[kabelshik]

In this world administered and organized on a planetary scale, to be sure, the adventure and mystery of travel would seem to be dead and done for: even Baudelaire?s Voyagers, who set out to look for the unheard-of and were ready to face shipwreck in the attempt, found in the unknown, and in spite of every unforeseen disaster, precisely the same tedium that they left at home. To be on the move, however, is better than nothing: one stares out of the windows of the train as it hurtles into the co...more In this world administered and organized on a planetary scale, to be sure, the adventure and mystery of travel would seem to be dead and done for: even Baudelaire?s Voyagers, who set out to look for the unheard-of and were ready to face shipwreck in the attempt, found in the unknown, and in spite of every unforeseen disaster, precisely the same tedium that they left at home. To be on the move, however, is better than nothing: one stares out of the windows of the train as it hurtles into the countryside, one raises one?s face to the breezes, and something passes, flows through the body. The air creeps into one?s clothes. The ego dilates and contracts like a Portuguese man-of-war. A little ink overflows from the bottle and is diluted in an ink-coloured sea. But this gentle loosening of the bonds, which replaces the uniform with a pair of pyjamas, is more like an hour?s break in the school timetable than the promise of the great demobilization.

Danube is an unusual case. It appears at first to be a travel book, following its author down the course of the titular river, starting from what is reputedly the source, a dripping tap in a small town in what was at the time of Magris?s journey (the mid-1980s) West Germany, to its terminus, pouring its force into the Black Sea. Magris states his intent to travel down the length of the river, mentions a few traveling companions and as the book unfolds, does dutifully hit a number of points along the way, from Vienna to Bratislava, Budapest, and Belgrade, but it is apparent early on that Magris has no intent of writing a travelogue. His companions are rarely referred to and remain indistinguishable; people met along the way flit in and back out with little characterization; and places are given little color or description. No, what interests Magris is using all the places along the length of his journey as a jumping-off point for a description of some obscure book written in or relating to that place, or to pull an anecdote from his seemingly bottomless well of them. Magris is Italian from Trieste, expert in German literature and culture, and miner of nuggets of lore related to "Mitteleuropa." The book unwinds strings of facts and stories both wondrous and negligible.

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But genuine literature is not of the kind which flatters the reader, by confirming in him his prejudices and certainties, but rather the kind which presses close on his heels and forces him to make a fresh reckoning with the world and with his own assumptions.

The above quote is taken from a section of the book called ?Kyselak,? a fragment of only three pages ? many of the fragments in this book composed of them only run a paragraph or two ? about a man of that name who wrote two volumes of travel sketches filled with complaints about the triteness of the passengers on the passenger boat down the Danube; according to Magris ?one of those despisers of the masses, to be found in great numbers even today; when crushed together in a crowded bus or caught in a motorway traffic jam, they think ? each of them ? that they are inhabitants of sublime solitudes or of refined drawing-rooms; each one of them despises his neighbour and is unaware of being repaid in the same coin.? Magris has apparently read these travelogues of Herr Kyselak, despite valuing them little, along with any number of ancient and long-forgotten tomes related to the Danube. If one is prone to being uncharitable one could accuse Mr. Magris of writing a book just to show off his erudition. Beginning this book my primary interest was in catching glimpses of what Yugoslavia, Hungary, Bulgaria, Czechoslovakia, and Romania were like before the house came tumbling down ? and there?s simply not much of that to be found in Danube. This is the sort of book I often find myself hating, where the suspicion arises that its raison d?etre is to show off how many books its author has read. Yet I found myself drawn to Danube like steel shavings to a magnet.

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The hesitant traveler, who in his travels does not know what line to pursue, on re-reading his own notes discovers with some surprise that he was a little happier and more at ease, and above all more resolute and decisive, than he thought he was while actually on the road. He finds that he has given clean, clear answers to the questions that pester him, in the hope of one day being able to believe in those answers himself.

I wonder if the key to my enjoyment of Danube wasn?t that I read it mostly while drinking a great deal of beer. Odd to say, perhaps, for a book that probably requires a great deal more concentration than I gave it, but I often took the book along with me on solo weekday jaunts to the Czech-style brewhouse in central Vietnam, where I was living at the time. Somehow it seemed fitting that as Magris passed through some of the great beer lands of Europe I should drain a few in recognition. I would order food and a half liter of beer and row through a few chapters of the book. And I, on the other side of the world, as far culturally as could be, was drawn so much to this so very European book.

Under the spell of slowly creeping intoxication it?s uncommon for a book to hold my attention very long, but Danube stimulated a few sentimental reveries, more than a few bouts of uncommon concentration, and even the rare clap of delight. What continuously kept it from being spectacularly boring was that Magris is actually a fine writer, and that comes across clearly in translation; he has the gift for the superb turn-of-phrase, and even when times arose when I suspected that what he was saying was touch awry, that it probably wasn?t something that I even agreed with (Does the road really produce ?clean, clear answers? to the questions that pester one? I find that it often tends to muddy things further), I?d find myself dragged along regardless slightly feverish in the flow. Although he makes much of deservedly long-forgotten studies of the river, and of trivial lore related to those lands it passes through, Magris is primarily concerned with the dark history of Central Europe in the 20th century: the trip becomes a meditation on Nazi atrocities and the then-current states of the nations. A history lesson, then, from Professor Claudio, that I imagine will find most students sound asleep in the solemn hall. The stranger of those kids, however, will find themselves firmly set in the front row, letting the professor?s rather mesmerizing monotone lead them downstream towards lands unknown.

[Zugaxxsn]

Wowser. Very good review. It does convey much of my own impressions of Magris. I love how you keep pointing out that you found it irresistible although many others might find it tiresome...

[Giselle]

Wowser. Very good review. It does convey much of my own impressions of Magris. I love how you keep pointing out that you found it irresistible although many others might find it tiresome...

It's not bad, but you have to be patient, because it is tiresome