Austerlitz is like nothing I’ve ever read—a single paragraph flowing like a river, alternately rushing and quiet, oxbowing through a life, ordinary objects coming into glory like sun catching quartz on the bank, fear, wildness, sighing in the deep valley. I’m not sure that the narrator is necessary. I’m not even sure that the eponymous main character is necessary. Only Austerlitz’s prose, which is like the feeling of being lifted onto your father’s shoulders and absolved of all responsibility, is necessary. I wish life were not filled with petty horrors, or tragedies so devoid of meaning that our minds turn themselves inside out to bear it all. Regardless: W.G. Sebald, just before death, gave birth. 10
Sebald, W.G. Austerlitz. C. Hanser, 2001. Reviewed March 15, 2025.
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