A review by greeniezona
1944 Diary by Hans Keilson
4.0
This book seemed like a weird choice, even to me (given my strict no book set in Europe between the wars rule), but something compelled me both to check it out and to pluck it from my library pile long before a dozen books that seemed more in my wheelhouse.
I almost put this book down so many times during the first half because Keilson's condescending misogyny was driving me absolutely up the wall. Thankfully, as the fighting got closer, those aspects faded away, and Keilson's diary turned more to literature, to his life's purpose, and to deeper emotional connections. So I started the book annoyed, became more and more empathetic with Keilson in the second half, and then... the poetry. The first few poems I felt were nice enough love sonnets, but like the diary itself, the more I read the more deeply I was moved and the higher I esteemed Keilson. These sonnets aren't just about love, but about love and horror -- both the horror of that utter vulnerability of love and also the horror of death and war all around them -- it all became enmeshed.
I wish I could say that I learned something deep about living in a time of horror -- but all I learned is that our stupid hearts go on the same -- loving, selfish, grasping for meaning, making plans, enmeshed in our own private dramas.
I almost put this book down so many times during the first half because Keilson's condescending misogyny was driving me absolutely up the wall. Thankfully, as the fighting got closer, those aspects faded away, and Keilson's diary turned more to literature, to his life's purpose, and to deeper emotional connections. So I started the book annoyed, became more and more empathetic with Keilson in the second half, and then... the poetry. The first few poems I felt were nice enough love sonnets, but like the diary itself, the more I read the more deeply I was moved and the higher I esteemed Keilson. These sonnets aren't just about love, but about love and horror -- both the horror of that utter vulnerability of love and also the horror of death and war all around them -- it all became enmeshed.
I wish I could say that I learned something deep about living in a time of horror -- but all I learned is that our stupid hearts go on the same -- loving, selfish, grasping for meaning, making plans, enmeshed in our own private dramas.