Another dent

Everybody wants to get something done, realize a vision, gain recognition, build a record and, eventually, leave a legacy behind. Only few succeed. That’s why we honour them; and that’s what we have awards for, the Main Prizes and colossal accolades for lifetime achievement and the like. Surely, where literature is concerned, no other recognition holds the immortalizing power that the Nobel Prize can bestow and it might be a blessing as much as a curse for some among the elect as henceforward we begin to somehow think them in marble. But, luckily, not all the laureates are dead; certainly alive when designated. Being humans (almost) like the rest of us, they are also fallible, even in their field.

Now, for a very long time I’ve been an avid reader of Günter Grass’s works. His style of writing, his historically based narratives, have inspired and influenced me greatly and in terms of developing my own literary understanding I owe him a lot. In short, he is one of my heroes, so to speak. Really goes without saying, then, that I just instantly bought his latest book when it was published last month. It is the second part of his autobiography in fiction and a follow-up to “Peeling the Onion” of 2006, called “Die Box”/”The Box”. As is the nature of such accounting, it is very personal for the most part. Only, it so much focuses on family matters – and decidedly less outer world factuality or atmosphere filtering in than was the case with the previous one – that one cannot avoid the question of asking just how relevant it is. For me, this doesn’t seem to be the biggest problem here, though. He has given copious and probing renditions of post-war German society in his great novels before, more eloquently so than any other German writer has done in his generation, and done it brilliantly; his sentences are profoundly worked-through in most memorable language, and every yarn or fable spun to lasting effect (for those who care to listen, or read). What saddens me so about “Die Box” is the fact that it is a mere shadow of his former narrative vigour and scope. It sounds, and is, repetitive, but without generating any additional insight in the process, I’m afraid.

For Grass enthusiasts it should still be worth reading and in no way can this late piece take away anything from his achievements. I simply like to hear his voice on paper again. Even so, this one is not a great work by a great literary master, whereas “Peeling the Onion” in my estimation ranks as a fine example in the rich history of European memo fiction and biographical writing, an important testimony of an important time. So, I’ll read on…

(pic©Florian K.)