Robert Walser

 

Robert Walser came to me by way of my enduring interest in W. G. Sebald. Indeed, Sebald identified Walser as a primary influence, pointing to his stories -- Walser's stories -- as an unusual mixture of the historical, the nature, and the "small." 

Published as a collection of vignettes composed on either side of the First World War, The Walk functions as a series of, in Walser's words, loosely connected "sketches." The pieces here are "short chapters" drawn from a range of imagined novels: or perhaps from a single novel. Either way, as Walser makes clear, the only novel he is truly developing -- that is, consistently developing -- is the "book of himself." 

I must say, despite the praise, The Walk left me confounded: I did not enjoy Walser's prose, and I have trouble following his stories. This may have been because of their disjointed quality: they do not always build on each other, and so the effect is of reading the fragment of one story, followed by the fragment of another. And the style, too, left me frustrated: there are moments when Walser writes with unyielding complexity; but there were others when his prose are almost ethereal, barely hanging on. 

For me, The Walk seemed to always be searching for the next aphorism, for the next piece of intellectual beauty. And sometimes Walser delivers. But at others, it's tough going, and the result, despite engaging content, and a focus on history's repeated intrusions -- is a collection with only, for me, a faint pulse. 

"All the songs of singing birds heard by people such a long, long time ago!"