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Adventures In Immediate Irreality, by Max Blecher
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Often called “the Kafka of Romania,” Max Blecher died young but not before creating this incandescent novel.
Adventures in Immediate Irreality, the masterwork of the Romanian writer Max Blecher, vividly paints the crises of "irreality" that plagued him in his youth: eerie and unsettling mirages wherein he would glimpse future events. In gliding chapters that move with a peculiar dream logic of their own, this memoiristic novel sketches the tremulous, frightening, and exhilarating awakenings of a young man.
- Sales Rank: #714003 in Books
- Published on: 2015-02-17
- Original language: English
- Number of items: 1
- Dimensions: 8.00" h x .50" w x 5.20" l, .0 pounds
- Binding: Paperback
- 128 pages
Review
“When you read his books it's hard to believe your eyes. The author of this masterpiece was a twenty-five-year-old already weakened by disease, but Blecher's words don't merely describe the objects―they dig their talons into the things and hoist them high.” (Herta Müller)
“Blecher has often been compared to Kafka (and not without reason), but the strongest connection, however, is with Salvador Dalí. Like Dalí's 'soft clocks,' everything here is about to melt. It is as though Blecher's world is always on the verge of ontological collapse; from behind the veil of things, nothingness stares out at him.” (The Times Literary Supplement)
“An extraordinary writer, in the family of Kafka and Bruno Schulz. A short life, overwhelmed by disease; a small―but great―magical work. Hallucinatory, intense, and deeply authentic, its literary force is fueled, paradoxically and not entirely, by an acute sensitivity and ardor.” (Norman Manea)
“Sleekly liquid work, the poetry of seething matter itself.” (Dustin Illingworth - 3:AM)
“This is, in any case, a book deserving of new readers, by a writer whose remaining body of work I can only hope will finally appear in its entirety in this country.” (The Nation)
About the Author
Max Blecher, born in 1909 into a Jewish family in Romania, contracted tuberculosis of the spine at 19, and spent the rest of his life in hospitals. Despite his illness, he wrote steadily and carried on an intense correspondence with many, including André Breton, André Gide, and Martin Heidegger. He died at the age of 28.
Working with great Czech, Russian, Serbo-Croatian, French, Italian, German, and Dutch authors, Michael Henry Heim―one of America’s greatest translators―won many awards, including the Helen and Kurt Wolff Prize, the PEN/Ralph Manheim Medal for Translation and the PEN Translation Prize.
Most helpful customer reviews
6 of 7 people found the following review helpful.
Adventurous Immediacy of Irrealities
By Irakli Qolbaia
Looking back now, I cannot even remember all that clearly, what it was exactly that Immediately attracted me to this book, so that I purchased it right away, without a second thought, without considering much and without finding out anything about the author (for when I came across this novel I had never before heard of a Romanian author called Max Blecher); it is true that he was, in the description on the back cover of the book, being compared to two of my favourite writers at once – «the Kafka of Romania» they said, and then added that his style reminisced that of Bruno Schulz, which could have been enough but was not, because, admettons, these days everybody is being inaptly compared to somebody all the time – this somebody never less than Kafka or Proust or Joyce or Beckett or who will you – so these comparisons, after all, never amount to much credibility, so it was something else, something in the book itself that attracted me, or rather, possessed me, drew me to it; what it was I do not know but I am glad it was there at that moment because this novel is a work of genius, a masterpiece indeed, and up there with the great idiosyncratic works of literature by, once again, Kafka, Schulz, Pessoa, Walser and the likes.
But, in fact, it is not these writers that he resembles all that much: this is not a Kafkaesque, except that both K and B apparently died of tuberculosis, and that probably all the artists whose genius evidently belongs to the other world and who seem to be lamentably incarcerated in this one resemble one another in a certain degree; Schulz's great fiction does come to mind, albeit superficially, because both B and S construct their work on their childhood or adolescent memories, and both seem constantly on the verge of mundane and phantasmagorical, if I may say so. Having read first couple of chapters, I was convinced that I was in hands of a mad genius painstakingly describing his own state, curious case of himself, examples of such writing I knew, most striking examples being Artuad, Leiris maybe, Schreber even, or, maybe a little more poetically, Lautréamont. This conclusion, too, was largely wrong: reading some more pages was enough to perceive that there was more prose in it, stories and characters started to emerge out of the dreamscape and soon it seemed more like a narrative prose than the kind of confession or report from hell I'd thought I was in for at first. But by now you must have understood that we are in hands of a very peculiar writer (quite unlike anybody else, in fact) and so I hope I want alarm you if I say that the last conclusion, too, was a wrong one. I explain: I am now certain that the way this writing functions is exactly that, slowly and carefully weaving the layers of different plains, from a «plotless» observation of one’s own state to the reminiscence, from a dreamlike or surreal sequence to a matter-of-fact description, etc (hoping I have made my argument more or less clear). What I mean is that this is not a totally abstract (in many quotes) writing, it does largely deal with stuff, there are, for example, sections in the book that are exploding of sexuality (without there being any kind of graphic description), and there is a tiny fragment in there somewhere, concerning the narrator's grandfather, which made me more uneasy than anything has in a long time.
So, this is very specific literature, but I don't think it needs too much apologies on my part, believing I don't know for what reason that people who will not find this interesting, will not find it in the first place. This is a (to paraphrase Pessoa) factless autobiography, where, like a sculptor takes the marble and, cutting off all the rest, gets the sculpture, Blecher took himself, shaved off everything and got this masterpiece, not a marble statue, but a burning waxwork. So if he died dreaming of seeing waxworks burn, he has allowed us such an occasion: all you need to do is read this book.
(P.S. – the translation is MARVELOUS, what do I know, I cannot compare it to the original, but reading this is like reading the most beautiful, dark gem of English prose).
3 of 3 people found the following review helpful.
Proust, distilled, and sprinkled with Beckett
By Chris Keele
The flow of memory and the different scenes arranged in this book remind me of In Search of Lost Time without the social commentary and appraising eye, and the often surreal nature of the images and descriptions conjure up hints of Samuel Beckett. This is a great, though short, novel that I highly recommend.
3 of 4 people found the following review helpful.
A literary meteor
By aile.verte
In his preface to this slim volume, Andrei Codrescu mentions that Michael Henry Heim, who is renowned for his translations from a number of Easter European languages, learned Romanian specifically to translate Blecher. And knowing that the translator himself was ill when translating this work, brought home to me the almost organic bond between the writer and the translator. This bond certainly informs the quality of the prose: masterfully crafted and deeply felt.
Max Blecher is one of those shooting stars in the literary sky: to avoid the usual comparisons, let's say, he was like Stig Dagerman, or the Swiss writer Fritz Zorn, who were gifted with unusual lucidity and died prematurely, or like Joe Bousquet, the French writer paralyzed as a result of being wounded in war and who, like Blecher, wrote confined in bed. Reviewers have notoriously compared Blecher to Proust or Kafka, although I find this comparison to be overused to the point of meaninglessness: like Kafka because he represents an absurd aspect of reality or presents reality with a sensibility that manages to get under the skin of things; like Proust because he raises the question of memory (or that he raises it through the use of modern optical devices)... Although if I had to compare his writing style to anything, Maurice Blanchot would spring to mind before Proust or Kafka. But why compare at all? Aren't all these comparisons a way of denying his uniqueness? I suppose, from a distance, all stars look alike, but the difference is in how they allow us to navigate through life.
The character portrayed in Adventures in Immediate Irreality seems to lack the protective outer layer, he experiences the world in a raw, visceral manner; the contours of his existence are fluid, they can be penetrated by the objects and spaces around him, making his identity and perception of the world vacillate. He calls this sensory overload his crises. The slightest detail will trigger a flood of meaning. "Once during a crisis the sun sent a small cascade of rays onto the wall like a golden artificial lake dappled with glittering waves. I also saw the corner of a bookcase of large, leather-bound volumes behind glass. And in the end these true-to-life details, perceived from the distance of my swoon, stupefied and stunned me like a last gulp of chloroform. It was the most humdrum and familiar in the objects that disturbed me most." Despite the superficial similarity, these experiences are more like Bataille's blue of noon than Proust's experience of awakening in an unfamiliar room: the narrator essentially experiences the world as catastrophe camouflaged by surface appearances among which most people live out their lives. He presages the shattering of this world of appearances that World War II was going to bring about (and which he did not live to see), but more essentially he senses the catastrophe that is contained within the fabric of the world, and the tentative nature of reality as we know it. Once the instability of the real, supported by everyday objects and social structures, reveals itself, what remains is vertigo.
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