A Master Of Nostalgia

Tara Isabella Burton reviews The Collected Stories of Stefan Zweig, pronouncing the Austrian writer a master of psychological complexity who has “lapsed into an undeserved obscurity”:

His worlds are dream-like, their atmosphere colored by a memory that is, more often than not, unreliable. In the 22 stories that comprise Pushkin Press’s new Collected Stories, expertly and atmospherically translated by Anthea Bell, most are told through concentric circles of narrative — unobtrusive narrators meet the tale’s real raconteurs on board ships, trains from Dresden, and guest houses on the Riviera. Each level of narrative adds a degree of nostalgic uncertainty, a veil of emotions through which facts become ever more vague.

Zweig has sometimes been criticized for an excessive tendency to whitewash, to create a vision of pre-war Central Europe that is, as Robert S. Wistrich puts it, “gilded, sanitized [and] pure nostalgia.” But such a reading of Zweig fails to take in account his pronounced sense of tragedy. He treats the personal and the political with equal sensitivity: the atrocities of war are no more surprising than the atrocities of human nature from which they spring. While it’s easy to accuse Zweig of too-ready nostalgia — of falling in love with a world, a place, a time, that never really existed — such a reading is simplistic. The vanished world Zweig longs for is never really just the Vienna of 1900. It is the world of our childhoods, of our illusions, of the faith we have in human goodness that the world so often does not confirm.

Burton notes the author’s influence on Wes Anderson, remarking that the director’s latest film, The Grand Budapest Hotel, “does much to bring Zweig’s particular brand of elegiac to the screen”:

From Zweig’s almost cloying candy-colored atmospheres — virtually tailor-made for Anderson’s brand of visual whimsy — to the inevitability of global catastrophe, casting a pall over even the happiest moments of domestic comfort, The Grand Budapest Hotel manages to capture nearly all of Zweig’s most striking qualities.

Jason Diamond also picks up on Anderson’s inspiration, and hopes the filmmaker will bring Zweig’s work a bigger audience:

“It’s more or less plagiarism,” Anderson recently told the press about the huge influence Zweig’s work had on his latest film, Grand Budapest Hotel. Zweig, who Anderson pointed out was among the biggest writers in Europe in the 1920s and ’30s, never attained the sort of popularity in America that he did on his own continent. …

Zweig’s story, unfortunately, will never quite have the rosy glow of most Anderson films no matter how many of his books sell, considering the tragic way his life ended. Constantly in exile beginning in the early 1930s, the Jewish author and his wife, Lotte Altmann, escaped his home country of Austria to avoid Nazi persecution. As the couple roamed from England to America before finally ending up in Brazil, Zweig felt more and more hopeless about the course humanity was taking, as well as his own constant running. In his suicide note, he explained, “to start everything anew after a man’s 60th year requires special powers, and my own power has been expended after years of wandering homeless. I thus prefer to end my life at the right time, upright, as a man for whom cultural work has always been his purest happiness and personal freedom — the most precious of possessions on this earth.” Zweig and Lotte were found dead from a barbiturate overdose, holding hands in their bed.

(Video: Trailer for The Grand Budapest Hotel)