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While Thomas Mann covered four generations of a German bourgeois family from the 1830s to the 1870s in Buddenbrooks, Gabriele Tergit (1894-1982) did the same for a Jewish industrial family from the 1870s to the 1940s. After reading it, I find it hard to believe the novel receives so little attention nowadays: it is nothing short of a masterpiece.

The Effinger and Oppner families are set against the backdrop of German history, spanning from the aftermath of the Franco-Prussian War to the rise of the Nazis and the Second World War. Mathias Effinger is the last in a line of watchmakers in a Bavarian village where time seems to stand still, despite the unification of the German Empire. His eldest son emigrates to England, fascinated by its industrialisation, while two others head to Berlin. An interesting scene depicts his son Paul attempting to invest his money in Bavaria, only to be sidelined by the local nobility, who are resistant to change. The author then shifts focus to the capital, where the new generations try to make their fortune against the backdrop of historic events such as the tensions in Tsarist Russia and the Balkans, the First World War, the Spanish flu, the formation of the Weimar Republic, the Great Depression, and finally, the rise of National Socialism. Over the course of events, ideas about socialism, feminism, and antisemitism take hold of society.

Tergit offers much to reflect on. While her protagonists are thoroughly German, moving along with the currents of time, she brilliantly captures how society gradually forces them to identify as Jewish. The novel features some excellent dialogues, and I enjoyed the author’s focus on philosophy in the second half. Many other books came to mind while reading: The World of Yesterday by Stefan Zweig, especially in Tergit’s observations of societal changes after the First World War; The Origins Of Totalitarianism by Hannah Arendt, who describes antisemitism so well; The Eighth Life by Nino Haratischwili, due to the emphasis on family relationships; and The Seventh Cross by Anna Seghers, as Tergit also chooses the perspective of ordinary citizens. Tergit, in turn, seems drawn to the theatre, with particular references to Henrik Ibsen and Alexandre Dumas fils (The Lady of the Camellias).

A downside of the novel – and perhaps an inherent aspect of the genre – is that some sections can be a bit tedious. The Dutch translation also contains several annoying errors.

Grove by German author Esther Kinsky (1956) is a contemplative, easy-paced narrative reminiscent of Everyday Madness by Lisa Appignanesi or Flights by Olga Tokarczuk. Perhaps worried readers wouldn’t recognise its genre, the publisher found it necessary to label it a ‘field novel’ – a marketing trick I am happy to disregard.

Centred on a woman retreating to the Italian countryside after her husband’s death, Kinsky structures the story into three parts. In the first, the narrator primarily observes the village of Olevano and its surroundings. I was particularly struck by her perception of immigrant communities integrated into traditional Italian life. The observations never lead to judgments, though they remain on the surface – an effect inherent to the outsider’s perspective. In the second part, the narrator reflects on memories from her youth with her father, especially their holidays in Italy. (Here, I couldn’t help but think of Strangers I Know by Claudia Durastanti.) Finally, the narrator returns to the present, now in the Emilia-Romagna region.

The narrative is somewhat mellow, mirroring the mood of a woman dealing with loss. Despite some beautiful reflections, I did have two reservations. First, the memories felt too personal. I often wondered why they would be of interest to others. Second, the image of an older woman aimlessly wandering around, taking care of dead birds, comes across as a little clichéd. That said, Grove offers plenty of substance to make it a worthwhile read.

Sinds Brexit, de Russische inval in Oekraïne en de MAGA-beweging in de Verenigde Staten is de aandacht voor de Frans-Duitse as toegenomen. In de negentiende en eerste helft van de twintigste eeuw werden de betrekkingen tussen Duitsland en Frankrijk echter gekenmerkt door oorlogen en vijandschap, soms zelfs aangeduid als ‘erfvijandschap’. Filosoof Maarten Doorman (1957) interesseert zich in de wijze waarop deze betrekkingen in de afgelopen anderhalve eeuw vorm hebben gekregen in de collectieve beleving van beide naties. In Een jager in het woud (2023) tracht hij de discussie hierover vanuit cultuurhistorisch perspectief te ontdoen van ‘halfbewuste stereotypen en onbewuste clichés’. Daarbij lardeert hij zijn betoog met de namen van een groot aantal filosofen en kunstenaars.

Hoewel Doorman zijn hoofdstukken ogenschijnlijk indeelt op basis van kunstvorm, houdt hij vast aan de chronologische volgorde die hem van de Frans-Duitse (of Frans-Pruisische) Oorlog in 1870 naar de Europese Unie leidt, met zo nu en dan een terugblik op de Franse Revolutie en de napoleontische tijd. Ik was het meest geïnteresseerd in de negentiende eeuw, die me het minst bekend was. Doorman besteedt veel aandacht aan de plaats voor triomfalisme en vernedering in de politiek, zowel aan Duitse als aan Franse kant: dat het Duitse Keizerrijk opkomt en ondergaat in Versailles, is het resultaat van kortzichtige maar welbewuste beslissingen. De schrijver gunt in dit hoofdstuk een bijzonder plaats aan De L’allemagne van de door Napoleon verbannen Madame de Staël, dat haar rondreis door Duitsland bezingt.

Een ander hoogtepunt is het hoofdstuk over Waldeinsamkeit, waarin Doorman een poging doet de Duitse en Franse mentaliteit beter te begrijpen en wederzijdse stereotypen analyseert. Hoewel hij beide naties in het algemeen evenwichtig benadert, leunt de schrijver hier naar de Duitse romantiek die meer dan de gebeurtenissen in Frankrijk een culturele breuk met het verleden oplevert. De genoemde voorbeelden uit de kunst reiken tot ver in het heden, zoals de nieuwe permanente tentoonstelling van het werk van Anselm Kiefer in het Panthéon.

De andere hoofdstukken gaan over de twee wereldoorlogen en de doorwerking van het verleden in het heden. Er is aandacht voor film (Frantz van François Ozon), literatuur (All Quiet on the Western Front van Erich Maria Remarque, Candide van Voltaire, Dora Bruder van Patrick Modiano) en filosofie. Ik was blij Het civilisatieproces van Norbert Elias voorbij te zien komen, dat ik las toen ik daarvoor eigenlijk nog niet rijp was.

Ik heb veel geleerd van Een jager in het woud en het met plezier uitgelezen. Bij vlagen is de informatiedichtheid hoog; ik zou het niet aanraden aan lezers die niet op voorhand al enthousiast zijn over het onderwerp.

Caspar David Friedrich - De jager in het woud

Reading this Dutch translation of Le tableau de Paris by Louis-Sébastien Mercier (1740-1814) was like stepping into a time capsule. The collection features a series of short, column-style pieces portraying Parisian life between 1781 and 1788, the years just before the French Revolution. The ancien régime (Louis XVI) was still in power, Rousseau and Voltaire had died only a few years earlier, and Baron Haussmann hadn’t even been born yet.

The chronicler offers a glimpse into everyday life in late 18th-century Paris, when duels were falling out of fashion, baptism served as civil registration (and the Tuileries as a public toilet), the Code noir was still in effect, and people were discussing vaccination while still believing the Seine’s water was drinkable. Mercier has a keen eye for society’s margins and critiques social injustice. In our time, he would undoubtedly have commented on the number of immigrants sleeping in the streets or the priority city planners give to cars. Here and there, Mercier draws international comparisons, notably with Switzerland, a country he clearly admires. Despite some deeply religious moral undertones, I appreciated his progressive perspective on urban life.

Next on my list are the diaries by the brothers De Goncourt, God, geld en seks.

Ik verdwaal, ik raak de weg kwijt in deze immense stad; ik ken zelf de nieuwe wijken niet meer. Landerijen die groente voortbrengen wijken terug en maken plaats voor gebouwen. Chaillot, Passy en Auteuil zitten al aan de stad vast. Nog even en Sèvres is aan de beurt; en als dit in de komende honderd jaar doorgaat tot aan Versailles, aan de andere kant tot Saint-Denis en aan de kant van Picpus tot aan Vincennes, dan zal de stad zonder twijfel erger dan een Chinese stad zijn.

Wanneer een koetsier u levend vermalen heeft, zoekt de politie uit of het het grote of het kleine wiel was. De koetsier is alleen aansprakelijk voor het kleine; en als u omkomt onder het grote is er geen financiële schadeloosstelling voor uw erfgenamen. Verder is er een tarief voor de armen, de onderbenen, de bovenbenen; en dat is een bij voorbaat afgemaakte prijs.

De priester komt alleen nog bij het gewone volk, want die bevolkingsgroep heeft geen portier. Bij iedere andere zieke wacht men tot hij op sterven ligt: dan wordt er ijlings iemand naar de parochie gestuurd en komt de priester buiten adem met het heilig oliesel aangehold. Hij treft niemand meer aan; de goede bedoeling telt voor de daad zelf.

De haringvrouwen van de Hallen, de verkoopsters van verse vis, al die robuuste vrouwen drinken ’s ochtends hun koffie met melk, net zo goed als de markiezin en de hertogin. De deskundigen moeten maar uitmaken welke uitwerking deze drank uiteindelijk op de constituties heeft. Ik zie in Parijs niemand meer ontbijten met een glas wijn.

Even 170 years later, Chief Seattle’s Speech remains a powerful testament to Indigenous American culture and manifesto against the exploitation of the earth. Chief Seattle (1780s-1866) was the leader of the Duwamish people, an Indigenous Americans tribe in the area around Seattle, the city named in his honour. In the 1850s, the United States government pressured the Duwamish to sign the Treaty of Point Elliott, forcing them to cede their lands and relocate to reservation territories. Aware of the threat, Chief Seattle visited the U.S. governor in 1854 to deliver his speech. (Over the years, several versions have been published. I read a 1983 Dutch translation, which I believe is based on Henry A. Smith’s contested 1887 version.)

Het grote opperhoofd in Washington heeft gesproken: hij wenst ons land te kopen. Het grote opperhoofd heeft ook woorden gesproken van vriendschap en vrede. Dat is zeer goed van hem omdat we weten dat hij onze vriendschap niet nodig heeft. Maar we zullen over uw aanbod beraadslagen, want we weten dat als wij ons land niet verkopen de blanke man met zijn geweren komt en het in bezit neemt. Hoe kun je de lucht, de warmte van het land kopen of verkopen? Dat is voor ons moeilijk te bedenken. Als wij de prikkeling van de lucht en het kabbelen van het water niet kunnen bezitten, hoe kunt u het van ons kopen?

Rather than contradicting the white government, Chief Seattle argues that man cannot sell lands he does not ‘own’. He warns the governor not to exploite the earth as merchandise, as the white man’s appetite will ‘devour the earth and leave behind only a desert’. By describing the Duwamish people’s care of the land, Chief Seattle offers a perspective on life that contrasts sharply with that of the colonists. ‘The sight of your cities pains the eyes of the red man,’ he continues, pleading for respect for nature and Indigenous traditions.

Chief Seattle repeatedly refers to himself as but ‘a red man who does not understand’. While seemingly self-effacing, I came to see how tactical that phrase is from a realpolitik perspective. At the same time, he seems to misapprehend his opponent, addressing his speech to ‘the white man’ as a whole. Considering the cruel course of history that followed (the government never fulfilled its obligations), his words fell on deaf ears.

The Dutch translation was published by Aktie Strohalm, an activist organisation against ecological abuse. Today, the anti-neoliberal plea in the epilogue feels somewhat unrefined, and the use of terms like ‘blanken’ and ‘indianen’ is outdated, yet the notion that our systems of education, government, and income generation hinder the achievement of sustainable development goals remains highly relevant.

The French 1937 Nobel laureate Roger Martin du Gard (1881-1958) no longer draws a large audience. A Dutch translation of his diary (Kijken door een sleutelgat) piqued my interest in reading the first volume of his novel cycle The Thibaults (1922). Set in the years leading up to the First World War, the novel offers a rich perspective on a society in motion, symbolised by two Parisian families: the Catholic Thibaults and the Protestant De Fontanins.

I devoured the opening chapters of the novel, which begin with the intimate friendship between two adolescents, Jacques and Daniel, who run away to Marseille. Throughout the story, their motives remain largely hidden, leaving the reader to ponder their intentions. After that, attention shifts to Jacques’ older brother, Antoine, once the pride of his father, but gradually developing his own worldview. This journey culminates in a superb finale, where he confronts Abbé Vécard in a debate about faith, reason, and the ultimate question of death.

Based on the first volume, I wouldn’t classify The Thibaults as a generational novel in the vein of, for example, Thomas Mann’s Buddenbrooks or Gabriele Tergit’s Effingers. Instead, Martin du Gard’s style is reminiscent of Émile Zola’s literary naturalism, as he attributes specific characteristics to the brothers and their environment. While Antoine embodies ‘reason’, his younger brother is sensitive and volatile – a poet at heart. Both struggle, in their own way, with their authoritarian and deeply religious father.

The downside is that the characters can at times feel too caricatured. This is particularly true of Father Thibault and Madame de Fontanin, who grated on my nerves. On the upside, this approach allows room for a novel of ideas, exploring the essence of freedom – whether it lies in the stability of a family or the right to choose one’s own path. A century after its first publication, it is fair to say that The Thibaults remains a novel worth reading.

My reading notes are remarkably critical for this Prix Goncourt-winning novel by Nicolas Mathieu (1978). Set in the French Grand Est region, between Luxembourg and Metz, And Their Children After Them is a portrayal of life in the French countryside during the 1990s. This theme recurs frequently in French art, from Émile Zola’s Germinal to this year’s box office hit L’amour ouf. Édouard Louis (The End of Eddy) was the first to introduce me to the concept of a ‘discarded’ society defined by poverty, pessimism, and pride.

Unfortunately, Mathieu does not reach that level; his ‘social’ novel drowns in his own ambitions. The author’s choice to write from the perspective of adolescents is not coherently executed: language is sometimes very slick or contrived, then suddenly strangely formal. (I fear that the Dutch translator might be partly responsible.) What’s worse, he tends to tell rather than show, leaving little room for the reader’s own interpretation. This style seems to be appreciated in French literature, however, given other praised novels such as The Great Swindle by Pierre Lemaitre and Vernon Subutex by Virginie Despentes. (If you enjoy those novels, please disregard my review and make sure to read this one as well.)

Towards the end, there are a few highlights. I particularly appreciated the integration of the 1998 FIFA World Cup (famous for France’s ‘black, blanc, beur’ team) into the story, and the section on monthly income and expenses was also engaging. With all this in mind, I hope the film adaptation by Ludovic and Zoran Boukherma, released last week, will be more successful.

It has become a pleasant tradition to close the year with Russian literature. This year, I have Leo Tolstoy (The Death of Ivan Ilyich) and Anton Chekhov (Verhalen, 1889-1894) on my list, but I began with Fyodor Dostoevsky’s Notes from the Underground, which I plan to follow with The Brothers Karamazov.

Notes from the Underground is the kind of novel that speaks to me. Literally at first, as the narrator addresses the reader directly in the first part. His words seem cynical yet strangely enigmatic: what exactly does he want? Is he reliable? Why does he contradict himself? Could he be indignant or angry? Perhaps at mankind’s hypocrisy? Why does he claim that a rational or reasonable person cannot have a shred of self-respect? In an odd way, I felt affection for this self-punishing narrator, seemingly lost in his own thoughts.

Ik kan u niet uitleggen, wie ik met mijn venijn nou precies een loer draai; ik weet heel goed dat ik de dokters geen hak kan zetten door me niet door hen te laten behandelen; ik weet beter dan wie ook dat ik hier alleen mezelf maar mee heb en verder niemand. Maar toch, als ik me niet laat behandelen, dan is dat uit vileinigheid. Ik heb een leverziekte, wel, voor mijn part mag de boel nog meer verzieken!

In the second part, the narrator draws from memory, offering a complete portrait of a fringe figure unable to fit into society and living primarily within his own imagination. His relationships with others are complex. While ostensibly looking down on them, there is a clear sense of longing, suggesting that society has rejected him at some point. The narrator’s reflections on love as a battlefield call to mind Michel Houellebecq’s Extension du domaine de la lutte.

Het was een ware martelgang, een onafgebroken, ondraaglijke vernedering bij de gedachte, die overging in het onafgebroken en regelrechte gevoel, dat ik een vlieg was in de ogen van deze hele wereld, een smerige, walgelijke vlieg, intelligenter, ontwikkelder, nobeler dan iedereen – dat spreekt vanzelf – maar een vlieg die voortdurend voor iedereen uit de weg ging, door iedereen vernederd en door iedereen gekrenkt.

The narrator offers a perspective on 19th-century Russian society, but I was more intrigued by his internal dialogue, which reveals his inability to transcend himself. It is also wryly humorous, such as when he writes a letter challenging an opponent to a duel two years after the events, only to decide against sending it at the last minute, or when he attends an evening where everyone is hostile to him, arriving an hour early to an empty table. Despite the narrator’s own words, reading his notes is anything but ‘detention’.

A century and a half after its first publication, The Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoevsky (1821-1881) could hardly receive more praise. Deemed ‘the greatest novel of all time’ by many, first-time readers are bound to have high expectations. It was no different for me, and despite a slump halfway through, I was not disappointed. Dostoevsky pulls out all the stops in his search for the human soul, culminating in one of the most spectacular court cases in literary history.

Set in Russia between August and November 1866, father Fyodor Karamazov and his sons Dmitri (Mitya), Ivan, and Alexei (Alyosha) form a fractured and deeply dysfunctional family. (It is said that their surname originates from ‘karamaz’, a term associated with corruption and sin.) Fyodor is a particularly compelling character; his complaints, curses, and lies are only surpassed by his relentless habit of seeking forgiveness. Mitya mirrors him in his alcoholism and lustfulness; their shared love for the same woman, Grushenka, creates fertile ground for a lasting feud.

Er is een kracht die alles volhoudt! zei Ivan, nu met een koud lachje. Wat voor een kracht? De Karamazov-kracht… de kracht van de Karamazov-laagheid. Dat betekent wegzinken in ontucht, het hart in verrotting smoren, bedoel je dat?

Although Fyodor and Mitya drive the plot, the most intriguing characters are Ivan and Alyosha. Their discussions on faith, morality, and reason are the novel’s highlight. Dostoevsky sought to address the rising popularity of atheism and liberalism. By contrasting the voices of Ivan (reason) and Alyosha (faith), he creates an engaging debate on doubt and the burden of free will. From a 21st-century agnostic point of view, I found some parts overly dogmatic, outdated, or simply dull, particularly the chapter on father Zosima, which felt a tad too blissful for my taste, but I generally appreciated Dostoevsky’s attempt to bring the subject to the forefront. The question of whether mankind can still be virtuous without God – après moi le déluge – has been relevant ever since. Overall, I was captivated by this intriguing story, which reveals both the best and worst of humanity.

De mensen nemen die hele komedie nog serieus ook, hoe slim ze ook zijn. Dat is hun tragedie. Ja, natuurlijk, ze lijden, maar… ze leven ook, ze leven echt en niet in de fantasie; want lijden is hetzelfde als leven. Zonder lijden zou er geen lol aan zijn, alles zou één eindeloze bidstonde zijn: heilig, maar stomvervelend.

At present, Anton Chekhov is the only author whose oeuvre I am reading in its entirety. As I mentioned in my last review (1887-1888), I find that his stories improve over time. While his focus on daily life in Russia seems similar to that of earlier writers like Dostoevsky and Tolstoy, I see how Chekhov plays with perspectives, while steering clear of an overly dramatic or moralistic tone. This makes the author more accessible to me, even though I was still challenged by some of the unsympathetic characters and exaggerated gestures.

The fourth collection (1889-1894), translated into Dutch, contains some sharp and witty short stories and novellas. I particularly liked The Bet (a man voluntarily agrees to be imprisoned), The Princess (a doctor loses himself in a rant against a noblewoman), Ward No. 6 (a doctor discovers that the only intelligent person around him is a patient in his madhouse), and Rothschild’s Violin (a coffin maker explains his economic take on his village).

Op basis van de wet en in het belang van de zedelijkheid geeft u mij geen paspoort. Het is namelijk zedelijk en wettig dat een jonge, gezonde, zelfbewuste vrouw haar leven slijt in ledigheid en treurnis en voortdurende angst in ruil voor kost en inwoning bij een man van wie ze niet houdt. U kent de wetten uitstekend, u bent heel eerlijk en rechtvaardig, respecteert het huwelijk en het familiebeginsel, en uit dat alles vloeit voort dat u in uw hele leven nog nooit iets goeds hebt gedaan, iedereen haat u, u hebt met iedereen ruzie en in de zeven jaar dat u getrouwd bent, hebt u nog geen zeven maanden met uw vrouw geleefd.

There are three novellas that particularly appealed to me. A Dreary Story reminded me somewhat of John Williams’ Stoner, as it describes the monotonous days of a life without purpose. In The Duel, Chekhov portrays a fearsome yet kind-hearted doctor alongside a charming yet immoral civil servant. This juxtaposition naturally brought to mind The Brothers Karamazov, but thanks to Chekhov’s skilful use of perspectives, it also felt reminiscent of Edith Wharton’s The Age of Innocence.

Zeg niets, zeg niets, lieve! Ik geloof niet dat aan onze zonden de man schuld heeft. Altijd zijn de vrouwen schuldig. Mannen zijn in het huiselijk leven lichtzinnig, ze leven met hun verstand, niet met hun hart, en veel begrijpen ze niet, maar een vrouw begrijpt alles. Van haar hangt alles af. Haar is veel gegeven, van haar wordt ook veel verlangd.

My personal highlight was The Story of an Unknown Man. Once again, Chekhov’s mastery of perspectives works out magnificently: the dual narrative of an undercover agent posing as a servant creates a suspenseful plot and a simmering atmosphere. It also left me wanting to reread The Remains of the Day. Altogether, the stories offer a fascinating glimpse into 19th-century Russian life. I am looking forward to my next ‘Russian sequence’.

Het is niet noodzakelijk al die legenden en fabels voor zoete koek aan te nemen, maar zeeft u ze, dan zal op het filter achterblijven waar het om gaat: onze goede tradities en de namen van ware helden die door ieder erkend worden.

In She Came From Mariupol, Natascha Wodin (1945) shares her search for her mother’s past, which was long hidden from her, while reflecting on how it resonates in her own life. Despite some stylistic shortcomings, I was deeply moved and impressed by the story, which demonstrates the extent to which people are subjected to circumstances and politics, as well as the consequences of forced displacement.

Altijd weer, de keerzang van mijn kinderjaren: ‘Als je gezien had wat ik heb gezien…’

Of the four parts, only the first one didn’t fully satisfy me. Wodin’s attempt to uncover more about her mother, who committed suicide when the author was just 10, is described in excessive detail, yet in the end, she owes most of her findings to an overenthusiastic stranger. That said, what emerges is so fascinating that putting the book down was never an option. The story of her mother’s side of the family is gut-wrenching, poignant, and unimaginable. It proved to be a distressing yet rewarding reading experience.

The following parts are must-reads. First, Wodin revisits the written memoirs of her aunt Lidia, who – coming from an impoverished noble family – witnessed the Russian Revolution, the arrival of the Red Army, and the total anarchy in the Soviet Republic of Ukraine. Some of the details make 1984 seem like a children’s tale. The author then tries to recount her mother’s life, born in 1920 in Mariupol, using both public sources and her own imagination. This story covers Operation Barbarossa in 1941, the raids to deport ‘Ostarbeiter’ to Germany, the scorched earth tactics as the Nazis retreated, and, finally, the life of Ukrainians as second-class citizens in Germany. In the final part, Wodin reflects on memories of her own youth in a camp for displaced persons, where poverty and the traumas of the past play a profound role.

While reading, I was reminded of Wild Swans: Three Daughters of China by Jung Chang, due to the intense yet intimate depictions of a gruesome past, and The Son and Heir by Alexander Münninghoff, whose journalistic work remains unmatched. While Wodin’s style might not always stand out, her novel certainly made an impression on me.