Today I want to share some thoughts on an intriguing author and his Collected Stories, which I read recently – and with which I have a bit of a history!! The author is Bruno Schulz, and back in 2014 I discovered a Picador edition of his works in my local Oxfam; I’d never heard of him before, but it was a Picador and sounded fascinating so I picked it up. The book was a volume of his two short story collections, “The Street of Crocodiles” and “Sanatorium Under the Sign of the Hourglass“, translated by Celina Wieniewska. However, a new translation by Madeline G. Levine appeared in 2018 from Northwestern University Press, and I was presented with this volume for Christmas 2019 by Mr. Kaggsy. It’s taken a while for it to come off the shelves, but my mood was right for it recently, and I wanted to see what I thought about the stories after quite a gap – bear with me as this may be a bit of a long post…
But first, I’ll let you read what I said about these stories originally!
*****
I stumbled across (this) in the Oxfam, and thought it sounded intriguing, and then it turned out to be on Philip Roth’s list of books from the other Europe. The *other Europe* is just about right, as this has to be one of the most out-there books I’ve read… Some words about Schulz first, though:
Bruno Schulz (July 12, 1892 – November 19, 1942) was a Polish writer, fine artist, literary critic and art teacher born to Jewish parents, and regarded as one of the great Polish-language prose stylists of the 20th century. Schulz was born in Drohobych, in the Austrian sector of the Partitioned Poland, and spent most of his life there. He was killed by a German Nazi officer. (Wikipedia)
Like so many of the European writers I’ve read recently (Zweig, Roth and others), Schulz suffered at the hands of the Nazis and it’s a great loss he died so early. “The Fictions of Bruno Schulz” contains just that – all of the stories written during his life that were originally published in two volumes, together with one or two pieces not originally published. The first collection, entitled “The Street of Crocodiles”, was published in 1934, and brought him some measure of fame. The second, “Sanatorium under The Sign of the Hourglass” came out in 1937 – and after that, Schulz’s life must have become more and more difficult, as the Nazi iron grip spread over the continent.
Schulz’s works are in essence mainly a series of inter-related stories of varying lengths. The majority of them are narrated by a young boy/man, given the name of Joseph in some of the stories, and starting out to read the first story you get the impression these are autobiographical sketches. However, as the narrative of the tales takes off into surreal realms, you soon realise that this is no simple re-telling of a young life in Galician Poland! Instead, the story soars off into fantastic realms, as do all the following. We are introduced to Joseph’s family, who run a store which seems to deal mostly in fabrics (these will recur through the story). There are brothers and sisters, mother, aunts and uncles, plus a variety of shop assistants (who reminded me very much of the kitchen boys in Mervyn Peake’s “Titus Groan”). However, two characters stand out and will feature strongly in the narratives – Father, and the maid Adela.
And it’s father who goes through most of the strange experiences in the book – dying several times, changing into a cockroach or a crab, shrinking to dust, dying again and ending up in the Sanatorium of the title, to name but a few. And the world Joseph lives in, whether exaggerated for effect, or filtered through a strange child’s sensibility, is an ever-changing and dramatic one. Schulz conjures up vividly the midday heat of summer, where all is still and dusty and surprisingly bleak; or the time a huge gale comes to the town, so destructive that it’s impossible to leave the house, or go into certain parts of it. In fact, the elements are often given a life of their own, and one that recurs most frequently is darkness. Things are particularly strange at night, and in the story “Cinnamon Shops” Schulz captures brilliantly that nightmare quality of being out at night and lost in a city that isn’t as we thought it was. This is the landscape of dreams and hallucinations, and the lines between what is real or surreal, literal or metaphorical, are constantly blurred.
“For ordinary books are like meteors. Each of them has only one moment, a moment when it soars screaming like the phoenix, all its pages aflame. For that single moment we love them ever after, although they soon turn to ashes. With bitter resignation we sometimes wander late at night through the extinct pages that tell their stone dead messages like wooden rosary beads.”
It’s actually hard to say in simple terms what these stories are about as they’re so rich and strange. In broad terms, it seems as if Schulz takes a simple past and transmogrifies it into something fantastic. The writing is dazzling, the metaphors expansive; I can see why commentators have compared his work to Kafka and Proust, but in the end creates a world very much of his own, albeit a sometimes disturbing one. The strangeness is added to by Schulz’s illustrations to the second book which are equally unnerving.
Yet, I do have slight reservations. Despite, or perhaps because, of the dazzling and surreal narrative, the vivid and startling imagery, I did find myself struggling in places; it’s perhaps a little difficult to connect emotionally with the characters. And just because the writing is surreal doesn’t mean you can’t care – for example, I read Leonora Carrington’s “The Hearing Trumpet” some time ago, and also that went into very odd territory, I was very much involved with the characters and their fate. Here there is a detachment, a feeling akin to being stuck in a dream and unable to run away, but also the knowledge that where you are isn’t real.
“And the process of sleeping is, in fact, one great story, divided into chapters and sections, into parts distributed among sleepers. When one of the stops and grows silent, another takes up his cue so that the story can proceed in broad, epic zigzags while they all lie in the separate rooms of that house, motionless and inert like poppy seed within the partitions of a large, dried-up poppy.”
Nevertheless I’m glad I’ve read Schulz and I have to agree with John Updike’s assessment of him as a great transmogrifier of the world – he’s certainly changed my view, and I will never look at certain things in quite the same way again. And actually, the more I think about it, the more this *isn’t* the strangest book I’ve ever read. In my time I’ve read Mervyn Peake, William S. Burroughs, Kathy Acker, Ernst Junger, Kafka, Proust…. plenty of so-called difficult writers. Schulz is a one-off, a writer out on his own, but his work is mesmeric and its images will haunt me forever. A challenge, yes – but one worthy of taking up!
*****
So that’s what I felt back in 2014 when I first read Bruno Schulz, and I can sense that I had a slightly ambivalent reaction to him. However, this time that ambivalence had disappeared. It may be that, nearly ten years down the line, I’ve read so widely in the intervening years that Schulz no longer seems difficult. In particular, the hypnotic, surreal and mesmeric qualities were even stronger this time round, and I absolutely loved reading his collected stories.
Of course, the reason for getting the newer volume was that there were missing stories not in the original, and also a new and lauded translation. I had decided that when I finished the book, I might do some comparisons of passages; however I was brought up short when I read this paragraph in the new version:
On the stage, magicians dipped their mustaches in mugs of bitter beer; they kept dully silent, deep in self-contemplation. Their instruments, violins and cellos with noble contours, lay off to the side, abandoned under the silently murmuring deluge of stars. Sometimes they picked them up and tried them on, tuning them plaintively to the pitch of their chests and testing the tone by clearing their throats. Then they laid them down again, as if they were still immature and not up to the measure of the night that flowed on, indifferent. Then, in the silence and ebb of thoughts, while forks and knives clinked softly over the white-clothed tables, a violin suddenly stood up on its own, prematurely grown-up and adult; only recently plaintive and uncertain, it now stood there eloquent, slender, with a narrow waist, and making its authority clear, took up the momentarily postponed human affair and pressed forward the lost cause before the indifferent tribunal of the stars among which the F holes and profiles of the instruments were drawn in watery print, fragmentary keys, unfinished lyres and swans – an imitative, thoughtless, astral commentary on the margins of music..
I was immediately struck by the use of the word ‘magician’, which didn’t seem to fit with the rest of the paragraph; and indeed when I checked my old Picador, the passage reads like this:
Musicians on the rostrum dipped their mustaches in mugs of bitter beer and sat around idly, deep in thought. Their violins and nobly shaped cellos lay neglected under the voiceless downpour of the stars. From time to time one of them would reach for his instrument and try it, tuning it plaintively to harmonize with his discreet coughing. Then he would put it aside as if it were not yet ready, not yet measuring up to the night, which flowed along unheeding. And then, as the knives and forks began to clank softly above the white tablecloths, the violins would rise alone, now suddenly mature although tentative and unsure just a short while before; slim and narrow-waisted, they eloquently proceeded with their task, took up again the lost human cause, and pleaded before the indifferent tribunal of stars, now set in a sky on which the shapes of the instruments floated like water signs or fragments of keys, unfinished lyres or swans, an imitatory, thoughtless starry commentary on the margin of music.
Now, I don’t know where the substitution of ‘magician’ for ‘musician’ came from, though I would hope it is simply a transcription mistake and not a translation one; although I would have hoped that an experienced proofreader would have picked it up. But it did give me pause for thought, and also made me look more closely at the Picador book. One of the stated aims of the new translation is to reinstate Schulz’s long, sinuous sentences, and certainly you can see from the two passages I’ve quoted that it certainly does so; although the two renderings are quite different! Levine’s version reads beautifully, but I do have to say that, looking at the Picador again, I really do like that translation (which may have to do with my preference for 20th century prose!) The Picador is also enhanced with Schulz’s drawings to accompany the second collection of stories and this adds much to the reading.
As for the extra stories in the new version, well actually one of them was added to the first collection in the Picador, so there are only three new ones in the latest version (and these have already appeared in a translation by Walter Arndt with Victoria Nelson, in a collection called “Letters and Drawings of Bruno Schulz with Selected Prose” – you’ll see it in the image above). It *is* nice to have all the stories in one volume, although not as groundbreaking as I might have thought! However, having flicked through each of my Schulz books, I really do think I need to have them all; I enjoy the original translations, have been happy to explore the new ones and the “Letters and Drawings…” volume looks to have much of interest, as well as some supporting material and notation, missing from both story collections.
It’s clear that despite my initial reservations, Bruno Schulz’s writings really lodged in my brain, and in the interim I’ve read another short work by him brough out by Sublunary, and also a book inspired by his work. Going back to him, I found his writing unique, involving and unforgettable – there may be hints of Peake, Kafka and Krzhizhanovsky, but Schulz was a one-off with a voice of his own. So despite the odd query, I’m glad this new translation drew me back to his work, and as I said, I shall hold onto both volumes of his stories as I think each version has its merits. This is quite a long post, so if you’ve made it this far, well done! And if you haven’t read Schulz, I definitely recommend you give him a try! 😀