David's Reviews > Austerlitz

Of all the kinds of reviews to write, the ecstatically enthusiastic ones are the worst, I think. No matter how much you try to pepper your review with big words and thoughtful commentary, you inevitably end up sounding like a gum-chomping tween girl squealing the paint off the walls about some boy band that looks like it should be directed to a hormone therapy ward.

Being openly enthusiastic about virtually anything can be tough—because it makes you vulnerable. It's like this: in a moment of weakness, you blurt out your unchecked passion for this or that, and along comes some dismissive asshole who deflates your earnest affection with a bit of cheap snark. (Mike Reynolds's review of The Road comes to mind here. But he's one of my favorite dismissive assholes.) Very much in the same way that I just now condescendingly patted the musical tastes of tween girls on the head and sent them on their way in the previous paragraph—when in fact some of them would clearly cut a bitch to get within fellating distance of a Jonas brother (or whatever twerps they happen to be listening to this week).

And W.G. Sebald's Austerlitz is an especially difficult book for me to get all OMFG!!! about because it's not the kind of book that everyone is going to like. I myself know a few people who would probably rather undergo dangerous elective surgery than plow through three hundred pages of slow-burning rumination about memory and, particularly, the Holocaust. Austerlitz is a specialized novel for a specialized audience—which certainly isn't to say a smarter or more refined audience. (Because that's rude to say, I guess, even though it may be true.)

I glanced through a couple of the negative reviews of this book on Goodreads, and they were especially idiotic. Their idiocy is not derived from their dislike of the book, however, but from the reasons they cite for disliking it. There was one woman in particular (God love her, as my high school Old Testament teacher Father Bly would say, dismissively) who lamented the lack of entertainment value in the book. And it was clear from contextual clues that 'entertainment' implied an escapist, reasonably upbeat, and eventful narrative. I hate this so much! Art (and yes—books are art!) isn't here to pacify you; it's not another tool at your disposal in the cultural toolbox to turn you into a drooling, thoughtless catatonic. You really weren't put here to spend all your off-time golfing and sticking your hand down your pants in front of the television. I thought this was fairly obviously.

There's this nitwit I work with, for instance, who is traumatized by any day that isn't sunny, warm, and encouraging, who refuses to see any movie that isn't expressly feel-good, and who (proudly) never reads books of any kind—because they would divert her from truly fun and mindless activities. It should go without saying that although I am a non-violent person I occasionally have fantasies about entering her office with a sledgehammer and destroying everything in sight. You should see the look on her dumb face when I show up at the door with that sledgehammer! Priceless! (This is what twenty-first century Middle America does to a man.)

Anyway. Did I mention it is just before 4 AM when I am writing this? I was restless in bed (not because of this review, mind you) and I thought I'd get the review of this book over with. Did you just see that? I said 'get it over with.' But why do I need to write a review at all? It's not like the entire online community is waiting breathlessly for me to weigh in with my opinion of this or any book.

Well, let me tell you why: Because if I read a book and I really, really, really love it (as I loved Austerlitz) I have to scream about it like a girl at a Justin Bieber concert. I become evangelical about these things. It's a compulsion.

The ironic thing is that I've discharged my burden without actually telling you much of anything about this book or why you should or should not read it. Which is kind of a shame. I guess I'm hoping my enthusiasm will speak for itself. But in an eleventh hour bid at relevance, let me say this: If you enjoy slow, meditative, labyrinthine remembrances about (I suppose) our alienation from our own past, then read this book. But if you only want to be 'entertained' from now until the moment that you die, then what are you even doing here? Killing time?