Metro, Juliette and Zweig

Reading on the metro is a new concept for me. I'm one of those 'old-school' types, people who are "trained readers" -- that is, who do it as a profession. As a student, I needed an absolute quiet, and my mother had to close all the doors between my room and the rest of the house; I needed a desk, a window, a feeling that I was "doing work." So it is incomprehensible to me how I got into the habit of ENJOYING to read in the commotion and semi-darkness of underground trains -- sometimes even when I'm standing, balancing a couple of bags on each side (I refuse to attempt the reading feat only if I have to hold the additional nuisance of an umbrella; this would be pushing my limits a bit too much). I can't imagine any more going anywhere without my backpack containing "the book;" I feel distinctly lost if I am in the metro without a book (a little bit, I suppose, like when you don't know what to do with your hands if you don't have pockets...)

My most recent metro achievement is Stefan Zweig's Beware of Pity (in translation from the German original Ungeduld des Herzens, 1938). A very intricate socio-psychological study of human compassion and guilt, written in this elaborate, detailed, expansive style which I associate with "the good old European fiction" from the early 20th century, in the manner of Thomas Mann. Somehow, I think of this style of writing as a relic of the times when people still had time and inclination to think about others down to the minutest details, investigating the slightest nuances, and finding it all genuinly amazing. The novel opens with an intriguing definition of pity, which is then the backbone of the narrative:

"There are two kinds of pity. One, the weak and sentimental kind, which is really no more than the heart's impatience to be rid as quickly as possible of the painful emotion aroused by the sight of another's unhappiness, that pity which is not compassion, but only an instinctive desire to fortify one's own soul against the sufferings of another; and the other, the only kind that counts, the unsentimental but creative kind, which knows what it is about and is determined to hold out, in patience and forbearance, to the very limit of its strength and even beyond."

If speculations along those lines are your cup of coffee, I strongly recommend this book; Lieutenant Hofmiller and his dilemmas will keep you on the edge of your seat.

What interests me as much as the book itself, is the circumstance that leads me to it in each particular case. Why did I pick this one? I have a feather-light memory of my high school literature teacher mentioning Zweig, and for all I know, we may even have had to read something by him. Then a huge black hole that ate up Zweig and all he stands for spread in my head until some time earlier this year when Juliette said he was her favourite writer. Juliette, from Normandy, was my English language student for a few months, whom my mother for some reason used to call "the little French girl." I wrote it down on a loose piece of paper which for a while afterwards I wrote off as lost, pushing it all back into that black hole. Eventually, I even forgot about Juliette since we stopped with our classes. Then, a couple of months ago, feeling very frustrated that I couldn't find either of the two books I had resolved to read, and strolling down the aisles of the library, I happened to see, I just happened to see by pure chance, as I was turning the corner, a blue set of books by Stefan Zweig on the bottom shelf! I didn't hesitate a single moment; it was easy -- I knew I had to read one of them. I couldn't quite remember the title Juliette had given me (which also had the added difficulty of being her free translation of the French title, itself translated from German), but I quickly perused the openings of a few novels, took my chances and grabbed the one I thought might be the book in question. It was -- I later found the hastily scribbled note with the title. I like when things happen that way. For a moment, life makes sense.

Thanks Juliette!