Ein Familien und Generationen umspannendes Epos, im intim gedrängten Rahmen einer österreichischen Kleinstadt. Denn jeder Ort hat seine eigene bewegte Geschichte – besonders in Regionen des ehemaligen NS-Staats.
Persönlich und detailliert zeigt Dunkelblum die abstruse Solidarität der Schuldigen, mit der jede Familie auf ihre Weise die Nazi-Verbrechen verdrängt; und was passiert, wenn Jahrzehnte später alles auf einmal aufkocht.
Als äußerst menschlicher Roman tappt Dunkelblum dabei nicht in die Falle, die Verbrechen einfach zu schildern, sie zu verurteilen und einen Haken dranzumachen. Das wäre moralisch der einfachste Weg, aber eine ausgetretene Geschichte ohne großen Mehrwert. Stattdessen beleuchtet Dunkelblum die inneren Konflikte ehemaliger „Mitläufer“ sowie die Ausreden, mit denen die Gesellschaft selbst fraglichste Biographien duldet. Dunkelblum zeigt aus erster Hand, wie dieses Verdrängen unmittelbar nachfolgende Generationen betrifft und weshalb Erinnerungskultur auch mit zunehmender zeitlicher Distanz nie an Relevanz verliert.
Der Roman arbeitet mit zwei verschiedenen Linsen: Einmal das millimeternahe Kleinstadt-Auge, das viele Aspekte der kritischen Betrachtung nur impliziert – oder gleich vollkommen den aufgeklärten Leser*innen anvertraut. Und zweitens: die modernere kosmopolitische Linse, in Form der überregionalen Berichterstattung über die Kleinstadt. Letztere wird selten, aber gezielt eingesetzt, um die dominierende Kleinstadtperspektive kurzzeitig aus einer reflektierteren Distanz zu betrachten. Aber auch hier erkennt der Roman die Dynamiken einer solchen Berichterstattung von oben herab, beim Blick auf „das Kaff im Burgenland“.
Das langsame Erzähltempo profitiert davon, dass das große Puzzle „Was ist damals passiert?“ stets im Hintergrund schwebt und die fehlenden Teile zum Greifen nah scheinen. Die Einwohner*innen des Ortes lösen das kollektive Rätsel in unzähligen narrativen Perspektivwechseln.
Sie ermitteln auf organische Weise, mit wenig Koordination. Einige kleine Gruppen organisieren sich gezielt, manch andere tragen nur aus Neugier zum Fall bei. Wieder andere manipulieren und verstcken lieber einige der Puzzleteile. Mit diesen komplexen Verhältnissen zeigt Dunkelblum, wieso es mit der Wahrheit manchmal nicht so einfach ist, wie wichtig sie aber dennoch ist.
While the late 19th century is way closer to our current society than we’d often like to imagine, it’s surprising just how relevant most arguments in this book still are. At the beginning I actually checked whether I misread something and this was actually from the mid-20th century somehow. That being said, as a classic progenitor to many later, more refined or specific works, this book has little to offer that is genuinely earth-shattering; at least not for a person in 2023 who is already deep enough in the rabbit hole to consider reading Kropotkin.
What surprised me though is how „reasonable“ this proposed anarchism seems. Nowadays it mostly feels like communist / socialist ideologies are perceived as the ones that might plausibly bring change, if at all. Anarchism, however, has the air of a more radical, idealistic movement – either too utopian or too individualistic. Thus, comparatively fewer modern writers seem to consider anarchism a serious alternative to capitalism.
I don’t know how malleable society still felt in Kropotkin’s time, but it’s hard to imagine the disruptive change he proposes for today’s ultra-bureaucratic world. Even harder than a socialist disruption, that is. Kropotkin already recognized how supply chains and globalization critically influence the potential success of revolutions. But it feels like he never could’ve imagined how much worse it would get until it gets better. At times you just sit there like „My man, wait until I tell you about global warming and the biodiversity crisis.“
I know it’s cheap to judge a book like this 130 years later, but I think that’s the most exciting angle from which to approach it. The content is mostly still as valid as it was back then, but – naturally – there are many books that explain more accurately „Why anarchism“ or „Why your revolution doesn’t pan out“. So the historical aspect is really the most fascinating here.
Wie beim Vorgänger respektiere ich die Hingabe, so gnadenlos kleinteilig und oft unnachgiebig pessimistisch zu sein. RCE betreibt unerträglich viel Aufbau zu einem seit Beginn des Romans angekündigten „Ereignis“. Die 600 Seiten auf dem Weg zu diesem Finale bersten vor anekdotischen Fakten, dass auch der Kopf nur so platzt.
Arme Menschen und reiche Menschen im absurden Alltag des Spätkapitalismus. Zynische Erörterungen politischer, ökonomischer, technologischer (…) Fakten. Jede einzelne Passage für sich ist stilistisch und inhaltlich großartig! Doch die schiere Dichte an Informationen ist so hoch, dass am Ende kaum etwas hängenbleibt als der verschwommene Eindruck: „We are f****d“ — was ja an sich eine valide Message ist.
Und RCE wählt einen kunstvollen und aufwendigen Weg, diese Botschaft tausendfach zu verankern. Trotzdem ist es unbefriedigend, Seiten zu lesen, deren genauer Inhalt fünf Minuten später restlos im Nebel verschwimmt. Ich habe selten ein Buch gelesen, das auf der Makroebene so spannend und auf der Mikroebene so zäh ist – außer eben den Vorgänger. Dieser hatte aber den Vorteil, frisch und unverbraucht zu sein. RCE hingegen ist in vielerlei Hinsicht — ohne es despektierlich zu meinen — dasselbe Buch nochmal.
Theoretisch hat der Vorgänger bereits eine ausreichende Basis geschaffen, auf der RCE sich nun vollends auf die Ausführung seiner Revolutionsgeschichte hätte konzentrieren können. Ohne dabei nochmal zu schildern, welch absurdes Leben einzelne Milliardäre in ihren Züricher Residenzen führen.
Der rote Faden scheint alle paar Seiten kurz durch und macht alle paar dutzend Seiten den nächsten größeren Schritt. Das ist zu selten, um über 700 Seiten zu tragen. In seiner Detailverliebtheit zeigt RCE aber zumindest äußerst anschaulich, wie Technologie, die uns unterdrückt, eingesetzt werden kann, um uns zu befreien.
Novels rarely feature protagonists that are this shy, introverted and timid, and then don’t treat these traits as weaknesses, but as valuable in their own right. The protagonist has a contentedness with herself that is only disrupted and questioned by the expectations of other people.
Among those people are characters, for example, that want to force the protagonist to adapt to a very outgoing and self-centered version of emancipatory feminism – arguably the default values of the „be a strong woman“ rhetoric. The novel shows, however, that emancipation and self-actualization aren’t one-size-fits-all issues where extroverted exertion is the only viable solution (or even a solution that works at all).
Really, the story is a constant push and pull of how much the protagonist gains by being pulled out of her shell and how much she loses by forcing herself to change in ways that feel unnatural to her.
The love story the novel revolves around is beautifully boring in that it is the exact opposite of falling head-over-heels for the perfect special someone. It’s a more realistic portrayal of falling in love. After all, most people we, personally, find comfort in, may often seem very ordinary to others. But to our individual needs, our loved ones offer great comfort. Even mutual insecurity can actually be a benefit in that way, if it helps in communicating on the same wave-length.
This insecurity expresses itself in the very dry language of the romantic dialogues. It adds to the intimate awkwardness with which the characters slowly bridge the gap between them. Generally, the protagonist’s language is very sparse in dialogues, but rich and poetic in the first-person narration. This elegantly shows how the emotional depth and agency of introverted people should never be judged based on a surface-level impression.
What starts with absurd anecdotes on modern work life ends with an incredible deconstruction of the many, many things that are fundamentally wrong with modern work culture and economic politics as a whole.
A very engaging read where the comical absurdity of it all balances out the depression one should feel when learning the depths of the chaos we’ve gotten ourselves into. My only slight complaint in that regard would be that the beginning actually sounds a bit too jovial, so that it might mislead people who are primarily looking for the more serious theory that follows after the first third or so.
However, it’s always important that works like this one are fun and easy to digest; and Bullshit Jobs definitely accomplishes that from front to back, without ever sacrificing analytical heft.
Being easy to approach and also critically relevant to 99% of all people on earth makes this an easy recommendation for everyone – from blue collar workers to billionaires. Though I’d recommend to the latter for entirely different reasons.
A beautifully complicated love story that works completely without the usual aggravating tropes. Love triangles are one of the most tried and proven narrative constructs. But they’re rarely realized without forced and frustrating twists or misunderstandings.
Conversations with Friends, however, avoids these trappings through sheer emotional intelligence and by cracking the characters’ inner workings and vulnerabilities wide open. It shows why the love triangle formula has remained so appealing throughout the centuries. For if it’s done right, it’s incredibly compelling.
Conversations with Friends might be one of the best examples of how a messy relationship can serve as a vehicle to examine deeper psychological and interpersonal phenomena. It also shows how complicated real interpersonal relationships are in general, due to each person’s own complex inner life.
The characters in this novel are almost unrealistically self-reflective – even reflecting on their own lack of self-reflection at times. This might not seem entirely natural at first; maybe because we aren’t used to such emotional realism in love stories. What the novel gains from its commitment, however, is that through this deep insight into characters’ emotions, the same faults and misunderstandings that might have felt stilted in other novels, always feel entirely plausible and natural here.
It helps, of course, that Conversations in Friends, is in general a very reflective novel in terms of social concepts like class, feminine identity and so on. And it’s also acutely aware of the limits people struggle with when trying to live in a socially-conscious manner. Conversations with Friends is incredibly messy – just like life itself. But it’s a mess that knows exactly how it got that way, and that’s why it works so well.
Ring Shout delivers a very vivid depiction of the depths of hatred. Where does this hatred come from? Demons, perhaps?
The novel makes a distinction between Klansmen and Ku Kluxes - the latter being people turned into actual monsters by hate (and paranormal activity). This dehumanization doesn't make the KKK any more shocking or the fight against them any more exciting. But it does indirectly make light of the fact that everyday people, not monsters, committed these heinous racist crimes.
Racism is not an arbitrary hatred that comes out of nowhere, but a systemic product, nurtured and exploited by people who had (or still have) the power to shape mainstream American ideology. These people may often be faceless, but they are very real.
In that sense, it seems like a joke that one person with a magic sword, chosen by fate, would have the power to almost single-handedly rebalance this deep historical struggle. It's a cathartic power fantasy, to be sure, but nothing more profound.
The supernatural elements actually fit the setting. The non-metropolitan USA in the early 1900s was probably one of the last vast regions of the Western world where folklore, superstition, and magical thinking were still widespread. At least widespread enough that events like those in the novel would not feel out of place.
Still, magic swords and demons (I know, they're not really called demons) are a bit of a stretch for me. I'm not even sure why a KKK redemption story would need that stuff. Maybe just to invert and reappropriate Lovecraftian tropes as a matter of principle.
I also didn't care for any of the many action sequences, because I wasn't invested in any of the characters after such sparse characterization and because the more global stakes simply remained too abstract. The few highlights of this novel for me are some of the dialogues, which use very authentic language and have, at times, a very natural and enjoyable flow. And there are also some interesting historical anecdotes that are organically sprinkled in, though mostly unrelated to the plot. Overall, though, Ring Shout may just not have been what I'm looking for in literature.
With its intimate and subtle version of time travel, Before the Coffee Gets Cold is magical realism at its best. Refreshing as this small scale, low stakes approach may be, however, the execution leaves a lot to be desired.
First of all there is the language that is stilted and meandering at the same time. There are just lots of words and phrases that still rarely bridge the distance between readers and characters. Style and tone don‘t fit this story at all. After all, this is, at least on paper, a very emotional and personal narrative. It doesn‘t help either that the novel tends to overexplain its time travel mechanics again and again, sometimes almost verbatim - the rules aren‘t even that complicated.
I liked the structure with the multiple self-contained character arcs, whose individual protagonists still reappear in other chapters. This lends the café an authentic, lived-in feel - probably the best aspect of the novel in general. The resolutions to each arc however are so predictable that the resulting lack of tension makes the awkward pacing and awkward character interactions even more dreadful.
I appreciate though that „the lesson“ we learn from this novel is kind of subversive as far as time travel stories go. The novel focuses on human connection, empathy and finding inner peace, rather than disrupting some timeline and changing the past. But in the end, the conclusions, which all follow a similar formula, don‘t justify the mediocre delivery at all.
Für einen Roman über einen obsessiv gesundheitsvernarrten Vater spielt dieser eine überraschend passive Rolle. Das hätte nicht per se stören müssen, doch hat dieser Aspekt, der Gesund genug auf dem Papier einzigartig machen sollte, zudem zu geringe Auswirkungen auf den Rest der Geschichte.
Was bleibt, ist eine kompetente, aber unterm Strich generische Selbstfindungsreise einer traumatisierten jungen Person mit den üblichen Großstadtimpressionen und Europatourismus. Sehr schade, weil einige Stellen, die die manipulative Obsession des Vaters und die Auswirkungen auf die Familie tatsächlich tiefer behandeln, äußerst stark sind.
What it takes for a man in the 1800s to become marriage material… At least for a woman with principles, like Jane Eyre is one.
Like few other female characters in 19th century literature, Jane Eyre understands the complex effects inherent to the patriarchal power imbalance between men and women. She has a natural sense for looking even through those men who, at a moment of loving rapture, genuinely mean only good for her. She uncovers the deeper implications of what a commitment to marriage would mean for a woman in her position at any given time in the story.
Read with the historical context in mind, Jane Eyre as a novel is not only fascinatingly prescient; it also reveals some unique proto-feminist shortcomings where Jane clearly didn‘t know her theory AT ALL, but made the right decisions for other reasons anyway.
Another very 19th century thing is how chatty the novel is. I like the atmosphere that the lush descriptions of scenery create, as well as the depth of character carved out through neverending reflective dialogue… I just don‘t always like the active process of trodding through all that.
These romantic lengths are at least well-written for what they are. But there were other authors who did it way better and those who understood not to get too carried away in the first place.