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The POLLEN ROOM: A Novel
Zoë Jenny war mit ihrem Debutroman das Medienereignis der Frankfurter Buchmesse im Herbst 1997. Jung, schön, klug und von großer Präsenz, kam kaum ein Feuilletonjournalist an ihr vorbei. Aber nicht nur die Autorin beeindruckte, auch ihr Roman Das Blütenstaubzimmer überzeugt durch große poetische Kraft und eindringliche Bilder der inneren und äußeren Landschaft, die sich beide analog entwickeln und gestalten.
Anders als Michel Houellebecqs Ausweitung der Kampfzone (1999), das von der zynischen Weltsicht des Protagonisten und dessen kalter Ablehnung der verlogenen Gesellschaftsrituale lebt, ist Jennys Blütenstaubzimmer eine fein ziselierte Studie eines langsamen, desillusionierenden Abschieds einer jungen Frau vom kindlichen Wunsch nach Aufgehobensein und Anerkanntsein in der Familie.
Während der Vater, bei dem die 18jährige Jo aufgewachsen ist, bei all seiner Hilflosigkeit doch immer wieder versucht, der Tochter emotionale Zuwendung zu vermitteln, ist die Mutter Lucy, die von Jo nach zwölf Jahren das erste Mal besucht wird, viel zu sehr mit sich selbst beschäftigt, als sich um die Bedürfnisse der Tochter zu kümmern. Zudem stirbt kurze Zeit nach Jos Ankunft Lucys zweiter Ehemann (Unfall? Selbstmord?), was zu einer tiefen seelischen Krise der Mutter führt, während derer sie sich in dem titelgebenden Blütenstaubzimmer einschließt.
Sprachlosigkeit und Unfähigkeit zu Interaktion beherrschen das Verhalten der Protagonisten. Statt zu reden, flüchten sie sich in symbolische Akte. So der Vater, der Jo auf schweigsame nächtliche Spritztouren in seinem Buick mitnimmt, bei denen nichts weiter passiert als daß die beiden Gauloise-rauchend nebeneinander im Wagen sitzen. So die Mutter, die sich erst total zurückzieht und verschließt, nach dieser Phase dann ihrem Hedonismus frönt. Jo selbst versucht schon als kleines Mädchen, der verständnislosen Erwachsenenwelt ihre Bedürfnisse mitzuteilen, ebenfalls natürlich nur in symbolischer Form. Aber ihre Anstrengungen scheitern, Enttäuschungen, das Desinteresse der Umwelt, führen schließlich zu Jos Desillusionierung.
Jenny kleidet diese Geschichte des Erwachsenwerdens in eindringliche, doch niemals aufdringliche Bilder, die beim Leser noch lange nachwirken. --Kathrin Rüstig
144 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1997
About the author
Zoë Jenny
19 books11 followersZoë Jenny was born in 1974 in Basel, Switzerland and spent parts of her childhood in Greece and Ticino. Her first novel, The Pollen Room (1997), won her global critical acclaim and is the all-time best-selling debut novel by a Swiss author. Translated into 27 languages, the novel propelled her across the globe for readings and talks in schools and universities as far away as Japan, China and the USA. She lived in New York and Berlin and in 2004 settled in London, where she now lives with her husband and daughter.
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 55 reviews
January 23, 2019
This short novel was a big hit in Switzerland when the Swiss author published it at age 23 in 1994. It’s a coming of age novel about a young girl from a broken home struggling to find meaning in life. Her mother left her father and walked out of her life when she was very young. Her mother’s second husband, an artist, has just died. “I told her I wanted to visit her. It seemed shameless somehow, as if I had asked a complete stranger to do me a great favor.” Not having seen her for twelve years (the young woman is now 21) she tracks her mother down to go live with her but her mother still has absolutely no interest in her daughter. “[Her mother] can’t stand memories - they weigh her down.” Her father is preoccupied with his latest young girlfriend.
She hangs out in places where the alleys stink of urine and addicts gather. She looks through drawers for pain killers. She becomes friends with another young woman who is similarly lost. The friend is a street musician who plays just to irritate her wealthy parents. The musician tells the other young woman her mother is dying and she won’t go to visit her in the hospital: “And she wants me to watch while she does it.” The two women hook up with a male friend and go to a rave party and use ecstasy. They talk about traveling to the US, even making arrangements to get tickets, as if they could flee from themselves.
There’s occasional good writing: “[I] watch the smoke from my cigarette take on the shapes of animals. The little creatures climb from my lips to the ceiling, which is a field for them to play in, though most never make it that far. They erase themselves before they get there.”
Maybe this was all a new theme when the book was written in 1994 but it seems old news now. I notice that the book has a very low rating on GR (2.79). I’ll give it a 3.
Photo of the author from schweizer.illustriete.ch
She hangs out in places where the alleys stink of urine and addicts gather. She looks through drawers for pain killers. She becomes friends with another young woman who is similarly lost. The friend is a street musician who plays just to irritate her wealthy parents. The musician tells the other young woman her mother is dying and she won’t go to visit her in the hospital: “And she wants me to watch while she does it.” The two women hook up with a male friend and go to a rave party and use ecstasy. They talk about traveling to the US, even making arrangements to get tickets, as if they could flee from themselves.
There’s occasional good writing: “[I] watch the smoke from my cigarette take on the shapes of animals. The little creatures climb from my lips to the ceiling, which is a field for them to play in, though most never make it that far. They erase themselves before they get there.”
Maybe this was all a new theme when the book was written in 1994 but it seems old news now. I notice that the book has a very low rating on GR (2.79). I’ll give it a 3.
Photo of the author from schweizer.illustriete.ch
November 24, 2015
The Pollen Room was written by the Swiss writer Zoë Jenny when she was 23-years-old and became an international bestseller, translated into more than 27 languages and invitations to speak to readership audiences in Japan, China and the US among others.
It is interesting to write about this story after having just read Toni Morrison's God Help the Child, this novella yet another version of what Morrison demonstrates.
It is the memory of childhood without maternal love and its after-effect. It is not dramatic, nor a traditional story, it is a narrative that sets the reader up to feel something of the isolation and vulnerability of the protagonist and follow her forward as she tries to plug the gap, looking for that nourishment as if it were something tangible she could use to plug the abyss it created by its absence.
Jo stayed with her father when her mother left. There is no explanation, just significant and detailed memories of insignificant events, noises that communicate the beginning of her father's daily routine, signals that provoke anxiety, nameless visitors, the one he married Elaine, who eventually left too.
After initial weekly visits, her mother soon moves on to a new life and there is no contact for 12 years. Eventually Jo goes in search of her, however being reaquainted doesn't bring her companionship or stability, it brings responsibility, creates concern, disquiet. She seeks solace in the company of others, those who appear to live in the semblance of a home, acquaintances short-lived, consequences that won't leave her.
The prose is spare, observant, it infiltrates your mood and makes the reader suffer alongside the protagonist.
Brilliantly conceived, it is not a book to read if you are feeling sad or vulnerable. There is dialogue, interaction, and a great swathe of stream-of-conscious thought as Jo observes each encounter and responds in her inward-looking, sensitive way to it all.
Unfortunately I read this without realising that and so didn't appreciate it's best qualities as much as I might have done, had I read it at another time. I read it at a time of being acutely aware of the fragility and vulnerability of youth and couldn't see past the neglect and narcissism of those around Jo and spent the entire book worrying that something even more terrible was going to happen to her and just felt great relief when it was all over and we were safe.
It is interesting to write about this story after having just read Toni Morrison's God Help the Child, this novella yet another version of what Morrison demonstrates.
It is the memory of childhood without maternal love and its after-effect. It is not dramatic, nor a traditional story, it is a narrative that sets the reader up to feel something of the isolation and vulnerability of the protagonist and follow her forward as she tries to plug the gap, looking for that nourishment as if it were something tangible she could use to plug the abyss it created by its absence.
Jo stayed with her father when her mother left. There is no explanation, just significant and detailed memories of insignificant events, noises that communicate the beginning of her father's daily routine, signals that provoke anxiety, nameless visitors, the one he married Elaine, who eventually left too.
'At night I would fall into a restless slumber. Fractured dreams floated past my sleeping eyes like scraps of paper in the raging torrent of a river. Then I would hear a clatter and find myself wide awake. I looked at the spiderwebs on the ceiling and knew that my father was in the kitchen...
There came a series of muffled rustling noises and a moment of quiet. My breath quickened. A lump rose in my throat and swelled to enormous proportions as I watched my father put on his leather jacket and pull the door quietly closed behind him.'
After initial weekly visits, her mother soon moves on to a new life and there is no contact for 12 years. Eventually Jo goes in search of her, however being reaquainted doesn't bring her companionship or stability, it brings responsibility, creates concern, disquiet. She seeks solace in the company of others, those who appear to live in the semblance of a home, acquaintances short-lived, consequences that won't leave her.
The prose is spare, observant, it infiltrates your mood and makes the reader suffer alongside the protagonist.
Brilliantly conceived, it is not a book to read if you are feeling sad or vulnerable. There is dialogue, interaction, and a great swathe of stream-of-conscious thought as Jo observes each encounter and responds in her inward-looking, sensitive way to it all.
Unfortunately I read this without realising that and so didn't appreciate it's best qualities as much as I might have done, had I read it at another time. I read it at a time of being acutely aware of the fragility and vulnerability of youth and couldn't see past the neglect and narcissism of those around Jo and spent the entire book worrying that something even more terrible was going to happen to her and just felt great relief when it was all over and we were safe.
January 6, 2015
I discovered Zoë Jenny’s ‘The Pollen Room’ by accident. I wanted to read something by Judith Hermann, and before getting one of her books, I thought I will read about her in Wikipedia. There I discovered that there were a group of contemporary German women authors who were known together as ‘Fräuleinwunder’ and whose works have won awards and who were critically acclaimed. Other than Judith Hermann, there were some familiar names there – Julia Franck, Juli Zeh, Jenny Erpenbeck. Then there were Felicitas Hoppe and Zoë Jenny. I have never heard of both of them. Felicitas Hoppe’s works are hard to get in English, though she is famous in Germany and has won the Büchner award. Zoë Jenny’s first novel ‘The Pollen Room’ came out in 1997 and has been critically acclaimed and is a bestseller. I was able to get it and thought I will read it.
Now about Zoë Jenny’s book. I started reading it yesterday and finished it in one breath. When I say that, you probably know what that means – I loved the book. More about that later. First about the story. ‘The Pollen Room’ starts with the description of life at home by the narrator called Jo, who is in kindergarten. She tells us that her parents are separated, and she is living with her father. Her father prints books, but because they don’t sell he makes ends meet by driving a truck during the night. Jo meets her mother during the weekend. Her father, meanwhile, meets a new woman gets married to her, and then things don’t work well with her too and this new wife leaves him too. Jo’s mother takes her aside one day and tells her that she has fallen in love with someone she met and she will be moving to a new country. And then Jo doesn’t hear from her mother for the next twelve years. The scene then shifts to the current time and Jo is living with her mother. She has graduated from high school, and has taken a gap year to spend with her mother. Initially, she had planned to visit her mother for a short period of time, because she was hesitant whether her mother would be ready to talk to her. Her mother, though, welcomes her with both her arms. But sometime after that, her mother’s new husband dies in an accident, her mother has a depression and Jo ends up taking care of her. And that gap year stretches to more than one. The rest of the book is about nineteen year old (I am guessing the age here) Jo’s account of her everyday life and her reminiscences of the past.
That is the barebones plot – Jo’s account of her life with her dad and with her mom. She also talks about a couple of young men who were attracted towards her – and to whom she was attracted to. One of them rapes her and gets her pregnant and she has to have an abortion after that. Another of them wants to become a singer. Jo also describes her relationship with a girl she becomes friends with, Rea, who is from a rich family, but who rebels and becomes a street musician.
That is all about the plot of ‘The Pollen Room’. That is not the reason I loved it, though. The book has beautiful images and thoughts and descriptions from the first page. Starting from the first page in which the narrator describes her dad’s work till the last page when she describes the snow falling on to the ground and melting on impact, Zoë Jenny never lets go – she creates beautiful scenes, thoughts, ideas one after the other and floods our hearts and minds with dollops and dollops of beauty. The whole book was a bundle of exquisite, delightful beauty like a newborn baby. I thought that at some point – maybe fifty pages into the book – Zoë Jenny would slacken up a little bit with respect to the style and will get on with the narration of the story, but thankfully, she never lets go till the last page. To me that was the greatest strength of the book and the source of its greatest beauty and joy.
Zoë Jenny’s writing style made me think a lot about another of my favourite writers, Alexis Smith, and her book ‘Glaciers’. Both the writers have a remarkably similar sensitive style, bringing out the delicate beauty and joy of everyday scenes and objects and happenings, though Jenny wrote in German and Smith wrote in English. That legendary scene from Alexis Smith’s ‘Glaciers’ in which the introverted heroine holds a hot cup of coffee to warm her hands – that is there in Zoë Jenny’s book too. I really loved that. I also wondered what would happen if Zoë Jenny and Alexis Smith met and had a conversation. I would love to be part of that conversation, though I would probably be doing most of the listening. They will probably sit quietly for most of the time, in beautiful companionable silence, and wrap their hands around a hot mug of coffee, enjoying its warmth.
It is early days yet, but I think ‘The Pollen Room’ will be one of my favourite reads of the year. It is perfect in every way – it is short, it has beautiful prose, thoughts, ideas and images, the plot is contemporary and sums up a time, there are book-ish scenes in the story, and most of the characters are likeable, though complex. It is a delicate, elegant work of literary art. This is a book that I will definitely be reading again.
I will leave you with some of my favourite passages from the book.
The darkness crept out from every corner like a starving beast. I went to the kitchen, flipped on the light, sat at the table and wrapped my fingers around his coffee cup, empty but still warm. I scanned the rim for brown splotches of dried coffee. If he didn’t come back, they would be the last signs I had of his existence, his life. As the cup gradually cooled in my hands, the night pervaded the house completely spreading into every cranny.
I lean forward and watch the water pour over the edge in a fat stream, a polished rod of crystal that shatters with a roar into a cloud of white slivers at the bottom.
I close the book with resignation and watch the smoke from my cigarette take on the shape of animals. The little creatures climb from my lips to the ceiling, which is a field for them to play in, though most never make it that far. They erase themselves before they get there. I try to blow them out in big enough puffs that they will survive the trip.
I imagine that the earth that I tread on is the top layer of skin of a living creature, perhaps some sort of sea lion. Somehow this idea makes me feel at peace…
The words Rea and Milwaukee shrivel up into tiny balls of anxiety. I am stuffed so full of such balls that they stretch and disfigure me, and I am in danger of bursting at the seams on every side. Each and every one of them is an independently functioning organism. They fight with one another constantly, as each of them wants me to itself. The Lucy ball is the biggest. Sometimes it goes away, but its here now and growing within me, battling against the others.
When I sit down on a bench nearby, they look over at me. There is nothing friendly in their eyes. I know I’m bothering them, but stay where I am nonetheless. I don’t tell them that I’m sitting here just to watch the snow fall to earth. This kind of snow doesn’t stick at all. It doesn’t coat the ground in a layer of pure white, because it melts as soon as it hits the earth, always keeping me waiting for the next flake, for the microsecond when it hits the ground but has not yet melted. I will wait here with the ladies for the snow to coat the ground in a layer of pure white, a white blanket of snow.
Have you read Zoë Jenny’s ‘The Pollen Room’? What do you think about it?
Now about Zoë Jenny’s book. I started reading it yesterday and finished it in one breath. When I say that, you probably know what that means – I loved the book. More about that later. First about the story. ‘The Pollen Room’ starts with the description of life at home by the narrator called Jo, who is in kindergarten. She tells us that her parents are separated, and she is living with her father. Her father prints books, but because they don’t sell he makes ends meet by driving a truck during the night. Jo meets her mother during the weekend. Her father, meanwhile, meets a new woman gets married to her, and then things don’t work well with her too and this new wife leaves him too. Jo’s mother takes her aside one day and tells her that she has fallen in love with someone she met and she will be moving to a new country. And then Jo doesn’t hear from her mother for the next twelve years. The scene then shifts to the current time and Jo is living with her mother. She has graduated from high school, and has taken a gap year to spend with her mother. Initially, she had planned to visit her mother for a short period of time, because she was hesitant whether her mother would be ready to talk to her. Her mother, though, welcomes her with both her arms. But sometime after that, her mother’s new husband dies in an accident, her mother has a depression and Jo ends up taking care of her. And that gap year stretches to more than one. The rest of the book is about nineteen year old (I am guessing the age here) Jo’s account of her everyday life and her reminiscences of the past.
That is the barebones plot – Jo’s account of her life with her dad and with her mom. She also talks about a couple of young men who were attracted towards her – and to whom she was attracted to. One of them rapes her and gets her pregnant and she has to have an abortion after that. Another of them wants to become a singer. Jo also describes her relationship with a girl she becomes friends with, Rea, who is from a rich family, but who rebels and becomes a street musician.
That is all about the plot of ‘The Pollen Room’. That is not the reason I loved it, though. The book has beautiful images and thoughts and descriptions from the first page. Starting from the first page in which the narrator describes her dad’s work till the last page when she describes the snow falling on to the ground and melting on impact, Zoë Jenny never lets go – she creates beautiful scenes, thoughts, ideas one after the other and floods our hearts and minds with dollops and dollops of beauty. The whole book was a bundle of exquisite, delightful beauty like a newborn baby. I thought that at some point – maybe fifty pages into the book – Zoë Jenny would slacken up a little bit with respect to the style and will get on with the narration of the story, but thankfully, she never lets go till the last page. To me that was the greatest strength of the book and the source of its greatest beauty and joy.
Zoë Jenny’s writing style made me think a lot about another of my favourite writers, Alexis Smith, and her book ‘Glaciers’. Both the writers have a remarkably similar sensitive style, bringing out the delicate beauty and joy of everyday scenes and objects and happenings, though Jenny wrote in German and Smith wrote in English. That legendary scene from Alexis Smith’s ‘Glaciers’ in which the introverted heroine holds a hot cup of coffee to warm her hands – that is there in Zoë Jenny’s book too. I really loved that. I also wondered what would happen if Zoë Jenny and Alexis Smith met and had a conversation. I would love to be part of that conversation, though I would probably be doing most of the listening. They will probably sit quietly for most of the time, in beautiful companionable silence, and wrap their hands around a hot mug of coffee, enjoying its warmth.
It is early days yet, but I think ‘The Pollen Room’ will be one of my favourite reads of the year. It is perfect in every way – it is short, it has beautiful prose, thoughts, ideas and images, the plot is contemporary and sums up a time, there are book-ish scenes in the story, and most of the characters are likeable, though complex. It is a delicate, elegant work of literary art. This is a book that I will definitely be reading again.
I will leave you with some of my favourite passages from the book.
The darkness crept out from every corner like a starving beast. I went to the kitchen, flipped on the light, sat at the table and wrapped my fingers around his coffee cup, empty but still warm. I scanned the rim for brown splotches of dried coffee. If he didn’t come back, they would be the last signs I had of his existence, his life. As the cup gradually cooled in my hands, the night pervaded the house completely spreading into every cranny.
I lean forward and watch the water pour over the edge in a fat stream, a polished rod of crystal that shatters with a roar into a cloud of white slivers at the bottom.
I close the book with resignation and watch the smoke from my cigarette take on the shape of animals. The little creatures climb from my lips to the ceiling, which is a field for them to play in, though most never make it that far. They erase themselves before they get there. I try to blow them out in big enough puffs that they will survive the trip.
I imagine that the earth that I tread on is the top layer of skin of a living creature, perhaps some sort of sea lion. Somehow this idea makes me feel at peace…
The words Rea and Milwaukee shrivel up into tiny balls of anxiety. I am stuffed so full of such balls that they stretch and disfigure me, and I am in danger of bursting at the seams on every side. Each and every one of them is an independently functioning organism. They fight with one another constantly, as each of them wants me to itself. The Lucy ball is the biggest. Sometimes it goes away, but its here now and growing within me, battling against the others.
When I sit down on a bench nearby, they look over at me. There is nothing friendly in their eyes. I know I’m bothering them, but stay where I am nonetheless. I don’t tell them that I’m sitting here just to watch the snow fall to earth. This kind of snow doesn’t stick at all. It doesn’t coat the ground in a layer of pure white, because it melts as soon as it hits the earth, always keeping me waiting for the next flake, for the microsecond when it hits the ground but has not yet melted. I will wait here with the ladies for the snow to coat the ground in a layer of pure white, a white blanket of snow.
Have you read Zoë Jenny’s ‘The Pollen Room’? What do you think about it?
August 14, 2021
Teile des Buchs, insbesondere die Schreibweise, haben mich schon gefesselt, leider war es das dann aber auch. Mir war klar, dass es schwierig wird einer Hauptfigur auf 121 Seiten so wirklich nahe zu kommen, aber Jo ist mir ein Rätsel geblieben. Sie sehnt sich nach so einigen Dingen in ihrem jungen Leben und kann doch nicht so recht formulieren, was das denn ist. Anstelle dessen sucht sie Auswege und flüchte sich in Illusionen.
Am schwersten ist mir das Hin und Her in der Geschichte gefallen. Manchmal wurde chronologisch erzählt, manchmal gab es einen großen Sprung zurück. Das alles ohne Kapitelunterbrechungen oder sonstige Ankündigungen. Manche Szenen waren super detailliert (bspw. der Kinobesuch) während andere Themen sehr nebulös blieben.
Mich hat das Buch nicht wirklich erreicht, aber vielleicht liegt das auch daran, dass ich mich von diesen unsicheren, fragenden Alter der Protagonistin einfach ein wenig entfernt habe.
Am schwersten ist mir das Hin und Her in der Geschichte gefallen. Manchmal wurde chronologisch erzählt, manchmal gab es einen großen Sprung zurück. Das alles ohne Kapitelunterbrechungen oder sonstige Ankündigungen. Manche Szenen waren super detailliert (bspw. der Kinobesuch) während andere Themen sehr nebulös blieben.
Mich hat das Buch nicht wirklich erreicht, aber vielleicht liegt das auch daran, dass ich mich von diesen unsicheren, fragenden Alter der Protagonistin einfach ein wenig entfernt habe.
June 7, 2009
A short, beautiful novel about loss and the fragility of human relationships. It begins with an introduction narrated by a young girl of 5 or 6 whose mother has just walked out on her. Consistent with the view of a child, the events are a little confused and misunderstood but the sense impressions are vivid. In the first two pages alone, we learn that the building she lives in smells of damp rock, we see her father tracing shapes in the dark with a glowing cigarette, we hear the rhythmic bickering of the typewriter, we hear a jangling noise, the strangled whistle of the kettle, hasty, muffled sounds, the aroma of coffee, the greasy yellow of the streetlight, the cigarette ends lined up along the edge of the table like little soldiers.
After 20 pages or so, the action jumps forward 12 years. The girl, Jo, is now 18, and has gone to stay with her mother for a few months, the first time she is seeing her in all that time. But soon her mother's partner Alois dies and the mother becomes catatonic with grief. She collects pollen from the garden, sprinkles it over the floor of Alois's studio and lies there for days. Jo finally breaks in and drags her out and takes care of her. So even now, it's not the mother taking care of the child, but the reverse. Her mother never apologises for her absence or even tries to explain it. When Jo called her initially, for the first time in 12 years, she simply laughed and "asked incredulously several times if it was really that long." As if it was a silly mistake or misunderstanding, a friendship let lapse, not a daughter abandoned.
The book is full of dark imagery. Jo is sitting at an idyllic countryside spot with a waterfall and beautiful butterflies fluttering around. But then the butterflies keep dropping into the water and being carried off to their deaths. Jo fishes them out, puts them on a rock to dry in the sun, and then, "quite soon, they unfurl their wings and one after another they head straight back to the water, and their death."
The image of dead butterflies recurs later, when Jo is stopped by a group of boys who agressively try to sell her a box of "rare valuable butterflies", all dead. She buys them and then, as soon as their out of sight, throws the box in a bush. I think the butterflies are symbols of life as Jo sees it - beautiful, delicate, fragile and easily broken. This is consistent with her life, in which people appear and disappear without any warning or explanation, from her mother through to friends and boyfriends. Nothing is lasting, and she lives with the constant expectation that things will end. Death is ever-present. Referring to herself in the future, she adds the caveat "if I live that long". She looks at a "ghostly reflection" of her friend Rea in the windscreen in which "her skin looks quite translucent. Suddenly I'm overcome by the fear that she isn't going to live." The main tourist attraction of the town she lives in is a pedestrian underpass in which some old skeletons were found and put on display.
Even living human relationships are bizarre and loveless. Jo's friend Rea appears to have the family life that Jo lacks, but the family is scattered and Rea refers to her parents with contempt, even her dying mother. When they see a man apparently dead in the underpass, Rea replies "Well, all the more reason to leave him alone. The cleaners will find him later." After her mother's initial, exaggerated grief for Alois is over, she quickly starts living as if he never existed. She never asks or says anything about Jo's father. Jo's own sexual experience is completely unpleasant, and her tentative relationship with a budding musician is unfulfilled. The boy ends up working on a construction site and she sees him from afar, "his mouth defeated, his hands on his knees, like a little animal in danger, but too tired to find itself a place to hide."
The image of beauty being destroyed by ugliness is also recurrent. Her mother replaces the painter Alois with a man who's building ugly hotels across the town, and the musician too gets forced into working on the site. Jo remembers a geography teacher at school who showed them the world map and tried to get them excited about the "mystery waiting to be explored by us, but sometimes a pained smile flitted across his lips, because really we all knew we were dealing with a comprehensively disfigured planet that no one really wants any more." The pneumatic drills keep hammering away, and the butterflies always die.
After 20 pages or so, the action jumps forward 12 years. The girl, Jo, is now 18, and has gone to stay with her mother for a few months, the first time she is seeing her in all that time. But soon her mother's partner Alois dies and the mother becomes catatonic with grief. She collects pollen from the garden, sprinkles it over the floor of Alois's studio and lies there for days. Jo finally breaks in and drags her out and takes care of her. So even now, it's not the mother taking care of the child, but the reverse. Her mother never apologises for her absence or even tries to explain it. When Jo called her initially, for the first time in 12 years, she simply laughed and "asked incredulously several times if it was really that long." As if it was a silly mistake or misunderstanding, a friendship let lapse, not a daughter abandoned.
The book is full of dark imagery. Jo is sitting at an idyllic countryside spot with a waterfall and beautiful butterflies fluttering around. But then the butterflies keep dropping into the water and being carried off to their deaths. Jo fishes them out, puts them on a rock to dry in the sun, and then, "quite soon, they unfurl their wings and one after another they head straight back to the water, and their death."
The image of dead butterflies recurs later, when Jo is stopped by a group of boys who agressively try to sell her a box of "rare valuable butterflies", all dead. She buys them and then, as soon as their out of sight, throws the box in a bush. I think the butterflies are symbols of life as Jo sees it - beautiful, delicate, fragile and easily broken. This is consistent with her life, in which people appear and disappear without any warning or explanation, from her mother through to friends and boyfriends. Nothing is lasting, and she lives with the constant expectation that things will end. Death is ever-present. Referring to herself in the future, she adds the caveat "if I live that long". She looks at a "ghostly reflection" of her friend Rea in the windscreen in which "her skin looks quite translucent. Suddenly I'm overcome by the fear that she isn't going to live." The main tourist attraction of the town she lives in is a pedestrian underpass in which some old skeletons were found and put on display.
Even living human relationships are bizarre and loveless. Jo's friend Rea appears to have the family life that Jo lacks, but the family is scattered and Rea refers to her parents with contempt, even her dying mother. When they see a man apparently dead in the underpass, Rea replies "Well, all the more reason to leave him alone. The cleaners will find him later." After her mother's initial, exaggerated grief for Alois is over, she quickly starts living as if he never existed. She never asks or says anything about Jo's father. Jo's own sexual experience is completely unpleasant, and her tentative relationship with a budding musician is unfulfilled. The boy ends up working on a construction site and she sees him from afar, "his mouth defeated, his hands on his knees, like a little animal in danger, but too tired to find itself a place to hide."
The image of beauty being destroyed by ugliness is also recurrent. Her mother replaces the painter Alois with a man who's building ugly hotels across the town, and the musician too gets forced into working on the site. Jo remembers a geography teacher at school who showed them the world map and tried to get them excited about the "mystery waiting to be explored by us, but sometimes a pained smile flitted across his lips, because really we all knew we were dealing with a comprehensively disfigured planet that no one really wants any more." The pneumatic drills keep hammering away, and the butterflies always die.
February 20, 2017
Dies hier soll ein Roman sein, der das Erwachsenwerden und Loslösen von den Eltern beschreibt, doch um ehrlich zu sein empfand ich es eher als zusammenhangloses Sammelsurium aus Namen, deren Charaktere kaum erklärt werden und die auftauchen und verschwinden, ohne dass man begreift, wie sie zur Protagonistin stehen, und Momenten, die ebenfalls nicht weiter erklärt werden. Mal ist sie im Kino und beschreibt minutiös, was im Film (und im Telefonat eines Mannes, der ebenfalls dort sitzt) vor sich geht, dann ist das aber wieder vorbei, ohne dass es irgendeine Funktion für eine Handlung gehabt hätte. Auch ihre ständigen Träume oder Visionen werden in keinen Kontext gerückt, sondern stehen einzeln und somit sinnlos im Raum. So ist das Buch eigentlich nur eine langweilige Verschwendung von Zeit, ohne dass man jemand die Protagonistin groß kennen gelernt hätte. In sie einfühlen kann man sich erst recht nicht. Und so finden - zumindest in meinem Fall - Leser und Buch an keiner Stelle zu einander.
November 18, 2016
Samo se sjećam da mi je bila dosadna
February 12, 2017
The one saving grace is that Zoë Jenny writes beautiful sentences. But this doesn't feel like a finished novel. No sense of cohesion. No narrative elements. No introspection from the first person narrator, even as the thin plot opens doors that might easily turn into more substantial plot points but which never do.
September 21, 2010
Perhaps the translation is lacking, but this thin novella was a bit too fast for me to care much about the main character. Yes, I get that her divorced parents wreak havoc on her ability to navigate through the world, and the idea of the pollen room as a death memorial is intriguing. But something is lacking in terms of sustained, substantial thoughts. As a short story, it would be fine, but for a novel it needs more "air," more ideas, more of a feeling for why we should stick with the narrator. Otherwise, we are left feeling a bit uninterested in her problems because there doesn't seem to be much at stake. Some of the other characters, while very thinly drawn, seem like they might be leading lives that would be much more interesting to read about...
Read
January 31, 2016Was a school book, very, very boring.
October 29, 2024
Der erste Roman von Zoë Jenny besticht durch seine bildschaffende Schreibweise. Emotionen der Icherzählerin tauchen greifbar an der Oberfläche auf. Es ist die Geschichte einer jungen Frau, die sich im Zwischenraum der Jugend und dem Erwachsenwerden bewegt. Der Umgang mit den geschiedenen Eltern, die sich mehr um ihre eigenen Angelegenheiten kümmern als um das Wohl der Tochter, ist das Leitmotiv dieses Romans. Zoë Jenny gelingt es gut, eine Stimmung des verletzt Seins und des Aufbruchs zu erzeugen. Zwischendurch bekam ich aber das Gefühl, ihre Bemühungen, moderne Literatur schaffen zu wollen, zu spüren, was mich ein bisschen ermüdete. Aber insgesamt ein gelungener Debütroman.
January 20, 2020
So eine glasklare Sprache. So viel Subtext.
August 1, 2021
was shit
March 14, 2017
Als ich vor ca. 20 Jahren einen Workshop für kreatives Schreiben besucht habe, war dieses Buch der Hit bei meinen damaligen Altersgenossen. Jeder wollte so schreiben wie diese Zoe Jenny: allegorisiert, affektiert, verschwurbelt. Hinter jedem Baum stand eine Metapher, in die die Autorin ihr Innenleben eingepackt hat wie ein Geburtstagsgeschenk (das keiner haben will) in silberfarbenes, knisterndes Geschenkpapier. Als ich schließlich diesen von allen so hochgelobten Roman selbst einmal gelesen habe, musste ich mich echt anstrengen, um ihn bis zum Ende zu lesen. Mit dieser blümchenhaften Art zu schreiben kann ich echt nichts anfangen. So hatte ich mich schon in meiner Jugend eher an Bukowski und Wolf Wondratschek orientiert. Naja, ganz verschiedene Richtungen. Viele von denen, die damals in diesen Literaturworkshops vom Westfälischen Literaturbüro diese Zoe Jenny so mochten, haben dann am Deutschen Literaturinstitut in Leipzig studiert. Mich wollte das DLL nicht. Vielleicht ja deshalb, weil ich nicht so geschrieben habe wie diese Zoe Jenny. Vielleicht aber auch wegen was anderem. Ist auch egal. Ich habe etwas studiert, was im Grunde genauso lächerlich ist wie das Studium am DLL...
July 30, 2013
Klappentext:
Eine junge Frau begibt sich auf die Reise. Sie verläßt den Vater, um die Mutter zu finden. Doch ihr Weg führt zum unausweichlichen Abschied von den Eltern.
Rezension:
Jo hat gerade ihr Abitur hinter sich, als sie beschließt vor dem Studiumbeginn ihre Mutter Lucy zu besuchen. Diese hat sie seit über 10 Jahren weder gesehen noch gesprochen. Lucy zog als Jo noch zur Schule ging mit ihrem neuen Ehemann Alois weg von Jo und ihrem Vater. Während Jo´s Besuch, verstirbt Alois plötzlich und Lucy verschanzt sich in seinem ehemaligen Arbeitszimmer. Jo versucht ihrer Mutter in dieser schweren Zeit beizustehen so dass sich ihr Besuch auf ganze zwei Jahre erstreckt in denen Lucy ihre Tochter jedoch immer weiter von sich wegstößt.
Fazit:
Ich habe dieses Buch bereits vor über 10 Jahren in der Oberstufe lesen sollen, damals habe ich es zum erstenmal abgebrochen. Vor ein paar Jahren wagte ich mich dann nochmal an die knappen 120 Seiten ran, aber auch da wieder erfolglos. Jetzt im Rahmen der 20/13 Challenge habe ich es erneut zur Hand genommen und diesmal auch beendet. Aber ich brauchte auch fast eine Woche dafür was wohl schon dafür spricht wie fesselnd und spannend diese 120 Seiten sind. Jo´s Geschichte ist kurz gesagt einfach traurig und es deprimiert mich sie zu lesen. So sehr das ich mich zu jeder Seite fast zwingen muss. Für andere ist das vielleicht ein interessantes und tiefgründiges kleines Buch für zwischendurch, für mich ist es leider das reinste Trauerspiel zu lesen wie Jo sich bemüht nur um immer wieder feststellen zu müssen das sie den anderen egal ist. Zusammengefasst, zweimal abgebrochen, einmal durchgequält: 1 Stern von mir.
Eine junge Frau begibt sich auf die Reise. Sie verläßt den Vater, um die Mutter zu finden. Doch ihr Weg führt zum unausweichlichen Abschied von den Eltern.
Rezension:
Jo hat gerade ihr Abitur hinter sich, als sie beschließt vor dem Studiumbeginn ihre Mutter Lucy zu besuchen. Diese hat sie seit über 10 Jahren weder gesehen noch gesprochen. Lucy zog als Jo noch zur Schule ging mit ihrem neuen Ehemann Alois weg von Jo und ihrem Vater. Während Jo´s Besuch, verstirbt Alois plötzlich und Lucy verschanzt sich in seinem ehemaligen Arbeitszimmer. Jo versucht ihrer Mutter in dieser schweren Zeit beizustehen so dass sich ihr Besuch auf ganze zwei Jahre erstreckt in denen Lucy ihre Tochter jedoch immer weiter von sich wegstößt.
Fazit:
Ich habe dieses Buch bereits vor über 10 Jahren in der Oberstufe lesen sollen, damals habe ich es zum erstenmal abgebrochen. Vor ein paar Jahren wagte ich mich dann nochmal an die knappen 120 Seiten ran, aber auch da wieder erfolglos. Jetzt im Rahmen der 20/13 Challenge habe ich es erneut zur Hand genommen und diesmal auch beendet. Aber ich brauchte auch fast eine Woche dafür was wohl schon dafür spricht wie fesselnd und spannend diese 120 Seiten sind. Jo´s Geschichte ist kurz gesagt einfach traurig und es deprimiert mich sie zu lesen. So sehr das ich mich zu jeder Seite fast zwingen muss. Für andere ist das vielleicht ein interessantes und tiefgründiges kleines Buch für zwischendurch, für mich ist es leider das reinste Trauerspiel zu lesen wie Jo sich bemüht nur um immer wieder feststellen zu müssen das sie den anderen egal ist. Zusammengefasst, zweimal abgebrochen, einmal durchgequält: 1 Stern von mir.
December 12, 2021
Enésimo intento de convertir una novela debut en la nueva El guardián entre el centeno (de la que bebe de forma clara). La publicidad que el primer trabajo de Zoë Jenny vivió en su momento (hace ya más de veinte años) no justifica en absoluto la pobre calidad que se encuentra entre sus páginas. Parece un ejercicio de escritura correcto pero sin verdadera alma.
En esta pequeña obra encontramos saltos de tiempo, escenas cerradas que se superponen y que hablan del sempiterno problema de la falta de comunicación entre padres e hijos de familias desestructuradas.
La protagonista de La habitación del polen parece no saber qué hacer con su vida, ni como integrarse en ese mosaico llamado vida, por lo que se limita a deambular y dejar que el tiempo pase sin sacar nada de provecho. Algo parecido ocurre cuando terminas de leer la historia, y te preguntas desde cuándo el márketing se ha impuesto a la literatura.
En esta pequeña obra encontramos saltos de tiempo, escenas cerradas que se superponen y que hablan del sempiterno problema de la falta de comunicación entre padres e hijos de familias desestructuradas.
La protagonista de La habitación del polen parece no saber qué hacer con su vida, ni como integrarse en ese mosaico llamado vida, por lo que se limita a deambular y dejar que el tiempo pase sin sacar nada de provecho. Algo parecido ocurre cuando terminas de leer la historia, y te preguntas desde cuándo el márketing se ha impuesto a la literatura.
August 31, 2014
Das Blütenstaubzimmer ist eines der Bücher, mit denen ich herzlich wenig anfangen kann. Mittlerweile habe ich es in den letzten 12 Jahren vier Mal gelesen. Anfangs für die Schule, später, um zu wissen, ob sich meine Einstellung zum Buch geändert hat - hat sie nicht. Grundsätzlich ist alles in Ordnung, sowohl sprachlich als auch inhaltlich, von daher hat das Buch sicherlich Potential, Freunde zu finden. Trotzdem ist mir die Protagonistin höchst unsymphatisch. Ihr Verhalten und ihre Gedankenwelt konnte ich nicht nachvollziehen, die ganze Zeit über dachte ich nur: "Werd' erwachsen." Leider wurde sie das nicht.
August 10, 2016
This was a really strange little book.
Can't say I liked it.
Can't say I liked it.
June 3, 2014
This book was hard to follow and although it was really short, it seemed to drag on forever.
August 29, 2023
Silent tears
February 7, 2020
I didn´t like Zoë Jenny´s book a lot. It´s difficult to explain why as it without any doubt has many artistic qualities. Maybe it´s because the book is so packed with all the sophisticated metaphores but behind them it´s missing message or meaning. And it makes sense- life of the main character has no purpose and about an empty life you can write only an empty book. The book takes place in Spain but it´s incredibly cold in my opinion. If you´re good at making up metaphores you can try to hide you don´t have much to write about but the question is if it will be enough to convince your readers. And I am not convinced. The story neither the character has any developement, it goes from nowhere to nowhere and if you expect any catharsis in the end, you´ll be disappointed.
October 3, 2020
This is Swiss writer Zoë Jenny's debut novel. She was apparently only 23 when this came out in 1997. It can be classified as a sort of coming of age story of a young girl Jo whose parents are separated. The Pollen Room is a short novel. It's a story of trouble childhood and teenage. The title is intriguing, the story had potential. In fact, it started off reasonably well, showed promise at some places where the writing was quite good, but the novel simply failed to take off, and it ended without exploring any of the thematic elements in depth or connecting the different strands of the story cohesively.
The review snippets comparing this work to Sylvia Plath and, well, Hemingway are utterly overstated. I do hope the needless hype hasn't adversely affected Jenny's subsequent work.
The review snippets comparing this work to Sylvia Plath and, well, Hemingway are utterly overstated. I do hope the needless hype hasn't adversely affected Jenny's subsequent work.
December 8, 2020
Ich war beeindruckt von der Schreibweise, weniger vom Inhalt. Die Autorin beschreibt die Handlung fast nur über Sinneseindrücke. Autor*innen wird empfohlen, alle Sinne der Leser*innen anzusprechen. Jenny gelingt das Ausgezeichnet. Sie macht in den dicht geschilderten Szenen fast schon eine Kunstform.daraus. Mitunter muss der Leser/die Leserin die Leerstellen in der Erzählung mit seinen/ihren Erfahrungen ausfüllen, um zu verstehen, was vor sich geht. Der Inhalt, soweit mir erinnerlich: Ein Mädchen macht eher unangenehme Erfahrungen mit dem männlichen Geschlecht und nabelt sich vom Elternhaus, insbesondere vom weich geschilderten Vater ab.
January 22, 2026
Literatura de los 90 en su máximo (pésimo) esplendor. Una novela con escasos momentos destacables, escrita en modo indicativo y falta de cualquier suceso ajeno a la realidad, salvo cuando la imaginación funciona para combinar asco, muerte, desagrado y putrefacción. Todo ello surcando páginas de sexo, soledad, ciudad, drogas, familias rotas, relaciones abusivas y un largo etcétera, siempre depresivo. Se ve pronto el mecanismo de contrapunto cada cuatro párrafos y su intención pobre de elevar la rutina. En resumen, literatura de los 90.
May 9, 2017
Ganz ehrlich, wusste ich anfangs durch den abrupten Einstieg nicht so recht, wo ich mich befinde. Der Schreibstil ist etwas ungewohnt, doch kurzweilig und spannend. Ich fand es aber - für meinen Wellness-Urlaub - etwas zu düster. Das Buch war ein Geschenk und ich wollte natürlich wissen, worum es geht. Empfehlen kann ich es persönlich nicht, aber mit Sicherheit wären viele andere Leser einer ganz anderen Meinung.
January 17, 2024
I hesitate to recommend this book to those averse to the stream of consciousness style and it’s lack of dialogue and narrative but due to its brevity you can afford to succumb to the elegant writing and wonderful imagery . I found myself in the mind of a troubled young adult who’s facing abandonment, loss and fractured parental issues by transitioning her mind to another level. Probably best read in one sitting.
November 6, 2025
This book really wasn’t for me. Whilst only a short story I thought I’d finish easily, but I struggled with the story telling. Whilst it was poignant in places, it also felt disjointed and clunky.
I loved some of the writing and it was descriptive. I was disappointed and think it could have been smoother to capture me more. Perhaps I missed the point here
I loved some of the writing and it was descriptive. I was disappointed and think it could have been smoother to capture me more. Perhaps I missed the point here
February 3, 2020
Well-written and shed light on a childhood with totally unreliable parents. I felt very sorry for the narrator but I didn't particularly enjoy the book because it so narrowly stuck to the narrator's story that it was more like sneaking into someone's diary than viewing the world through a book.
December 21, 2021
"Ich liege da, bewegungslos, ein leeres Gefäß, das sich nach und nach mit der Erinnerung, wo ich bin, wieder auffüllt." S. 33
Ein Satz wie das ganze Buch. Bildstarke Sprache einer Protagonistin, die sich trotz des Coming-of-Age-Konzept des Romans nicht wirklich weiterentwickelt.
Ein Satz wie das ganze Buch. Bildstarke Sprache einer Protagonistin, die sich trotz des Coming-of-Age-Konzept des Romans nicht wirklich weiterentwickelt.
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