The remarkable story that opens NEW COLLECTED STORIES by Thomas Mann, “Chaotic World and Childhood Sorrow,”is in itself more than worth the price of the book, which turns out to include much other gold as well.
That opening story gives a finely etched portrait of a German family in the unstable later days of the Weimar Republic before the horrendous historical development that followed. The domestic narrative is frequently punctuated with telling details such as the mother’s need “to bike into town with her shopping bag … to transform a sum of money in hand into groceries, so as not to risk devaluation.” The story’s beginning observation is that “there were only vegetables for the main course,” and this is not because of vegetarianism.
Here’s part of Mann’s portrait of the father of the family, a history professor:
“He knows that Professors of History do not love history as it happens, only as it has happened; that they hate the present radical change and upheaval because they feel it to be lawless, incoherent, and presumptuous — in a word ‘unhistorical’ — while their hearts belong to the coherent, pious, historical past. The past, this university scholar tells himself on his strolls by the river before dinner, is draped in the atmosphere of the timeless and eternal, which is an atmosphere far more congenial to the nerves of a history professor than the effronteries of the present.”
The highlight of the story is a traumatic encounter for the infant girl of the family. I won’t be a spoiler but only say that this is is one of the most sensitively realized renderings of early childhood complications I have ever encountered in literature.
After the child is soothed and safely asleep for the night, but with precariousness and uncertainty still strongly hanging over the entire narrative, the father of the family reassures himself that everything is resolved and his family’s routines can continue. The story concludes with his pathetic “Thank heavens.”
I’m not qualified to judge Damion Searls’ work as a translator, but I can assert that “Chaotic World and Childhood Sorrow” reads perfectly as a story in English, and I would think that this might stand as a goal for a translator. When I came to a boy in the family having “a particularly berserkerish tantrum,” I at first thought the translator had lost his grip. But a little homework revealed that in pre-medieval and medieval Norse and German history and folklore, berserkers were members of an unruly warrior gang that worshipped Odin, the supreme Norse deity. After that, the translator had my trust and I was ready for anything.
That story is followed by “A Day in the Life of Hanno Buddenbrook,” a chapter from Mann’s great novel BUDDENBROOKS that he felt (surely correctly) could stand alone as a story. In this one, Mann is focused on the insecurities of a schoolboy. One gets pathe feeling that, like the Bard, this author can go through the “ages of man” and render each with precision and understanding.
Here’s a school principal as seen by the schoolboy and Mann: “As for Principal Wullicke’s personality, he had some of the enigmatic, ambiguous, stubborn, jealous awfulness of the Old Testament God. It was as terrible to see him laugh as to see him angry.”
Mann never futzes around getting started. His short story “Louisey,” written even before BUDDENBROOKS when he was just 22, opens with this: “There are marriages that come about for reasons even the most skillful literary imagination cannot describe.” Translator Searls characterizes this story as minor, and I might go so far as to call it unsuccessful. Even so, it has a mordancy that calls Gogol to mind, along with the vivid detail that would distinguish Mann’s work throughout his career. Describing a fat attorney: “ … the funny little green-gray jacket he liked to wear was so hard to fasten, with one single button, over the enormous roundness of his belly that it sprang back to his shoulders on both sides the instant it was unbuttoned.”
The collection also offers a new translation of “Death in Venice,” which is of course Mann at his complex and daring best, and concludes with “Confessions of a Con Artist, by Felix Krull,” which Mann returned to late in life and expanded into a novel. Nowhere are Mann’s lighter touch and comic gift more evident than in the voice of Krull, who takes his place among literature’s great narrators whom you can enjoy disliking.
Searls has provided a thoughtful introduction and some helpful notes at the back of the book.