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Three Book Sebald Set: The Emigrants, The Rings of Saturn, and Vertigo
The masterworks of W. G. Sebald, now in gorgeous new covers by the famed designer Peter Mendelsund New Directions is delighted to announce beautiful new editions of these three classic Sebald novels, including his two greatest works, The Emigrants and The Rings of Saturn . All three novels are distinguished by their translations, every line of which Sebald himself made pitch-perfect, slaving to carry into English all his essential the shadows, the lambent fallings-back, nineteenth-century Germanic undertones, tragic elegiac notes, and his unique, quiet wit.
- GenresFiction
816 pages, Paperback
Published November 8, 2016
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82 people want to read
About the author
W.G. Sebald
47 books1,824 followersWinfried Georg Maximilian Sebald was a German writer and academic. His works are largely concerned with the themes of memory, loss of memory, and identity (both personal and collective) and decay (of civilizations, traditions or physical objects). They are, in particular, attempts to reconcile himself with, and deal in literary terms with, the trauma of the Second World War and its effect on the German people.
At the time of his death at the age of only 57, he was being cited by many literary critics as one of the greatest living authors, and was tipped as a possible future recipient of the Nobel Prize in Literature.
At the time of his death at the age of only 57, he was being cited by many literary critics as one of the greatest living authors, and was tipped as a possible future recipient of the Nobel Prize in Literature.
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Displaying 1 - 2 of 2 reviews
June 25, 2017
I’ll admit that the beautiful new Peter Mendelsund-designed covers created for the New Directions rerelease of Sebald's first three novels were a big part of the impetus for finally taking on Vertigo and rereading The Emigrants and The Rings of Saturn. (I'm a graphic designer, so sue me...) Whatever the prompt, these three books are a gift, and Sebald's untimely death in 2001 makes them (and his last novel Austerlitz) precious literary gold now.
I’ve never been able to describe Sebald’s work effectively. Fictional travelogues? Sure. Holocaust meditations? Yes, but so muted and often metaphorical that the even slightly distracted reader might miss them. History lessons? Maybe, as there is always a blurry line between truth and fiction in these books. This is stream of consciousness storytelling that can pivot to a wildly different place and time period in the course of one phrase. These books require one’s undivided attention and that still may not be enough to maintain an interest. (To boot, paragraph breaks are exceedingly rare.) Those looking for conventional plot structure and fast moving action should probably avoid Sebald. Admittedly the first time I read the two books in this trio back in my twenties, I was not convinced his work was a worthwhile literary endeavor. Only Austerlitz really stuck with me upon these first readings.
Maybe it’s age and the creeping existential melancholy that begins to loom as one gets older. Maybe it’s that I decided to read most of these three books traveling and away from home, a subtle nod or echo to the journeys Sebald’s unnamed narrator takes in each of them. Maybe it was the Max Richter Three Worlds soundtrack (inspired by Virginia Woolf, no less) in my ears as I was trying to shut out the din of a New York cafe as I read a chapter of Vertigo. Whatever it was, these three books pulled at me in a way that I’ve never really experienced as a reader. They haunt me.
I’ve had these moments of “vertigo” that Sebald describes when I travel alone—when discovery, memory and isolation collide to produce moments of indescribable deep feeling coupled with a strange displaced alienation. When you’re in an airport and contemplate getting on a different flight to an unfamiliar destination. Or when you visit a place rich with history and try to process all that has happened there before you. I’ve never been able to describe these moments adequately in speech or writing. But I know the feeling—of being alive in the moment, yet also aware of all of human existence’s burden. Especially if one is tuned into the history and knowledge of a place, and is open to the emotion this can elicit.
Does that make any sense? If anything, Sebald’s work proves that great art often leaves us speechless, incapable of the specific words. The only proxy is to read the books yourself. Sorry. Get to it, then.
I’ve never been able to describe Sebald’s work effectively. Fictional travelogues? Sure. Holocaust meditations? Yes, but so muted and often metaphorical that the even slightly distracted reader might miss them. History lessons? Maybe, as there is always a blurry line between truth and fiction in these books. This is stream of consciousness storytelling that can pivot to a wildly different place and time period in the course of one phrase. These books require one’s undivided attention and that still may not be enough to maintain an interest. (To boot, paragraph breaks are exceedingly rare.) Those looking for conventional plot structure and fast moving action should probably avoid Sebald. Admittedly the first time I read the two books in this trio back in my twenties, I was not convinced his work was a worthwhile literary endeavor. Only Austerlitz really stuck with me upon these first readings.
Maybe it’s age and the creeping existential melancholy that begins to loom as one gets older. Maybe it’s that I decided to read most of these three books traveling and away from home, a subtle nod or echo to the journeys Sebald’s unnamed narrator takes in each of them. Maybe it was the Max Richter Three Worlds soundtrack (inspired by Virginia Woolf, no less) in my ears as I was trying to shut out the din of a New York cafe as I read a chapter of Vertigo. Whatever it was, these three books pulled at me in a way that I’ve never really experienced as a reader. They haunt me.
I’ve had these moments of “vertigo” that Sebald describes when I travel alone—when discovery, memory and isolation collide to produce moments of indescribable deep feeling coupled with a strange displaced alienation. When you’re in an airport and contemplate getting on a different flight to an unfamiliar destination. Or when you visit a place rich with history and try to process all that has happened there before you. I’ve never been able to describe these moments adequately in speech or writing. But I know the feeling—of being alive in the moment, yet also aware of all of human existence’s burden. Especially if one is tuned into the history and knowledge of a place, and is open to the emotion this can elicit.
Does that make any sense? If anything, Sebald’s work proves that great art often leaves us speechless, incapable of the specific words. The only proxy is to read the books yourself. Sorry. Get to it, then.
May 5, 2020
I just can follow these meanderings forever. Read Rings of Saturn and loved it.
Displaying 1 - 2 of 2 reviews