Irony functions by holding opposites within itself. Schloß Gripsholm is so saturated with irony, its reader could be forgiven for mistaking it for a diversion, a light novel about two young lovers from Berlin who take a summer holiday in Sweden. But the mood is so light because the world was so heavy. As if to underscore this point, the book begins with an apparently arbitrary exchange of letters between its author and the publisher arguing about how the proceeds of the book are to be distributed. It produces a Verfremdung effect such as we might expect from Brecht, and underscores the degree to which the pleasures of repose depicted in the pages that follow are a flight from all of that-a flight that mostly succeeds.
Then in the last lines (note: this is no spoiler to reveal), bookending the action, we find a reference to Martje Flor, a folk hero of the low Germans, who remained defiantly cheerful in the face of the worst that history has to offer. We end the book as we begin, with a reminder that none of its pleasures come without a cost.
In his novel Die Kapuzinergruft, which written around the same time as Schloß Gripsholm, Joseph Roth has his hero, a well-to-do bohemian youth of Vienna, describe the ironic stance adopted by his friends:
"Aus unsern schweren Herzen kamen die leichten Witze, aus unserem Gefühl, daß wir Todgeweihte seien, eine törichte Lust an jeder Bestätigung des Lebens: an Bällen, am Heurigen, an Mädchen, am Essen, an Spazierfahrten, Tollheiten aller Art, sinnlosen Eskapaden, an selbstmörderischer Ironie, an ungezähmter Kritik, am Prater, am Riesenrad, am Kasperltheater, an Maskeraden, am Ballett, an leichtsinnigen Liebesspielen in den verschwiegenen Logen der Hofoper, an Manövern, die man versäumte, und sogar noch an jenen Krankheiten, die uns manchmal die Liebe bescherte."
This is a bit more übertrieben than the irony that saturates Tucholsky's novel, but it's well within the same register - particularly the observation that the light humor came out of heavy hearts that felt doomed to die. It is a kind of gallows humor.
All of this forms the lightest of backgrounds to Schloß Gripsholm. Blink and you might miss it, but you will feel it in the aching melancholy that beautifully colors the languid days of sunbathing, carousing, and drinking. It is a melancholy that could almost be mistaken for nostalgia, were it not for the beginning and the end, and a certain adventure the protagonists undertake to try to help a child in distress.
This book is nine-tenths mood and only one-tenth story, with the latter serving largely as an occasion to convey the former, and a chance for the characters to sardonically deliver one brilliant quip after another about society and the world. Tucholsky is mostly known as a writer of Feuilletons, and this shows; he only just manages to generate enough story to hold the short book together.
I had quite the wrong idea about Tucholsky before reading this - somehow I thought he was supposed to be kind of a heavy social commentator. Instead, I find an ironist reminiscent of Heinrich Heine, with whom he has often been compared, and who is a favorite of mine. I almost wrote "also a favorite of mine," but not quite.
I found this book a delightful read, even if the frequent Plattdeutsch caused me more than one headache.