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Unerzählt bleibt die Geschichte der abgewandten Gesichter

Two weeks back, a few of us had this semi-serious discussion about whether or not art should generally make you think about your own mortality, whether it should sort of transport you to a place that’s indeed a bit closer to that terminal breath – or not. Obviously, we didn’t come to a conclusion that night, but just the other day I had to think about this question again as I was getting more and more hooked to W. G. Sebald’s work. His Austerlitz is a perfect example of that kind of work of art: it is not only an incredibly cleansing and uplifting read in all its melancholy, because, ultimately, it repeatedly does remind you of your own mortality; and it does so in the most beautiful way imaginable. A shame Sebald’s mortality robbed us of a chance to conduct an interview for mono.kultur. However, if you hate all that serious talk, why not have some superficial fun with titles made up by lit lovers who judge books by coming up with alternative covers instead?

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  1. here & now › The Emigrant on Sunday, December 18, 2011 at 10:58

    [...] of the greatest German authors of all time, died 10 years and four days ago. He was 57 years old. Damn. This was written by rh. Posted on Sunday, December 18, 2011, at 10:58. Filed under gravity, [...]