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ceddy's review against another edition
funny
mysterious
reflective
slow-paced
- Plot- or character-driven? Character
- Strong character development? It's complicated
- Loveable characters? It's complicated
- Diverse cast of characters? No
- Flaws of characters a main focus? Yes
4.75
Die Leute Auersberger und mein Ohrensessel
thestoryofaz's review against another edition
dark
funny
reflective
medium-paced
5.0
At first glance, Woodcutters may seem just like any other closed-box novel - going about in circles, never arriving at a point, and raising doubts about the existence of any point anyway. However, its myriad aspects reveal themselves one by one, taking the reader by surprise. For one, the novel is immaculately well-connected. Humor, albeit of the unlikely sort, stud the unending vitriol spewed by our narrator which is, at once, laser-sharp, obnoxious, questionable and hypocritical. Notwithstanding the general and often forced pessimism and cynicism, the novel ends on a hopeful note: we go on, in spite of life, in spite of society, against the uglies, because of them all.
flobi's review against another edition
challenging
funny
reflective
slow-paced
- Plot- or character-driven? Character
- Strong character development? No
- Loveable characters? No
- Diverse cast of characters? No
- Flaws of characters a main focus? Yes
4.5
casparb's review against another edition
Bernhard one of them big boy have-you-ever-reads, maybe I'm too cautious to Not be a hipster. I Iiked this, gradually, obviously ibsen's his big intertext but this book also works as a cheeky answer to the (invited) question - what if a man was grouchy & wrote Woolf's The Waves. it's the right length, too, the end doubles things back and justifies some of the slowness, I feel ... anyway I'll read some more
neculara's review against another edition
4.0
In a big, old chair at a late night dinner party, the main character sits and rages silently over his hosts, their art snobbery and the general state of the culture scene in Vienna. Half hidden behind a door, he observes the other guests and reminisce on events from the past. He regrets accepting the invitation to this "late night artistic dinner" with old acquaintances he obviously loathes. My Norwegian translation has a subtitle that can be translated as "An agitation", which is very fitting. The language is rhythmic, almost hypnotic, very repetitive and intense. The whole book is about the main character's agitation, rage, melancholy and despair.
I think the English title is usually Cutting Timber or Woodcutters, while the original is Hultsfellen. The latter means trees that topple over on their own, from old age or rot, or some other natural reason. And I think it's past tense? So the original title might be interpreted to mean that the old giants, the old authorities, have fallen, maybe from rot, or from growing too big and heavy. This makes sense when you think about the main character's never ending criticism of art snobbery. The entire book can be read as a furious critique of Vienna's high culture.
And still, there seems to be a conflict between rage and accept/friendliness throughout the novel. Especially in the instances when the main character realizes or admits to himself that he is no better than the people he is criticizing. It made me wonder what the secondary characters in this novel are actually like, because the reader has almost no contact with the world outside the main character's raging mind. It's a little bit like stream of consciousness, except this inner monologue is more theoretical/analytical and less about sensory input.
Repetition. The main character repeats words and phrases that gets stuck in his head. Words are doubled and repeated in complex and rhythmical patterns, which builds up and builds up. It intensifies, underlines, focuses and shows his agitation. He even says some of them out loud so many times that people starts to stare at him, and in the first half of the book, this is the only direct contact between the main character and other people. It's like his inner world - his thoughts and frustrations - is leaking out into the world around him. The main character's rants are often quite funny, and the agitated, never ending stream of thoughts are fascinating to read, in spite of their repetitiveness.
Exaggeration. Hyperbole is used throughout - a metaphor of exaggeration, a figure of anger. It strengthens the picture of "the enemy", and by using this type of rhetoric, you can distance yourself from the thing you criticize. The novel makes war on people, social norms and certain types of behavior. But hyperboles are often difficult to take seriously. There is too much patos, it's all to exaggerated (and sometimes quite funny). The main character might have some good points, but he gives us no evidence. He is definitely an unreliable narrator, albeit an eloquent one. This makes me ponder what his intention is. Is he really trying to convince us, or himself, of something, or does his rhythmic, intense and energizing anger have some other purpose?
Italics. The frequent use of italics when he is quoting someone he disagrees with often has a hint of mockery. This is also a way of distancing himself from what he is criticizing. He's making it very clear that these are not his opinions. The use of italics also makes the words stand out as something remarkable, he makes words and phrases that are seen as natural and normal by the people who use them, seem stupid and silly. This is pretty arrogant, and it made me wonder if protest and criticism isn't also an artistic norm? At other times, the use of italics underlines something that's important to the main character.
Composition. The novel consists of one solid block of text. No chapters, no paragraphs, no pauses anywhere. This, like so many other things in this book, creates intensity. It can also make the book tiresome to read. There is no good place to stop reading, it just goes on and on (like an angry rant often does). The composition, like everything else in this book, mirrors the main character's state of mind. Sentences are typically long, but with many commas and semicolons as the main character moves continuously from one line of thought to another.
A lot of the characters have at one point changed their names from their given or "natural" names to something more artistic, fashionable or appropriate to what they want to achieve. They exchange their real names for something that has a desired effect. It all comes back to the dichotomy between the genuine/natural and the fake/fashionable. The main character describes how talented people from the countryside travel to Vienna to fulfill their dreams and are crushed and broken there. It's like two different spheres that are not compatible. But the dichotomy isn't necessary between the city and the countryside. These places represent, to the main character, the fake and the genuine, respectively. It's about people seeking the social status art, fashion and high culture gives them, rather than actually being interested in art for its own sake or wanting to create something great or meaningful. And the people who are genuinely interested, are doomed to fail in such an environment. But although people in the countryside are vaguely described as being genuine, we are not really given an alternative, a solution, a positive counterpart to Vienna's art snobbery. It's just the negative side the main character conveys to the readers.
This novel is complex and, yes, artistic, even as it criticizes the art scene. Everything in it is carefully chosen and molded. There is definitely a melancholy longing for a past long gone where the main character was inspired by, and interested in, art. Throughout the novel he isolates himself from the people around him. He prefers to observe and criticize from a distance the milieu he used to be a part of. His change of heart has been a difficult and agonizing process, and his present day anger seems to me to have the purpose of an exorcism. He is driving all of these people away from himself, trying to cleanse himself of everything they represent.
I think the English title is usually Cutting Timber or Woodcutters, while the original is Hultsfellen. The latter means trees that topple over on their own, from old age or rot, or some other natural reason. And I think it's past tense? So the original title might be interpreted to mean that the old giants, the old authorities, have fallen, maybe from rot, or from growing too big and heavy. This makes sense when you think about the main character's never ending criticism of art snobbery. The entire book can be read as a furious critique of Vienna's high culture.
And still, there seems to be a conflict between rage and accept/friendliness throughout the novel. Especially in the instances when the main character realizes or admits to himself that he is no better than the people he is criticizing. It made me wonder what the secondary characters in this novel are actually like, because the reader has almost no contact with the world outside the main character's raging mind. It's a little bit like stream of consciousness, except this inner monologue is more theoretical/analytical and less about sensory input.
Repetition. The main character repeats words and phrases that gets stuck in his head. Words are doubled and repeated in complex and rhythmical patterns, which builds up and builds up. It intensifies, underlines, focuses and shows his agitation. He even says some of them out loud so many times that people starts to stare at him, and in the first half of the book, this is the only direct contact between the main character and other people. It's like his inner world - his thoughts and frustrations - is leaking out into the world around him. The main character's rants are often quite funny, and the agitated, never ending stream of thoughts are fascinating to read, in spite of their repetitiveness.
Exaggeration. Hyperbole is used throughout - a metaphor of exaggeration, a figure of anger. It strengthens the picture of "the enemy", and by using this type of rhetoric, you can distance yourself from the thing you criticize. The novel makes war on people, social norms and certain types of behavior. But hyperboles are often difficult to take seriously. There is too much patos, it's all to exaggerated (and sometimes quite funny). The main character might have some good points, but he gives us no evidence. He is definitely an unreliable narrator, albeit an eloquent one. This makes me ponder what his intention is. Is he really trying to convince us, or himself, of something, or does his rhythmic, intense and energizing anger have some other purpose?
Italics. The frequent use of italics when he is quoting someone he disagrees with often has a hint of mockery. This is also a way of distancing himself from what he is criticizing. He's making it very clear that these are not his opinions. The use of italics also makes the words stand out as something remarkable, he makes words and phrases that are seen as natural and normal by the people who use them, seem stupid and silly. This is pretty arrogant, and it made me wonder if protest and criticism isn't also an artistic norm? At other times, the use of italics underlines something that's important to the main character.
Composition. The novel consists of one solid block of text. No chapters, no paragraphs, no pauses anywhere. This, like so many other things in this book, creates intensity. It can also make the book tiresome to read. There is no good place to stop reading, it just goes on and on (like an angry rant often does). The composition, like everything else in this book, mirrors the main character's state of mind. Sentences are typically long, but with many commas and semicolons as the main character moves continuously from one line of thought to another.
A lot of the characters have at one point changed their names from their given or "natural" names to something more artistic, fashionable or appropriate to what they want to achieve. They exchange their real names for something that has a desired effect. It all comes back to the dichotomy between the genuine/natural and the fake/fashionable. The main character describes how talented people from the countryside travel to Vienna to fulfill their dreams and are crushed and broken there. It's like two different spheres that are not compatible. But the dichotomy isn't necessary between the city and the countryside. These places represent, to the main character, the fake and the genuine, respectively. It's about people seeking the social status art, fashion and high culture gives them, rather than actually being interested in art for its own sake or wanting to create something great or meaningful. And the people who are genuinely interested, are doomed to fail in such an environment. But although people in the countryside are vaguely described as being genuine, we are not really given an alternative, a solution, a positive counterpart to Vienna's art snobbery. It's just the negative side the main character conveys to the readers.
This novel is complex and, yes, artistic, even as it criticizes the art scene. Everything in it is carefully chosen and molded. There is definitely a melancholy longing for a past long gone where the main character was inspired by, and interested in, art. Throughout the novel he isolates himself from the people around him. He prefers to observe and criticize from a distance the milieu he used to be a part of. His change of heart has been a difficult and agonizing process, and his present day anger seems to me to have the purpose of an exorcism. He is driving all of these people away from himself, trying to cleanse himself of everything they represent.
sallyysimpson's review against another edition
dark
emotional
mysterious
reflective
tense
slow-paced
- Plot- or character-driven? Character
4.25
chrisrohlev1234's review against another edition
4.0
"Country doctors aren't squeamish, I thought."
Thomas Bernhard was a great, prolific, vitriolic, funny and depressing author. A native-born Austrian who had such a contempt for his country that, in the late sixties, wrote, “There are more Nazis in Vienna now / than in thirty-eight.”
I've always had a weird and sneaking suspicion that our brain fabricates this world to be one of joy and happiness when, in reality, it is something abhorrent and sad. People are run over by cars, killed in wars, and die of preventable diseases and it only takes a few generations for our memory of these people to be dissolved.
Thomas Bernhard formulated this when he wrote in the sixties. Imagine if he saw America today. 2023 is a year where you can graduate from a name-brand state school in any particular STEM field and design the homing system of a Tomahawk missile whose unfortunate collateral damage is the eradication of a random 5-year-old boy who was playing soccer near an Al-Qaeda training camp.
Thankfully, there's no blood on my hands. And while there are millions across the world suffering from pestilence, disease, and misery, I can go to sleep knowing that everything will turn out alright. Not to worry, there are antidotes in this stupid and rotten culture. Get married, have a couple of kids and a family, and live the remaining days of your life in a silent kind of resignation, enjoying your IPA at the local brewery. Maybe you didn't get to do anything really great or remarkable in this life, but hey, at least you get to see your grandkids once in a while. Bernhard would certainly agree that life today is a meaningless rat race. Every time I log on to LinkedIn, I want to rest my right temple on the cool steel of a railroad beam and end it Anna Karenina style.
Thankfully, we have authors like Thomas Bernhard and books like The Woodcutters to show us that we are not alone in this contempt for the world. I'm thankful for that.
"She had the audacity to pick up an empty cigar box and place her own five-hundred-schilling in it, then go from one mourner to another canvassing contributions, with an expression on her face that made one want to slap it rather than give her any money for John, poor though he may have been-holding out the cigar box and carefully noting the amounts her victims were prepared to contribute and actually did contribute. Everyone found this performance of hers quite tasteless, and curiously enough it was Auersberger who voiced their feeling by suddenly saying to her face, How tasteless you are, how tasteless, how tasteless! Twice he repeated the words how tasteless-in other words he uttered them three times altogether-and then threw a thousand-schilling note into the cigar box. Finally there was a sum of several thousand shillings in the box, together with a hundred and twenty pounds which I had put in. Jeanie walked over to the table at which John was sitting with the woman from the store and myself and tipped out the contents of the cigar box on the table in front of him, behaving as though it were her money, all her own work, but by no means her own money-her own tastelessness, but not her own money, I had said to myself at the time, though I refrained from telling her that I thought she was disgusting. That was the proper word for her, and it was on the rip of my tongue. The Virginia Woolf of Vienna, I thought at the time, who has used John as a means of once more parading her social concern, thereby facing him with one of the most embarrassing situations of his life! He would have liked to crawl under the table. People like Jeannie Billroth, who have a great understanding of art (or used to have), lack any instinct for real life, for dealing with real people, I thought."
Thomas Bernhard was a great, prolific, vitriolic, funny and depressing author. A native-born Austrian who had such a contempt for his country that, in the late sixties, wrote, “There are more Nazis in Vienna now / than in thirty-eight.”
I've always had a weird and sneaking suspicion that our brain fabricates this world to be one of joy and happiness when, in reality, it is something abhorrent and sad. People are run over by cars, killed in wars, and die of preventable diseases and it only takes a few generations for our memory of these people to be dissolved.
Thomas Bernhard formulated this when he wrote in the sixties. Imagine if he saw America today. 2023 is a year where you can graduate from a name-brand state school in any particular STEM field and design the homing system of a Tomahawk missile whose unfortunate collateral damage is the eradication of a random 5-year-old boy who was playing soccer near an Al-Qaeda training camp.
Thankfully, there's no blood on my hands. And while there are millions across the world suffering from pestilence, disease, and misery, I can go to sleep knowing that everything will turn out alright. Not to worry, there are antidotes in this stupid and rotten culture. Get married, have a couple of kids and a family, and live the remaining days of your life in a silent kind of resignation, enjoying your IPA at the local brewery. Maybe you didn't get to do anything really great or remarkable in this life, but hey, at least you get to see your grandkids once in a while. Bernhard would certainly agree that life today is a meaningless rat race. Every time I log on to LinkedIn, I want to rest my right temple on the cool steel of a railroad beam and end it Anna Karenina style.
Thankfully, we have authors like Thomas Bernhard and books like The Woodcutters to show us that we are not alone in this contempt for the world. I'm thankful for that.
"She had the audacity to pick up an empty cigar box and place her own five-hundred-schilling in it, then go from one mourner to another canvassing contributions, with an expression on her face that made one want to slap it rather than give her any money for John, poor though he may have been-holding out the cigar box and carefully noting the amounts her victims were prepared to contribute and actually did contribute. Everyone found this performance of hers quite tasteless, and curiously enough it was Auersberger who voiced their feeling by suddenly saying to her face, How tasteless you are, how tasteless, how tasteless! Twice he repeated the words how tasteless-in other words he uttered them three times altogether-and then threw a thousand-schilling note into the cigar box. Finally there was a sum of several thousand shillings in the box, together with a hundred and twenty pounds which I had put in. Jeanie walked over to the table at which John was sitting with the woman from the store and myself and tipped out the contents of the cigar box on the table in front of him, behaving as though it were her money, all her own work, but by no means her own money-her own tastelessness, but not her own money, I had said to myself at the time, though I refrained from telling her that I thought she was disgusting. That was the proper word for her, and it was on the rip of my tongue. The Virginia Woolf of Vienna, I thought at the time, who has used John as a means of once more parading her social concern, thereby facing him with one of the most embarrassing situations of his life! He would have liked to crawl under the table. People like Jeannie Billroth, who have a great understanding of art (or used to have), lack any instinct for real life, for dealing with real people, I thought."