Arno Schmidt (1) (1914–1979)

I get the impression Arno Schmidt is somewhat of a hidden, forgotten or overlooked gem in literature. Wikipedia tells me that this is in part due to the ‘formidable task’ translators have in translating his works, which are heavily interlaced with wordplay, colloquial language and wit. By all accounts he seems an enigmatic individual: an erudite master of his craft who lived in poverty despite his genius; beleaguered after Germany’s loss of the Second World War as he and his wife sought to reestablish themselves afterwards. Posthumously, a few publishing houses have attempted to draw attention to Schmidt’s talent, although not seemingly to any great effect.

‘Scene’s From the Life of a Faun’ is a short novel about a disenchanted civil servant and misanthrope, Heinrich During. Spending his time silently opposing the Nazi rise to power, whilst judging the incompetence of those around him including his wife, son, associates and bosses, During occupies himself with literature in the form of a personal library and a lustful infatuation of a young girl he meets daily around his village and on his commute. Managing to engineer a research opportunity, he successfully unshackles himself from the quotidian ennui by ostensibly cataloguing events of local history that may of interest to the Nazis. Surreptitiously however, he uses the position for his own personal interest and exploration, particularly intriguing for him as he gets to nosey around amongst those he mildly abhors.

Despite his misanthropic nature, Schmidt’s main character is entertaining and humourous and combined with the author’s distinct style and way with language, this makes for an excellent read. If you are a connoisseur of fine literature, Schmidt is definitely an author to acquaint yourself with. I look forward to the others of his I have proudly stockpiled since his works are not the easiest to find (relatively affordably!).

An excerpt:

Every writer should grab hold of the nettle of reality; and then show it all: the muddy black roots; the viperous poison-green stalk; the gaudy flower(y pot). And as for the critics, the intellectual flaneurs and the volunteer firemen, why just for once they could stop tatting lace nets to snare poets with and produce something “exquisite” themselves: that would make the world sit up and take roaring notice!… (mere)

Good Lord.
Have, have not read, likely will not have read, will always be reading but never at any given time.
Stars for length, or weight, but not for love, it will not be loved, it cannot be loved. Stars also for distance, as stars are, having residence behind the eyes. Stars for brittleness, for irremediable fracturing, for exploded polyphony.
Five stars, also no stars at all, the five gold stars plummeting to black for hatefulness, sex-race crassness, hairballs of lit-obsessiveness in which there is still light.
Take it as an interior critical monologue. Take it as a dream that eats literature. More later.

Box Edition. The box is a clear disappointment.… (mere)

In the left side of my back, the . The grassy suburban street; beyond, the flat bungalow façade. (She trampled with pleasure, and kept up her starling chatter).

Each piece from Schmidt is a tutorial in a new vision, a wonderful departure into the inseams of language and literature. The novellas appeared hardly that, more like stories out for a stroll, lunatics on the lawn. Each one possessed an upright, someone who didn't believe Pravda and saw that rent-to-own was a sham and would end in fire, misery and the Red Hordes. There were a few pieces: Goethe and Tina -- which indulged my book nerdedness to the extent that my heart hurt -- it swelled and stung with such sweet sympathy for the lonely book people. Come gather and climb on board. The reader's satisfied tears will be a worthy destination.… (mere)