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736 pages, Paperback
First published April 1, 2009
…he saw a stone wall and an arched gateway. As they drew closer, Hans sensed something odd about the thickness of the wall, as if it were a warning about how hard it would be to leave rather than to enter.
Every aesthetic, the professor declared, is founded on choice. Well, yes, of course, Herr Levin conceded, still, I am not entirely sure. My dear Professor, Sophie intervened, if I may say so, in my opinion we Germans would benefit from a touch of frivolity. As you so rightly point out, every aesthetic is doubtless based on choice. Yet, surely we may also decide on the mix, since an aesthetic is made up of concepts, abstractions, objects and anecdotes, wouldn’t you agree?


good readers will find something that can be found only in great literature, the kind written by real poets, a literature that dares to venture into the dark with open eyes and that keeps its eyes open no matter what. in principle, this is the most difficult test (also the most difficult exercise and stretch), and on no few occasions neuman pulls it off with frightening ease... when i come across these young writers it makes me want to cry. i don't know whether a drunk driver will run them down some night or whether all of a sudden they'll stop writing. if nothing like this happens, the literature of the twenty-first century will belong to neuman and a few of his blood brothers.with traveler of the century, neuman's first book to be translated into english, it is evident that the myriad hype surrounding this young writer is indeed well-deserved.
when i was young, because i was young once like you, i heard many organ grinders play, and i can assure you no two tunes ever sounded the same, even on the same instrument. that's how it is, isn't it? the less love you put into things the more they resemble one another. the same goes for stories, everyone knows them by heart, but when someone tells them with love, i don't know, they seem new.
I mistrust books that imply the past was much nobler, when even the author wouldn't go back there if he could. I equally mistrust books that try to convince us the past was worse in every respect, as this is usually a way of distracting from present injustices.There is a popular lie that dictates, subtly or otherwise, that the passage of time has a direct relationship with progress. Another demands that one breed of literature achieve one purpose, another lay claim to the other, and never the two shall meet. Still more decouple hope from logic, compassion from wisdom, wishful thinking from intellect, and, to this day, convince billions upon billions to submit to the idea that human thought, motivation, and civilization is one of predators and prey, and that to conceive of otherwise is the purview of rapists, murderers, and terrorists. This, in contrast, is a book that remembers the promises and the failures of the French Revolution, the proletarian self awareness long before the Gilded Age, the seismic pulse of nation states shooting through the convolutions of never before seen poetry, never before heard prose, and submits neither to the idealizations of the past nor the sanctimony of the present. Here is intimacy, not just with a certain timeline of a certain selection of geographically cloistered and reverberatingly enculturated nations, but with the fetid exigencies of the human, body, and soul, which means, not only must a reader be familiar with the facets of economics, systems of government, and historical figures of certain Euro philosophical and/or literary and/or cultural repute, but they also need to be accustomed to frank descriptions of shit, menstruation, queerhood, and much else that many of those who read the works composed during the time that Neuman sets this piece avoid at all cost. Here, then, is the trope of the stranger who arrives, and the rest of the real, real, real life that follows.
[S]omeone who disbelieved in the possibilities of translation was sceptical of love.