By Max Blecher, Michael Henry Heim
Often known as “the Kafka of Romania,” Max Blecher died younger yet now not sooner than growing this incandescent novel.
Adventures in speedy Irreality, the masterwork of Max Blecher—a wonderful author who brings to brain Bruno Schulz—paints in vibrant shades the crises of “irreality” that plagued him in his formative years, eerie mirages in which he may glimpse destiny occasions, gleaming glimpses unsettling in each way. In gliding chapters that stream with a weird dream good judgment in their personal, this memoiristic novella sketches the tremulous, scary and exhilarating awakenings of a really younger guy.
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Extra resources for Adventures In Immediate Irreality
The question was whether Eugen would return before Clara had finished dressing. I found it painful to follow the two events, Clara’s toilet and Eugen’s conversation, realizing that they would run parallel to each other until Clara went out into the shop or they came together in the back room like trains in a film racing madly toward each other, about to crash or speed past depending on whether a mysterious hand intervenes to shunt one of them onto a siding at the last moment. Meanwhile, the conversation kept on its course and Clara kept powdering her face.
Despite his condition, he wrote and published his first piece in 1930, a short story called “Herrant” in Tudor Arghezi’s literary magazine Bilete de papagal, contributed to André Breton’s literary review Le Surréalisme au service de la révolution and corresponded with Breton, André Gide, Martin Heidegger, Ilarie Voronca, Geo Bogza, and Mihail Sebastian. In 1934, he published Corp transparent, a volume of poetry. In 1935, he was moved to a house on the outskirts of Roman where he wrote and published his major works, Întâmplări în irealitate imediată (Adventures in Immediate Irreality) and Inimi cicatrizate (Scarred Hearts), as well as short prose pieces, articles, and translations.
There was still the same Eugen, still the same Clara, still the same sonatas (though I could no longer stand the violin and could hardly wait for Eugen to leave); I was in the same room, but my concerns were different. It was if I were playing a new game on a board designed for a game I had outgrown. Each time Eugen left, a period of waiting began, one much more arduous than what I had known till then. The silence in the shop was like a block of ice. Clara would sit by the window, knitting. This was the “beginning” to each day, the beginning without which our adventure could go no further.