putting the hallucinatory confusion and chaos he has sown around the reader to direct use. In one scene, Virgil sits in his room discussing the fate of his unfinished masterpiece with two of his friends. While talking with his two acquaintances Virgil has a series of overlapping illusions.
He has visions of a young boy who earlier in the book Virgil spied weaving his way through the clamoring mob. Virgil simultaneously speaks with the boy and speaks about the boy with his two friends who cannot see him. Its unclear who the boy is and why he keeps visiting Virgil and Virgil has a difficult time even discovering the young boys name. There's also a servant in the room. He speaks in vague platitudes and pseudo-christian prophecies which Virgil verbally muses upon while contemplating the true purpose of his art. Its also unclear whether the friends in the room can see the servant or if they are just ignoring him. The servant and the young boy take turns interrupting one another and Virgil as the layers of hallucination begin to pile up and a chorus of confusion rises to a fervent pitch. Virgil also hallucinates about a woman, perhaps a mother figure or a long lost lover. She beckons him to join her in a paradisaical alternative dimension that weaves its way through the conversation taking place in Virgil's room. Its all very bewildering and very beautiful.
Here are a couple of the passages I marked up:
"Was it not your path, oh, Virgil, that which was trod by Aeneas? You too pressed on in the darkness, pressed on for homecoming journey, there where the moonbeams quivered in light on the ebbing sea..."
"Yea, I was driven toward darkness, yet it was not of my willing, pressing on ever within it, I pierced at last to its womb, yet I did not dive under; stony the cave I found, no river ran through it, beyond all my search was the lake in the cavern of night's staring eye...Plotia I saw, but I found not my father, and she also vanished...no one was waiting to guide me, I foundered without resurrection; then came the voice, then I heard it, and now there is light..."
and also:
"- yet he was echoless, a dead reverberation in the desert mountains of Tartarus which had shot up to remain there forever, he was a mute echo of a breath-wringing gasp in the dry chasms and in the crystal shafts of petrification; he was a sightless skull, rolled out into the stone rubble on the shadowy shores of oblivion, rolled under the dry, dense shrubbery on the shores of the shadowy stream, rolled toward a void so totally without egress that it extinguished oblivion itself; he was nothing but a blind eye, without trunk, without voice, without breath, emptied of breath, and thus he was thrown out to the vacuous blindness of the underworld [...]"
In the last section of the book all of the dense imagery and the cosmic confusion take a stranglehold on the narrative and for about 60 pages Broch paints brilliant colorful surreal masterpieces one after the other. This was one of the more exhilarating and unique passages I have read in quite a while. In the end, the highs far outweigh the lows of this novel (though there are some pretty significant portions of the book that I could not get past fast enough). I'll definitely read more of Broch's work and would confidently recommend The Death of Virgil to any with an artistic or academic interest in modernism.
September 14, 2013
So why is Virgil upset with his art?
...and this was the very reason why he had never succeeded in depicting real human beings, people who ate and drank, who loved and could be loved, and this was why he was so little able to depict those who went limping and cursing through the streets, unable to picture them in their bestiality and their great need of help, least able to show forth the miracle of humanity with which such bestiality is graced; people meant nothing to him, he considered them as fabulous beings, mimes of beauty in the garments of beauty, and as such he had depicted them, as kings and heroes of fables, as fable-shepherds...
from pp.152-3
Close to the bone and not hard to understand. Among other people, I recommend this book for writers with angst. His work has been insincere, his eye for beauty has led him astray, he has been no help to the real human world. He wants to start again but it's too late for that...
I've learnt that the German and this English translation were published simultaneously, and Broch worked closely with Untermeyer. I found the English words amazingly chosen for sound and sense. Or where sense escapes us, yet for sound: there is great artistry in the translation.
For the rest, see my updates. They were spontaneous (that’s the use of these status updates).
Believe me or not, although I’ve read this book in bits and pieces over a year, I can’t wait to start on the second read. Maybe I got about a half of it the first time.
Note to self: I don’t expect I’ll have the brains to peruse this book in the week of my death. But read the last part. It’s only forty pages, it’s less difficult than part two can be; and it talks of death in a way an atheist like me who yet is an optimist by temperament, finds meaningful. It’s Virgil’s inside experience – of a voyage, that cannot help but remind me of the Grey Havens and Frodo’s departure by ship. In mood, moreover – except that we’re not the ones left on the shore (because of course I cry at the Grey Havens. But not here). The farewell voyage goes on into an experience of the animism of the cosmos. Schooled by this I think I can face the extinguishment of self, which I’ve never been known to say before, self-centred as I am. He understands: Where, however, was his own face in this universe?
Is there a Christian presence? Yes, because such is a part of Virgil’s legend. As a non-Christian, I can read those allusions as historical, and ‘the word’ as an answer to, or last thoughts on, his poet’s obsessions and dissatisfactions. Virgil felt on the verge of – what? A new artistic expression, or a salvation through human service? The medievals took him for a herald of Christianity, I believe on the strength of a prophecy of Augustus. There’s enough irony there for this politically-aware novel to use: the writing was begun in a concentration camp and the Nazis were a shadowy presence in part one. Still in this novel, perhaps, if you’re Christian you can see Christianity and if you don’t want to you don’t have to.
Negatives: the conversations on aesthetics, though to be fair Virgil, at his last gasp, finds these fatuous too; and the philosophical poems, which I skimmed or skipped since I cannot do poetry about abstractions.
If you’re curious about this book but daunted, I think you can try out the fourth part on its own, or ahead. It’s of great beauty (look, that’s an understatement, and the translation must be a miracle) and there are no spoilers. You know he’s dead at the end, right?
...and this was the very reason why he had never succeeded in depicting real human beings, people who ate and drank, who loved and could be loved, and this was why he was so little able to depict those who went limping and cursing through the streets, unable to picture them in their bestiality and their great need of help, least able to show forth the miracle of humanity with which such bestiality is graced; people meant nothing to him, he considered them as fabulous beings, mimes of beauty in the garments of beauty, and as such he had depicted them, as kings and heroes of fables, as fable-shepherds...
from pp.152-3
Close to the bone and not hard to understand. Among other people, I recommend this book for writers with angst. His work has been insincere, his eye for beauty has led him astray, he has been no help to the real human world. He wants to start again but it's too late for that...
I've learnt that the German and this English translation were published simultaneously, and Broch worked closely with Untermeyer. I found the English words amazingly chosen for sound and sense. Or where sense escapes us, yet for sound: there is great artistry in the translation.
For the rest, see my updates. They were spontaneous (that’s the use of these status updates).
Believe me or not, although I’ve read this book in bits and pieces over a year, I can’t wait to start on the second read. Maybe I got about a half of it the first time.
Note to self: I don’t expect I’ll have the brains to peruse this book in the week of my death. But read the last part. It’s only forty pages, it’s less difficult than part two can be; and it talks of death in a way an atheist like me who yet is an optimist by temperament, finds meaningful. It’s Virgil’s inside experience – of a voyage, that cannot help but remind me of the Grey Havens and Frodo’s departure by ship. In mood, moreover – except that we’re not the ones left on the shore (because of course I cry at the Grey Havens. But not here). The farewell voyage goes on into an experience of the animism of the cosmos. Schooled by this I think I can face the extinguishment of self, which I’ve never been known to say before, self-centred as I am. He understands: Where, however, was his own face in this universe?
Is there a Christian presence? Yes, because such is a part of Virgil’s legend. As a non-Christian, I can read those allusions as historical, and ‘the word’ as an answer to, or last thoughts on, his poet’s obsessions and dissatisfactions. Virgil felt on the verge of – what? A new artistic expression, or a salvation through human service? The medievals took him for a herald of Christianity, I believe on the strength of a prophecy of Augustus. There’s enough irony there for this politically-aware novel to use: the writing was begun in a concentration camp and the Nazis were a shadowy presence in part one. Still in this novel, perhaps, if you’re Christian you can see Christianity and if you don’t want to you don’t have to.
Negatives: the conversations on aesthetics, though to be fair Virgil, at his last gasp, finds these fatuous too; and the philosophical poems, which I skimmed or skipped since I cannot do poetry about abstractions.
If you’re curious about this book but daunted, I think you can try out the fourth part on its own, or ahead. It’s of great beauty (look, that’s an understatement, and the translation must be a miracle) and there are no spoilers. You know he’s dead at the end, right?
February 8, 2011
This novel had a huge impact on me, as a vision of our conscious transformation from a cause-and-effect view of the world into a perception of the eternal, divine truths which must have no beginning or end. Whether you believe or not, you must undergo this trial whereby you know there are things you cannot know.
Broch chronicles the last 24 hours of the Virgil's life, when the poet decides he must burn the Aeneid, until Augustus himself convinces him not to. Virgil's destructive decision stems from the revelation he is granted of the coming of Christ and the inherent freedom of all people under the eye of God. Augustus, though, frees him from the weight of the Aeneid, by taking it as his own for the Roman people, as Virgil accepts the futility of beauty in the face of truth. Virgil's last earthly act is the freeing of his own slaves. He then passes into a state of enlightenment, where he journeys out of existence into the creative font of the universe. At the final moment, he hears the word of God, the one word for which there is no language, and he is peacefully destroyed by it.
The writing goes at a fever pitch for the entire book, stopping only to dive into Virgil and Augustus's philosophical debate. The long descriptions of existence and creation come seemingly from a trance, with Broch determined to write everything Virgil sees, no matter how exhaustive or immense the resulting catalog of existence is.
"for this seeing, befuddled, unrecognized evil was beyond the reach of every governmental enterprise, beyond reach of every earthly force however great, beyond reach, perhaps, of the gods themselves, and no human outcry sufficed to overwhelm it except, it may be, the small voice of the soul, called song, which while it makes known the evil, announces also the awakening of salvation, knowledge aware, knowledge-fraught, knowledge-persuading, the provenance of every true song" [13, on the outcry for Augustus when he arrives]
"the mighty all-embracing domain of death in which he, ever aware of the goal and yet seeking it, he a path-seeker in the dome of death, had day-dreamed a whole life away... no vocation measured up to that, as none exists that is not exclusively subserviated to the knowledge of life, none with the exception of that one to which he had finally been driven and which is called poetry, the strangest of all human occupations, the only one dedicated to the knowledge of death." [64]
"the justification of a task or the lack of its justification was not to be reckoned by its earthly accomplishments" [68]
"commanding him to search for his own shape in that of death and thus to win the freedom of his soul; for freedom is a compulsion of the soul whose redemption or damnation is always at stake, and he heeded the injunction, obedient to the task of his fate." [68]
"verily man is held into his task of knowing, and nothing is able to dissuade him, not even the inevitability of error, the bound nature of which vanishes before the task beyond all chance;" [82]
"nothing had occurred without necessity, nothing occurs without necessity, because the necessity of the human soul, the necessity of the human task overruled every circumstance, even the wrong road, even the error; for only amidst error, only through error in which he was inescapably held, did man come to be the seeker that he was, the seeking human; for man needed the realization of futility, he must accept its dread, the dread of all error, and recognizing it, he must drain it to the dregs... that through such conscious assimilation the dread might be expunged, only thus might one pass through the portal of dread and achieve existence;" [83]
"the perogative of gods and man was laughter, from the intuition of his own destructability" [104]
"the pledge was broken, the pledge that was given at the obscure beginning, the pledge that must be kept by gods and men although no one knows what it is, no one except the unknown god, for all language stemmed from him" [109]
"woe to this seeming timelessness which was the essence of all intoxication and which, to maintain such diversion, must needs continue to substitute the thing created for that which creates" [128]
147 - decides to burn the Aeneid
"grace fused with the pledge, disclosing itself not as word, not as speech, far rather as symbol of a word, as symbol of all speech, as symbol of every voice, as the arch-image of them all, overcoming fate in the form of the holy father-summons, it revealed itself as the tone-picture of the annunciating deed: 'Open your eyes to Love!'" [187]
"'I was impatient for perception... that is why I wanted to write down everything'" {Virgil, 274}
"I have only hemmed in death by metaphor, Augustus" [280]
"all reality is but the growth of perception" [308]
"The goal of the state is the realm of truth, extending over all lands yet growing like a tree from the depths of earth to those of heaven, for it is the growing piety out of which will unfold the kingdom, the peace of the kingdom, and reality is the revelation of truth." [318]
"so free of memory and therefore so completely remembered, that all these friendly forms passed into a new interstate of memory, into a new interstate of comprehensibility, full of light-casting shadows within muted sounds. They passed into second immensity." [383]
"the quiet glance of the spheres reflecting itself in itself, the grey eye of the water and the darker grey of the heavenly-eye above widening and merging to a day-impregnated night, to a dawn-dusk in which there was no duration or occurrence, no name, no chance, no memory, no fate." [388]
"nothing was to be found which would not have been at the same time both star and shadow; even the human spirit having become a star no longer cast the shadow that is language." [399]
"his heart that long since had ceased from being a heart, only a lyre, ah yes, now a lyre, as if at last the promise were to ring out among its starry strings, not the song itself but the annunciation of it, the hour of song, the hour of birth and rebirth, the hour of twofold leading awaited without expectation, the singing hour at the closing point of the circle, crying out the unity of the world on the last breath of the universe" [409]
And at the end, Virgil turns around and sees all of creation behind him, folding out again into the world [my summary]
Broch chronicles the last 24 hours of the Virgil's life, when the poet decides he must burn the Aeneid, until Augustus himself convinces him not to. Virgil's destructive decision stems from the revelation he is granted of the coming of Christ and the inherent freedom of all people under the eye of God. Augustus, though, frees him from the weight of the Aeneid, by taking it as his own for the Roman people, as Virgil accepts the futility of beauty in the face of truth. Virgil's last earthly act is the freeing of his own slaves. He then passes into a state of enlightenment, where he journeys out of existence into the creative font of the universe. At the final moment, he hears the word of God, the one word for which there is no language, and he is peacefully destroyed by it.
The writing goes at a fever pitch for the entire book, stopping only to dive into Virgil and Augustus's philosophical debate. The long descriptions of existence and creation come seemingly from a trance, with Broch determined to write everything Virgil sees, no matter how exhaustive or immense the resulting catalog of existence is.
"for this seeing, befuddled, unrecognized evil was beyond the reach of every governmental enterprise, beyond reach of every earthly force however great, beyond reach, perhaps, of the gods themselves, and no human outcry sufficed to overwhelm it except, it may be, the small voice of the soul, called song, which while it makes known the evil, announces also the awakening of salvation, knowledge aware, knowledge-fraught, knowledge-persuading, the provenance of every true song" [13, on the outcry for Augustus when he arrives]
"the mighty all-embracing domain of death in which he, ever aware of the goal and yet seeking it, he a path-seeker in the dome of death, had day-dreamed a whole life away... no vocation measured up to that, as none exists that is not exclusively subserviated to the knowledge of life, none with the exception of that one to which he had finally been driven and which is called poetry, the strangest of all human occupations, the only one dedicated to the knowledge of death." [64]
"the justification of a task or the lack of its justification was not to be reckoned by its earthly accomplishments" [68]
"commanding him to search for his own shape in that of death and thus to win the freedom of his soul; for freedom is a compulsion of the soul whose redemption or damnation is always at stake, and he heeded the injunction, obedient to the task of his fate." [68]
"verily man is held into his task of knowing, and nothing is able to dissuade him, not even the inevitability of error, the bound nature of which vanishes before the task beyond all chance;" [82]
"nothing had occurred without necessity, nothing occurs without necessity, because the necessity of the human soul, the necessity of the human task overruled every circumstance, even the wrong road, even the error; for only amidst error, only through error in which he was inescapably held, did man come to be the seeker that he was, the seeking human; for man needed the realization of futility, he must accept its dread, the dread of all error, and recognizing it, he must drain it to the dregs... that through such conscious assimilation the dread might be expunged, only thus might one pass through the portal of dread and achieve existence;" [83]
"the perogative of gods and man was laughter, from the intuition of his own destructability" [104]
"the pledge was broken, the pledge that was given at the obscure beginning, the pledge that must be kept by gods and men although no one knows what it is, no one except the unknown god, for all language stemmed from him" [109]
"woe to this seeming timelessness which was the essence of all intoxication and which, to maintain such diversion, must needs continue to substitute the thing created for that which creates" [128]
147 - decides to burn the Aeneid
"grace fused with the pledge, disclosing itself not as word, not as speech, far rather as symbol of a word, as symbol of all speech, as symbol of every voice, as the arch-image of them all, overcoming fate in the form of the holy father-summons, it revealed itself as the tone-picture of the annunciating deed: 'Open your eyes to Love!'" [187]
"'I was impatient for perception... that is why I wanted to write down everything'" {Virgil, 274}
"I have only hemmed in death by metaphor, Augustus" [280]
"all reality is but the growth of perception" [308]
"The goal of the state is the realm of truth, extending over all lands yet growing like a tree from the depths of earth to those of heaven, for it is the growing piety out of which will unfold the kingdom, the peace of the kingdom, and reality is the revelation of truth." [318]
"so free of memory and therefore so completely remembered, that all these friendly forms passed into a new interstate of memory, into a new interstate of comprehensibility, full of light-casting shadows within muted sounds. They passed into second immensity." [383]
"the quiet glance of the spheres reflecting itself in itself, the grey eye of the water and the darker grey of the heavenly-eye above widening and merging to a day-impregnated night, to a dawn-dusk in which there was no duration or occurrence, no name, no chance, no memory, no fate." [388]
"nothing was to be found which would not have been at the same time both star and shadow; even the human spirit having become a star no longer cast the shadow that is language." [399]
"his heart that long since had ceased from being a heart, only a lyre, ah yes, now a lyre, as if at last the promise were to ring out among its starry strings, not the song itself but the annunciation of it, the hour of song, the hour of birth and rebirth, the hour of twofold leading awaited without expectation, the singing hour at the closing point of the circle, crying out the unity of the world on the last breath of the universe" [409]
And at the end, Virgil turns around and sees all of creation behind him, folding out again into the world [my summary]
April 23, 2022
This is a beautiful book that aches with ambition. The Death of Virgil is ultimately an attempt to capture the moment in time Virgil died. That's it. Nothing much else happens. And the language is so dense, the sentences are so long. That's the point, isn't it? In 600 pages Broch is trying to capture the exact second that death comes for us, and the thousands of millennia that unravel the moment we reach that moment. Most of the sentences read literally like an author spilling out thought after thought after thought. It's like a bag being ripped open and all of the air is coming out.
And that's where the brilliance is. No other book captures the infinitude of that final release.
This book also happens to be an ode to Virgil. I don't know why Broch had such a passionate wish to embalm such an already infamous man with this prose poem, but perhaps it is his very reverence to this poet that allows this book to reach such heights.
I wouldn't recommend Broch's work to most people. His sentences are long and hard to read, a lot of his writings don't make logical sense. But Broch is doing something unique in the context of modernist literature, and I think this is most certainly a kind of book that deserves to be appreciated by anyone who is willing to work through Broch's style to reach his opinions on the meaning of life.
And that's where the brilliance is. No other book captures the infinitude of that final release.
This book also happens to be an ode to Virgil. I don't know why Broch had such a passionate wish to embalm such an already infamous man with this prose poem, but perhaps it is his very reverence to this poet that allows this book to reach such heights.
I wouldn't recommend Broch's work to most people. His sentences are long and hard to read, a lot of his writings don't make logical sense. But Broch is doing something unique in the context of modernist literature, and I think this is most certainly a kind of book that deserves to be appreciated by anyone who is willing to work through Broch's style to reach his opinions on the meaning of life.
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