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Pierścienie Saturna

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Max’s enemy everywhere is the totalising overview. His art is designed to correct or subvert this kind of cognitive aberration which can be so misleading and dangerous. His narratives of East Anglia offer melancholy fragments with a wide historical and cultural range of possibilities. I begin this essay with an example of my own from a masterpiece of German culture in order to frame my account suggestively in relation to Max’s own lifelong struggle with the land that bore him and which he felt impelled to reject, while acknowledging its colossal contribution to human knowledge and experience. Like Walter Benjamin Max values most the kind of quincunx-links that arise intuitively and spontaneously (as in the work of Sir Thomas Browne, the great Norwich writer and thinker) between domains of experience that cannot be connected by a totalising overview. The vivid images that his works embody are similarly at odds with the ever-sharper digitised perceptions that we now experience on a daily basis but which lack any kind of depth of field and so have no experienced life in them. My only quarrel with Max’s way of working is that in his pursuit of his “illuminations” he is inclined to set aside what may already have been thought and said by other writers. The effect of this is a foreshortening that may be a kind of distortion. A historian once said to me that despite his fascination with history Max was not a historian. For me this does not constitute a weakness, but I think it is a fact.
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Sebald - Austerlitz albo Auschwitz

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Wyjechali Sebalda – hołd złożony Nabokovowi

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The Emigrants is a book more closely integrated as a narrative than The Rings of Saturn but still not a novel in any obvious way. I have called it “a novel in a kaleidoscope”, since it keeps getting shaken up by the presiding “fokusnik” (Russian for “conjurer”, a word Nabokov loved) and its focal point shifts accordingly, on both sides of the grave. An abyss keeps opening exactly where the narrator is standing, just as it does in many of Nabokov’s fictions. A shameless appropriation of photographs, some private as if really from the family album, some from the public domain, supports the narratives that seem to be emerging to clarify family histories but actually cast a further veil of darkness and death. Nabokov asks what the “real life” of his character (Sebastian Knight) is, and the answer is the page in front of your nose. Kantor wonders at the disappearance of his father but sees no point in setting out in his pursuit. Photographs simply confirm the deadly encroachment of time on anything we may think significant. We have all emigrated from a world we do not remember, as Nabokov reminds us in Speak, Memory. We are now on our way to another world from which no-one has ever returned. Our fate is a lonely one, like that of the principal protagonists of The Emigrants. Death shadows it, as it shadows Hersch Seweryn, or Henry Selwyn, in his Gothic house and garden not altogether unlike Max’s. The reported accident that took the life of Henry’s alpine guide friend emphasises what so many holocaust survivors felt: that they had no right to be living at all when so many had been murdered or had their lives utterly ruined. Paul Bereyter is an extraordinary embodiment of the falsifications of Nazi history and racial theory. Max gives him enough sympathetic attention to make us feel the tragic loss of a man of goodwill and culture. His suicidal depression might have been averted. But how? The Ambros Adelwarth story is perhaps over-complex but it is a bold attempt to grasp the nettle of American Jews and their astonishing creativity. To follow them consistently through their zig-zag progression over the “dream-bright” map of America is a challenge. To cap it, Max brings himself “home” to Norfolk, whence he travels to revisit the now successful artist friend from his Manchester days, Ferber.
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