W. G. SEBALD: A MASTER SHROUDED IN MIST
At the end of the 1960s, three young lecturers arrived at the University of East Anglia: Malcolm Bradbury, Lorna Sage and, from south Germany by way of Manchester, W. G. Sebald, always known as Max. All three were to spend the rest of their lives teaching there, and they all died rather young within about a year of one another. Each produced at least one memorable book, Bradbury’s The History Man, Lorna Sage’s Bad Blood and Sebald’s The Emigrants. Each had a huge knowledge and understanding of literature of all kinds. These reservoirs of sympathy did not, however, extend very far into human relations. As is not unknown among academics cooped up together for years on end, they did not get on. For Lorna at least, this antipathy became as pleasurable a drug as the cigarettes which fed her emphysema. It was impossible to be in her company for five minutes without her exploding into gurgles of indignation about the latest tiresomeness of Malcolm or Max. This puzzled me, as both her colleagues seemed quite affable, positively genial in the case of Bradbury and mild, even shy in the case of Sebald. Yet her irritation did alert me to the possibility that Sebald might not be quite as easy to pin down as he seemed.
This is not, as some critics have said, because his writing is hard to categorize. On the contrary, Sebald’s style of atmospheric rumination – part autobiographical, part anecdotal and historical – has long been a well-loved genre in European writing. Indeed he quite often glances back to his predecessors: Rousseau’s reveries, Sterne’s ramblings, Sir Thomas Browne’s Urn Burial and Burton’s The Anatomy of Melancholy. Sebald’s half-dozen prose works, all published in the last ten years of his life, are not essays exactly and they are certainly not novels, although Sebald’s Austerlitz is couched in that form. Sebald himself said ‘My medium is prose, not the novel.’ For quite a few writers today, he is now acknowledged as ‘probably the greatest intellect and voice of the late 20th century’, to quote Antony Beevor, or ‘the most significant European writer to have emerged in the last decade’, in the view of one TLS reviewer. ‘Is literary greatness still possible?’ Susan Sontag asks and immediately replies that ‘one of the few answers available to English-language readers is the work of W. G. Sebald’.
Yet among German-language readers (and despite living in England for over thirty years, Sebald almost always wrote in his native German) there is a dissenting minority. I recall a professor of literature at Frankfurt becoming almost apoplectic at the mention of ‘that charlatan’. Certainly Sebald’s prose seems to me to have rather less impact in the original, its atmospherics somehow less seductive. At a public reading in the Queen Elizabeth Hall not three months before he was killed in a car crash in December 2001, Sebald read from Austerlitz, which was published that autumn, while his translator, Anthea Bell, read her English version. It was not, I think, just Sebald’s rather drowsy delivery that made the German sound a little flat, even laboured, while the English did have an alluring strangeness, perhaps just because it was, so to speak, double distilled through translation from the German of a German who had lived almost all his adult life in England without becoming in the least English.
Jacques Austerlitz is a Czech Jew who is brought over as a small child on a Kindertransport and brought up by a grim minister and his desperate wife in the slatiest reaches of North Wales to know nothing of his origins and to call himself Dafydd Elias. The passage that Sebald and Anthea Bell read describes his escape from this deadly couple into the outlandish delights of his school friend’s home, Andromeda Lodge, with its eccentric uncles, its moths and cockatoos and carrier pigeons and its heart-stopping views of the Mawddach Estuary. These are among the most vivid and poignant pages Sebald ever wrote. The paradox is that they are also the closest to conventional fiction.
By contrast, Sebald’s more openly autobiographical wanderings sometimes exude, to me at least, a curious off-putting tang, rather like a whiff of disinfectant blowing into a concert hall. Whether he is in East Anglia or Belgium or the Black Forest, the W. G. figure, as we might call him, trudges disconsolately through unvisited museums and down-at-heel zoos, eats solitary and usually vile meals in grimy railway refreshment rooms and out-of-season resorts, alternately disheartened by the irremediable decay and the brash vulgarity that he finds everywhere. Always he sees the legions of the dead flocking around him, and in his frequent bouts of paralysis and depression the hard edge of things appears to flicker and fade until it begins to merge with the ghosts of the past. He embarks on these low-spirited excursions for reasons that he tells us he cannot recall, sometimes to escape from difficulties in his life that he finds too painful to rehearse.
This anonymous being seems to correspond in many particulars to Professor Sebald of UEA. Yet he is, as it were, disembodied and free to float among his ghosts. In his estrangement from the material world and its inhabitants, both usually depicted as coarse and gross, W. G. is of course the epitome of the modern writer, which is partly why so many modern writers find him so irresistible and discern in his writing a depth of focus which makes other treatments of the sufferings of the twentieth century and the Holocaust in particular seem superficial.
For all his deliberate pace and discursive method, Sebald does pull you along in an almost hypnotic fashion. And that is a great virtue. Yet I wonder about the profundity. Reading him, even going quite slowly, I get more a sensation of glancing or skimming rather than of being dragged deeper into things. Even his most memorable images and encounters leave behind an impression that tends to be sketchy and evanescent. For one thing, these carefully oblique reflections on the horrors of our time draw much of their material and their force from first-hand accounts of them that are plainer and more direct, such as the poet H. G. Adler’s recollections of Theresienstadt, not to mention Primo Levi’s of Auschwitz.
One cannot help noticing too the calculated efforts to tug at the reader’s heartstrings. The most blatant examples are the smudged black-and-white photos with which he peppers his peregrinations: pictures of deserted factories, peeling doorways, long-dead relatives in old-style clothes or fancy dress. These fragile shards of the past, to pastiche the Sebaldian style, remind me rather of those shortlived editions of old Dennis Wheatley crime mysteries which came fully equipped with a used book of matches, a piece of bloodstained cloth, a crumpled feather and other clues stuck into their pages to stimulate the sluggish imagination. I cannot help feeling that this kind of Shardenfreude is as crude as the methods employed in what Sebald would no doubt call, in his old-fashioned way, a housemaid’s novelette.
Certainly it would be unfair to judge Sebald on the strength of Campo Santo, which is a collection of posthumous leavings: four little sections from a never-completed book on Corsica, half-a-dozen literary essays, mostly on German writers such as Kafka and Peter Handke, and a few final morsels on subjects as diverse as mackerel, Sebald’s early musical experiences and Bruce Chatwin and the collector’s instinct. Beginners should start instead with Austerlitz or The Emigrants.
At the same time, precisely because these are scraps and sketches, not fully finished, something worrying does begin to show through the thin, unvarnished texture. And that something is banality.
The opening piece, ‘A Little Excursion to Ajaccio’, describes, in Sebald’s usual charming fashion, a visit paid on an idle whim to the Napoleon museum, where the slightest relic of the Emperor is preserved and the elderly attendants all look like members of the Bonaparte family. Towards the end of the piece, Sebald branches out into his familiar descant upon the transience of things. Neither of Napoleon’s parents, he says, ‘can of course have dreamed that the children at the dining table with them daily would eventually rise to the ranks of kings and queens, or that the time would come when the most hot-tempered of them . . . would wear the crown of a vast empire extending over almost the whole of Europe’. No indeed. In the next sentence, equally typically, Sebald shifts from this local rumination to the universal: ‘But what can we know in advance of the course of history, which unfolds
according to some logically indecipherable law, impelled forward, often changing direction at the crucial moment, by tiny imponderable events?’ etc., etc.
Now this might simply be Sebald on an off day. Such thoughts are liable to swim into one’s head on a hot Corsican afternoon, not to be recognized, then or alas later, as thoughts that other people have thought roughly a million times before.
But then take the next piece, the title essay ‘Campo Santo’. Sebald wanders through an abandoned graveyard. What does he notice? ‘Another striking feature of the design of the Piana graveyard . . . was the fact that in general the dead were buried in clans, so that the Ceccaldi lay beside the Ceccaldi and the Quilichini beside the Quilichini.’ Once we have recovered from this startling observation, which could be replicated in almost any cemetery anywhere, he moves on to note that the better-off corpses in Piana have larger tombs with pediments and sarcophagi, while the poorest have only a metal cross stuck in the bare earth. Well, now, there’s a thing.
Then – and this too is typical – Sebald does produce some genuinely fascinating material about Corsican burial customs. This material is drawn from his UEA colleague Stephen Wilson’s study of nineteenth-century Corsican feuds. Until quite recently, it seems, most Corsicans shunned public cemeteries and buried their dead on their own land in an olive grove or under a chestnut tree so that the dead might continue to watch over their property. Looking back at other essays in, for example, The Rings of Saturn, one cannot help noticing the same phenomenon: the relative ordinariness of Sebald’s own observations which are then tricked out by his magpie’s gift of picking up brilliant insights and anecdotes from other writers.
Sebald also deploys, too often for comfort, the device of linking together odds and ends about famous people in order to impart an air of imaginative profundity. In one piece here, he describes going to bed during a thunderstorm and dreaming of how, when Verdi was dying, the people of Milan put down straw outside his house to muffle the sound of horses’ hooves. Then the storm outside his window makes him think of a thunderstorm that Wittgenstein saw as a boy of six from the balcony of his family’s summer home. Neither of these fragments of memory is doing any real work. Putting down straw in order not to disturb the dying was common practice over most of Europe at the time and it being Verdi who is dying contributes nothing, just as there is no extra philosophic depth added to the passage by it being the boy Wittgenstein who saw the storm. This is celebrity tourism dressed up as literature. In the literary essays collected in Campo Santo, Sebald’s gift for quotation becomes a generous and unassuming trait. He is able to show us the best of Nabokov, for example, the wonderful image from Speak, Memory of the author’s father being tossed up in the air as an act of homage from his grateful peasantry.
But in the political and psychological reflections one cannot help feeling that Sebald is doing little more than recycling (with due acknowledgment) the earlier insights of others, without adding much of his own to, for example, Alexander and Margarete Mitscherlich’s theory of the ‘inability to mourn’ in post-war Germany. Indeed, he readily acknowledges his debt to those writers who have taught us that an unpretentious factual account of what happened is the best way to resist the human tendency to suppress painful or shameful memories in order to ‘get on with our lives’ or ‘move on’.
What Sebald says is not untrue or ignoble or unfelt or not worth repeating. It is just that it is hard to detect much originality or creative energy there. He does not have one of those minds which cannot tick over for five seconds without throwing off something fresh and sharp. There is not the effortless bubbling up you find in the prose of, to take a random bunch, Ruskin, D. H. Lawrence, Edmund Wilson, John Berger, V. S. Pritchett or Philip Larkin.
What you have instead is a tone, a wistful, misty strangeness which covers the most familiar objects in an alluring fog, making them seem alien, unsettling and unsettled, pregnant with melancholy and memory. And it is part of Sebald’s enchantment that when we come to touch his conclusions they are so reassuringly familiar. Rather like Molière’s Monsieur Jourdain, we are delighted to discover that what we had always thought turns out to be literature. And so it is, I think, with Sebald himself. Through the mist one seems to see a prophetic figure engaged on some mysterious and significant mission. But when the mist clears one sees only an elderly gentleman with a moustache poking at the brambles with his walking stick.
JOHN LE CARRÉ: SPOOKING THE SPOOKS
When we first meet Maxie – he has no other name – he is wearing a crumpled tropical suit with a sleeveless Fair Isle jersey and a sun-bleached khaki canvas bag swinging from his shoulder. He has come on his pushbike to a house off Berkeley Square full of tycoons and chandeliers and he is cursing because the bike has got a puncture. With his manic stride, his faraway blue eyes and haywire mop of sandy hair, he has the slovenly self-confidence that says Special Forces, the unnerving indifference to what others may think of him that goes with a man who is capable of anything. Mr Anderson, who is high up in a very secret bit of the Ministry of Defence, says, ‘Maxie is, I am told, a genius in his field.’ What is his field? Maxie himself explains that he has come to sort the Eastern Congo, ‘to bring sanity back to a f**king madhouse’.
Maxie is John Buchan’s Sandy Arbuthnot reborn, the wandering soldier of fortune who is at home in a tight spot anywhere in the world. Only, this being the start of the twenty-first century, the type is now terribly degraded, past redeeming. While Sandy was graceful and charming in half-a-dozen languages, Maxie says f**king every second word, can speak only fractured French and wants to ferry in a bunch of hoodlums from South Africa in helicopters painted white with UN markings, the mercs (not cars, stupid) to be armed with Kalashnikovs and Gatling machine-guns. Nice to see Gatling still in business, a hundred years after Sir Henry Newbolt’s sitrep from an earlier small war: ‘The Gatling’s jammed and the colonel dead.’
There is not much chance here of anyone playing up and playing the game, for these dogs of war are the lowest type of mongrel, less in the tradition of Buchan’s Greenmantle than of Conrad’s Heart of Darkness, from which le Carré takes his epigraph: ‘The conquest of the earth, which mostly means the taking it away from those who have a different complexion or slightly flatter noses than ourselves, is not a pretty thing when you look into it too much.’
Le Carré shows no sign of slowing up or losing touch. If he has altered at all in the half-century since The Spy Who Came in from the Cold, it is only that his vision has grown darker and his quarrel with the old English elite bitterer. Nine-tenths of the characters in The Mission Song are utterly corrupt, either slimy-cynical corrupt or brutal, apply-electrodes-to-your-privates corrupt.
The only exceptions are the innocent narrator Bruno Salvador and his girlfriend Hannah, a Congolese nurse working in London, who is luscious and saintly (le Carré’s women tend to come in three sizes: saints, good sorts and nymphos – which is an improvement on some notable American novelists, who offer only one model, the unmitigated bitch). Salvo is a half-caste, a Métis, a zebra, the son of a randy bog-Irish missionary and a Congolese village woman. He grows up with a mynah-bird ear and a jackdaw memory, fluent in half-a-dozen languages of the Congo, not to mention English, French and Swahili, wins a first at SOAS and becomes a superb interpreter, promiscuously translating for anyone who will hire him – global slush funds, prisons, hospitals, immigration authorities and the murkier regions of government, which is how he becomes a naive and at first utterly deceived witness of Maxie’s plot, which is hatched between certain very interested parties on a mysterious island somewhere near Denmark.
The opening passages in which Salvo tells us about his early years have a jaunty-sad brilliance about them. They are as irresistible as any of V. S. Naipaul’s portraits of dispossessed characters scratching around the world. I read these pages with such pleasure and at such a gallop that when the book settled down into the iron disciplines of the suspense novel, I was going much too fast and missed
half the subtleties of the plot and had to reread the last 200 pages with the concentration they deserved. Paradoxically, high-popular novels require much closer attention than highbrow fiction. The narrative pace is so relentless, because, like Just a Minute, the genre forbids hesitation, repetition or deviation. You may not lose much by letting your eyes blur over a couple of pages of Proust or Joyce, or indeed of Ben Okri and Salman Rushdie, but you speedread le Carré at your peril.
I do not mean that The Mission Song is full of twists exactly, more that the thread is twisted ever tighter on the same spool. The real surprise ending would be if the coup came off and Mr Anderson of the MoD turned out to be awfully decent and far-sighted. It does not diminish our pleasure at all that we know from the moment we meet Salvo’s hero, Lord Brinkley of the Sands, the billionaire entrepreneur and champion of Africa, that he will turn out to be a rotter – a bit like Tiny Rowland though not so manic. Nor do we for one moment believe Mr Anderson when he tells Salvo, ‘You’re going to meet some of these ruffians in the flesh and do a little bit of good for your country while you’re about it.’ Mr Anderson may have an avuncular north-country burr and sing in the Sevenoaks Choral Society, but we are fully aware that the intentions of HMG are corrupt, too, and her servants can maintain their moral self-esteem only by keeping at arm’s length the chaps like Maxie who do the dirty work.
What never fail in The Mission Song, as usual in le Carré, are the more than incidental pleasures. There is, for a start, the fanciful language of the spook’s tradecraft, those playful euphemisms which cover up the horror. The contract which is to carve up the Eastern Congo between the local warlords and the far-off grasping investors is described as ‘agricultural’ – meaning that it covers all the minerals you can think of, from gold and diamonds to the stuff that makes uranium – and the equipment that the anonymous syndicate is to furnish is listed as shovels, pickaxes, scythes and wheelbarrows, by which is meant guns, rocket-propelled grenades and helicopters.
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