Joseph Roth- a Life in Letters

by Michael Hofmann

  I don’t know what course is more sensible: to sit tight and get out of Germany, or to resign and stay out of Germany in less comfort. The whole FZ looks to me like a microcosm of Germany. My loathing for it is growing all the time. I don’t have a publisher there, I don’t have readers, I don’t have recognition. But nor do I feel pain, because nothing makes me sad there; or disappointment because I have no hopes; or melancholy, because I am just cold and indifferent. It’s snowing here constantly, the world looks like a German bakery, sugar-sweet and sickening. I have nothing to do with the landscape, nothing to do with this sky. Nor anything with the technology, with the paving stones and the construction of the buildings, with the society, with the art. It’s very hard to change anything in the feuilleton. They keep running German nature scenes, they pile up here, and they’re all taken. It’s only really when I’m here that I see how poorly we fit in. I’ve given up the struggle. There’s no point. I just want to finish my Jewish book.6

  The German brutality of your chauffeur is no worse than the German mildness of the culture. There’s nothing to choose between them. Cultural Germany lies between Ullstein7 on the one side and the FZ on the other. God punish it!8

  We’ll see each other over a glass of wine.

  Shall I book you a room?

  Kiss your wife’s hand for me.

  I remain your

  Joseph Roth

  Please, if you can, bring me as many of the reviews of me as you can lay hold of. I haven’t looked up Mr. Stuffer yet. Why would I? I only ever get to see Binding.9 Yet more Bindings?

  1. Nassauer: Siegfried Nassauer (1868–1940). From 1906 on the board of the parent firm that included the FZ, the Illustriertes Blatt, and the book-publishing firm.

  2. My book: the never published “The White Cities.”

  3. Dietz: a Berlin press, which published two novellas of JR’s, April and The Blind Mirror, both in 1925 (see Collected Stories).

  4. Dr. Claassen: Eugen Claassen (1895–1955), son of a Russian emigrant; not a Jew. Head of the book-publishing firm until 1934, when he started the Goverts Verlag with Henry Goverts, later Claassen and Goverts, and from 1950 the Claassen Verlag.

  5. no Paris correspondent in place: and when there was, it wasn’t Roth, to his enormous chagrin.

  6. My Jewish book: The Wandering Jews (1927).

  7. God punish it: a bold variant on the German World War I refrain Gott strafe England!

  8. Ullstein: Berlin “Konzernverlag”—synergetic and avowedly capitalist combination of a book-publishing house with many newspapers and magazines, among them the Vossische Zeitung and the Berliner Zeitung. Erich Maria Remarque’s Im Westen Nichts Neues—for decades the best-selling book of all time—was published by Ullstein in 1929.

  9. Binding: Rudolf Binding (1867–1938), poet and short story writer.

  25. To Bernard von Brentano

  Frankfurt, 19 December 1925

  Dear friend,

  don’t waste your time thinking useless and foolish thoughts. Dr. Kracauer1 is a poor wretch. Once every ten years he’s given his head, and is allowed to visit Berlin for a week or just a weekend, but—on account of his speech impediment and his un-European appearance—he’s never allowed to represent the paper abroad. He has a clever and ironical mind with no imagination, but in spite of so much understanding he remains naïvely likable. Help him to the best of your ability, take him under your wing, and you’ll be able to learn a lot from him. I myself am always learning from him, I just muster the patience to wait for half an hour while he stammers out his pearls of wisdom. It’s worth it, believe me.

  You say something about some woman or other you claim to be in love with. This condition is known to be delusory, and ends in bed, just as pink elephants go away when you have a drink. Just call a spade a spade and I’ll understand you better. If you want to sleep with her, don’t come telling me you’re in love with her. I might have believed it from Clemens Brentano, but not from Bernard. That’s “literature”—i.e., unworthy of a writer. You must never take a woman as seriously as, say, mounting debts. Only the latter can make us lose a night’s sleep. I am sufficiently old-fashioned as to hold marriage—not that I overestimate that either—in higher regard than “love.” In marriage, coition isn’t the be-all and end-all, rather it’s a whole string of intercourse, which may as much take the form of looks and conversations, as that of so-called physical union. I appreciate that it’s upsetting not to have one’s way with a woman. But a fat man put on a diet by his doctor is much more upset, and with far more substantial reason. If you can unmask your “love” as a minor irritation, your unhappiness will be greatly reduced.

  That’s the sort of low rationalist I am.

  You say some pleasant and confusing things about my influence on you and your development. Evidently, it’s still insufficiently strong, while you continue to make such tangled confessions. A clear profanity would suit me better. And you as well. It’s not only when one has nothing to say that one should shut up, but also when one is unable to express it clearly. You will never attain artistic perfection unless, at the instant you reach for your pen and paper, you are as sober as if someone had emptied a bucket of cold water over your head. Your job is to communicate, don’t forget. Even your dim semi-lucid states have to be expressed clearly. In Germany they don’t set much store by that. Only the stammerers are great poets in Germany. But you, like me, are a favorite of reason. Remain true to her, and don’t allow yourself to be seduced by the wiles of sweet German pain. You’ll make—fail to make—your way in life, just like me. But you’ll have your satisfaction.

  Reifenberg went to Munich today. He’s staying till Wednesday.

  Fill a couple of columns with Christmas stuff. Facts, rather than reflections. No preamble. Start in medias res. Let me have them soon, and I’ll be able to get them set, without anyone’s vetting them.

  Keep me in mind, not in heart, and don’t go crazy as a result.

  Kiss your dear wife’s hand for me.

  Your old

  Roth

  1. Siegfried Kracauer (1899–1966) was on the staff of the Frankfurter Zeitung in Frankfurt and Berlin. Went into exile in 1933 in Paris, from 1941 in New York. Novelist, biographer, film theorist, and historian.

  26. To Bernard von Brentano

  Frankfurt, 30 December 1925

  Dear friend,

  thank you very much for your Christmas letter and present. You’ll understand, I waited before writing back. Well, as far as you’re concerned, Reifenberg says you can go whenever you like. I seem to remember your saying you wanted to be back ca. 11 January. There are no obstacles from the board. It’s possible to get an advance from Dr. Geisenheyner.1 Only you haven’t yet let him have the story he’s bought—he mentioned it to me a couple of days ago. Send it to him now, and with an accompanying letter. The best thing is pick up the advance while you’re here. G. is a primitive-sensuous type, your presence, in person,2 will be a big facilitator. Till then you can take out a loan on the money from Frau Sternberg.

  There are some strange goings-on here. As far as I’m concerned, I’m going to have to remain here probably till the end of January. I don’t know what I’ll be doing after that either. Maybe I’ll tour a few German cities. Paris is rather doubtful now, it seems. Dewall,3 who’s in charge of foreign affairs here, has proposed Sieburg,4 instead of Reifenberg’s candidate, Lachmann.5 It’s very hush-hush, not even Reifenberg must know that you know. There may be some anti-Semitic feeling against Lachmann from Dewall. There are no other candidates. Basically, Sieburg, who’s not a political journalist by training, would be another writer. Apparently a better writer than he is a character. They still haven’t made up their minds. Anyway, my Paris stint is under threat, because the firm would say, why have more than one feuilletonist, if he can do political reports as well. I told Reifenberg I wasn’
t going to stand idly by while they pulled the rug out from under my feet. He thought I ought to go on the road and do some work. But of course I am far too worried to leave the building, now there’s all these rumors flying around. For the first time in his life Nassauer’s ill. I heard from an indiscreet bank employee that he, Nassauer, applied for a loan, and was turned down. For the first time in its life, the FZ wants to borrow money, and isn’t able to. I see in that the malice of the banks, trying to teach an independent paper a lesson. The paper’s teetering on the brink. Should it move to the right? Throw in its lot with the hopeless Social Democrats? Democracy has vanished in a puff of smoke. Should it woo subscribers? Remain aloof, and let the subscribers come by themselves? The board is naïve, the editors rudderless. The last man, Naphtali6 is leaving, and so is another young person, Dr. Marschek, and Feiler7 wants to take his hat as well. They are the best rats this ship has to offer. Is it doomed to sink? Looks like it.

  That’s why there was no Christmas bonus. The company no longer turns a profit. It doesn’t sell. No reason to call it names. The BT8 can afford more than a fortnight’s salary, because it’s already been sold. Whereas we sell our own freedom in return for our bonuses—indirectly, of course.

  With things as they are, it’s bad if I stay, bad if I go. Then there’s the fact that Reifenberg needs someone to hold his hand here. He’s not quite a match for Diebold.9 Geck10 and Diebold annoy him, and in the end he’s a rather haughty passive character, whose passivity may well win out, but only at the end of ten years. I wish we could just both leave. Think about it. This place lacks control and direction. I have no idea how that could be arranged. I really don’t want to spend half my time in Berlin. All I know is that someone needs to be sitting with Reifenberg in his office, otherwise things will get worse. I’ve suggested guest writers as star turns. But with the stodginess of this outfit, there’s no sense in even waiting for an answer. We could think of a plan and put it into effect by ourselves. If you were to turn up here one day instead of me, no one would say a thing. While everything’s in the balance, it’s still possible to get things done.

  But I’m afraid it won’t be like that forever, and once Guttmann’s regiment has taken over, nothing will be possible any more. He’s just hired another sergeant major. Gradually he’s taking over the building. Nassauer’s powers of attorney have been limited, and Lasswitz11 is turning into a chief under one’s very eyes. Today he’s still glad of a smile and a friendly word from me, but who knows if that’ll still be true the day after tomorrow? He complained to me about your standoffishness. I told him distinguished people were like that, and to prove it to him, I went in the next day to see Nassauer, who was out—as I knew he would be—and I was even more standoffish to him than you are, and told him grand people were painfully inhibited in matters of money, and that it took years of friendship to gain their trust. So he gets the picture, and I’m afraid next time you see him, he’ll probably be all over you.

  I keep a thousand ears pinned to the ground, I have confidants in every camp, and I’m noiseless as an Indian. Dr. Simon is in Berlin now, if you should run into him, treat him nicely.

  Come soon, and kiss the hand of your dear wife.

  I remain your old

  Roth

  1. Dr. Max Geisenheyner worked on the travel section of the FZ.

  2. your presence, in person: a recurring idea with JR in these letters, where he connects it with the Austrian character. (See, for instance, no. 276.) I fancy it is just as true of JR, personally.

  3. Wolf von Dewall (1882–1959) joined the staff of the FZ in 1916, correspondent in London and Ankara; after the war freelance journalist in Stuttgart.

  4. Friedrich Sieburg (1893–1964), author, poet, essayist, translator. Correspondent for the FZ from 1923 to 1942. After 1942 press attaché in Paris for the Nazi envoy Abetz. From 1948 to 1955 co-editor of the magazine Die Gegenwart; after 1956, literary editor of the Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung. It was probably the greatest disappointment of JR’s life that he was passed over for the Paris job in favor of Sieburg in 1925–26.

  5. Kurt Lachmann, journalist. Went into exile in 1933. After the war, was a correspondent for U.S. News & World Report in Bonn.

  6. Fritz Naphtali (1888–1961), business editor of the FZ from 1921 to 1927.

  7. Artur Feiler (1879–1943), business editor from 1903 to 1909, domestic political editor from 1910 to 1930.

  8. BT: the Berliner Tageblatt.

  9. Dr. Bernhard Diebold (1886–1945), theater critic for the FZ, who in 1934 returned to his native Switzerland.

  10. Dr. Rudolf Geck (d. 1936), feuilleton editor on the FZ; at the paper since 1898. Credited with first having brought JR to the FZ.

  11. Erich Lasswitz (1880–1959), technical director and writer for the FZ from 1918 to 1943. Roth sometimes strikes one as the only Indian, among this collective of chiefs, and less able to make his way than he proudly/overweeningly thinks.

  27. To Bernard von Brentano

  [undated]

  Dear friend,

  you fell for the fool’s mate, because you were working on the false assumption that the Schmiede was going to be even more stupid than it actually was. I read the carbon of your letter, there’s nothing in it but my address. You shouldn’t have even started talking to those idiots. Now it’s finished. We’ll have to just let them write. I don’t care. I’m past the stage where I would give them anything of mine—even if it was the last thing I wrote in German. Please tell me, more precisely, what your conversation with them was. That’s not a reproach to you, but a lesson. You haven’t yet got that Jewish cunning, with which it’s possible to keep an entire country at bay. But you might need to have it one day. Above all, learn to speak less.

  If you’re doing badly, so am I. I want to send my wife to Paris, while I go on my German tour. I’m going to be spending some 3 or 4 weeks in the Ruhrgebiet,1 and probably go to Paris once that’s done. I’m skint. I can’t get by, never mind how much I earn. Germany is making me ill. Every day I feel more hatred, and I could choke on my own contempt. Even the language is loathsome to me. A country’s provinces give it away like nothing else. The fake elegance, the loud voices, the yahoos, the silence, the respect, the impertinence. There is a sort of unfreedom in these people that is worse than the subordination in front of a sergeant major. I understand that the rest of Germany kowtows to Prussia. It has one method: to distract people from their lack of inner freedom by external impositions. The way you make your toothache better by slapping your face.

  I saw Dr. Simon. We concluded a sort of truce. He admitted he was slightly afraid or wary of me. I suspect that hasn’t entirely vanished. We were somewhat reconciled. We talked about your brother.2 He made a very good impression, albeit still a “Catholic-Jesuitical” one. Simon feels a degree of suspicion of him too. Suspicion will always accompany admiration in him. I understand it very well, and let it pass, having encountered it a thousand times myself.

  My dear friend, I’m becoming more and more solitary.3 More manifest in the details of life, in matters of taste, food, clothing, restaurants, and pleasures than in questions of principle or philosophy. Sometimes I catch an echo of it from Reifenberg. Even my wife is withdrawing from me, for all her love. She is normal, and I am what you’d have to call insane. She doesn’t react as I do, with vehemence, with trembling, she’s less sensitive to atmosphere, she is sensible and straightforward. Anything and everything is capable of provoking me. The conversation at another table, a look, a dress, a walk. It’s really not “normal.” I’m afraid I’m going to have to forswear society, and break off all ties. I no longer believe anything I’m told. I see through a magnifying glass. I peel the skins off people and things to see their hidden secrets—after that, you really can’t believe anything. I know, before the object of my scrutiny knows, how it will adapt, how it will evolve, what it will do next. It might change u
tterly. But my knowledge of it is such that it will do exactly what I think it will do. If it occurs to me that someone will do something vicious or low, he goes and does it. I am becoming dangerous to ordinary decent people because of my knowledge of them.

  It makes for an atrocious life. It precludes all of love and most of friendship. My mistrust kills all warmth, as bleach kills most germs. I no longer understand the forms of human intercourse. A harmless conversation chokes me. I am incapable of speaking an innocent word. I don’t understand how people utter banalities. How they manage to sing. How they manage to play charades. If only the traditional forms still applied! But the new informality in Germany kills everything. I can’t participate. All I can do is talk very cleverly with other very clever people. I am starting to hate decency, where—as is so often the case—it’s paired with limited intelligence. The merely decent are beginning to hate me back. It can’t go on. It can’t go on.

  My novel is coming along.

  I got an invitation to join Döblin’s group.4 I will accept it in a noncommittal way, out of politeness. I don’t want any ties to German writers. Not one of them feels as radically as I do. Read my essay on Döblin. I think it will offend him. I can’t help it. Ask him about it sometime.

  Say hello to Dr. Simon. I wrote to Guttmann yesterday.

  Write me at the office. I am leaving this week. If I get enough money, I’ll look you up in Berlin. Otherwise I’ll be there in about three weeks.

  Your old friend

  I’m off.

  1. Ruhrgebiet: the industrial sector in western Germany. From 1923 to 1925, it was under the occupation of the French, exasperated by the German nonpayment of reparations (this was during the time of the inflation). Roth wrote a series of reportages from there. See also no. 29.