Türkçe’deki üç romanı Satürn’ün Halkaları, Göçmenler ve Austerlitz ile, yazar olarak felsefi ve edebi gücünü bize kanıtlayan W. G Sebald’in, 2001’de henüz elli yedi yaşında ölmesi tüm yazın dünyası için erken bir kayıptır. Sebald’in izlediği ve daha önce denenmemiş bir yazın biçemi bu düşüncenin oluşmasında başlıca etkendir. Deneysel, kurmaca ve belgesel öğelerin bu kadar ince işlenmesi ve sık dokunması, sonsuzluğu barındıran dünyası ve ilginç kişiliğiyle tüm yapıtlarıyla birlikte değerlendirilmesi gerekn bir yazar, Sebald. Çünkü yapıtlarındaki tematik benzerlikler yanında, okuru delicesine tarihin, eğlencenin, kurmacanın ve her türlü hazzın içine iten güçlü ellere sahip sözcükleri barındırıyor bu romanlar. Satürn’ün halkaları yine yolculuk teması üzerine kurulmuş ve birbirinden farklı öyküleri tek bir eksende toplayan şaşırtıcı zenginlikte bir romandı. Austerlitz, ucu ikinci dünya savaşına uzanan ve bir tren garında başlayan bir dostluğun hikayesini anlatıyordu. Göçmenler ise hem Sebald’in yaşamından özel kesitler taşıdığı hem de Sayfalarda Yolculuklar’ın temasına uygun olduğu için seçildi.W.G. Sebald, Göçmenler’de, rastlantısal karşılaşmaların, tanışıklıkların, akrabalıkların ve her şeyden önce yurtlarından uzaklaştırılmış olan insanların izlerini kusursuz bir gözlemle aktarırken, tanışlarının hikayelerini bir tarih yazımcısı gibi kendi belleğinden süzerek nesnel bir boyutta anlatmayı başarıyor. Onu bu tutumuyla Proust ve James’e yaklaştıranlar ya da Borges, Kafka, Bernhard gibi yazdığını düşünenler olsa da, tamamen kendine özgü yeni bir biçemle yazdığını söylemek gerekiyor. Her şeyden önce Sebald’ın romanlarında iki dönemin öne çıktığını görüyoruz. Bunlardan ilki 2. Dünya Savaşı’yla biten, Hobsbawm’ın belirttiği gibi ‘imparatorluklar çağı’ ya da büyük sömürgeler çağı; ikincisi ise her anlamda çözülmelerin yaşandığı ve varoluşun öne çıktığı bireyin dönemi. Sebald için zaman ve mekan sıkışması tam da böyle bir dönemde yaşanıyor ve birey, kimi zaman zorlanarak kimi zamansa kendi iç sesini dinleyerek ait olduğu yere doğru sürükleniyor. Büyük ekonomik yapıların, sömürge kültürünün kalıntılarının ve iç içe geçen kültürel sarmalların arasından geçen bu insanlar, göçmenler ya da turistler, bir çeşit aidiyet duygusuyla kendi yaşam alanlarını bir zamanların büyük imparatorluklarının sınırlarının dışına çıkarak arıyorlar. Bu arayış bazen travmatik sonuçlara neden olurken, bazense bir çeşit mutluluk duygusuyla sonlanabiliyor. Ancak şu bir gerçek ki, Sebald için ‘şimdi’nin, geçmiş ve gelecekle arasındaki ipleri kopmuş değildir. Zaman ve mekan bir arada varoldukça, görünümler, hayaletler tekrar tekrar ortaya çıkacaktır. Bazen bir tesadüfle bazen planlanarak keşfedilir bu görünümler, ama bu Hac yolculuğunun en esaslı yanı tartışılan her ciddi kavramın, kurmacanın o dayanılmaz hafifliğinden payını almaş olmasıdır. Beri yandan kendisi de bir göçmen hayatı sürmüş olan, Almanya’da doğduğu halde, İngiltere, İsviçre, Fransa ve Amerika’da bulunmuş olan Sebald’in, yaptığı tüm yolculukların nihai bir kimlik arayışına dönüşmesi, kimliğini açıkça ortaya koymak için değil, bir çeşit durağanlıktan kaçınmak olduğunu anlamak gerekiyor. tGöçmenler, yurtlarından kopmuş dört insanın çevresinde gelişen birbirinden farklı öykülere dayanıyor. Ambros Adelwarth başlığını taşıyan üçüncü bölümde ise yazarın uzak dayısı olarak karşımıza çıkan bu sıra dışı kişilik, Uzak Doğu’da, Asya’da ve Avrupa’da geçirdiği koca bir yaşamla ve geride bıraktığı fotoğraflar ve günlüklerle karşımıza çıkıyor. Anlatıcının içindeki Amerika’ya karşı duyduğu özlem ve bir zamanlar Amerika’da yaşama düşüncesi nihayet gerçekleştiğinde, bu şaşırtıcı öyküyle karşılaşıyor, Sebald ve atalarının, göç etmek zorunda kalmış yakınlarının hikayesine ulaşıyor.tAmbros Adelwarth’ın yakın bir arkadaşıyla çıktığı Doğu yolculuğu onu Venedikten, İstanbul’a getiriyor. Hikayenin içinde yalnızca üç sayfa yer tutan İstanbul, gezgin konuklarına şaşırtıcı bir dünya sunmakta gecikmiyor. Sebald’ın fotoğraflardan ve bizzat Ambros’un tuttuğu günlüklerden keşfettiği bu yolculuğun sırları da büyüleyici şehre girer girmez anlam kazanmaya başlıyor. ‘Hiç kimsenin böyle bir kenti hayalinde canlandıramayacağı’ iddiası, peşinden yeşilin nice tonu, çamfıstığı ağaçları, akasyalar, mantar meşeleri, Firavun inciri, okaliptüs, ardıç ve defne ağalçarından oluşan gerçek bir ağaç cenneti, derin gölgelikleri ve şırıldayan dereleri ve çeşmeleriyle korular. “...Bir tiyatroya gidiyorsunuz ve ön salondaki kapıdan çıkıp bir ormana dalıyorsunuz, başka bir sefer karanlık ve gittikçe daralan bir sokağa sapıyorsunuz, tam kapana kısıldım derken, köşeyi dönmek için bir adım atıyorsunuz ve birden bütün kent manzarasını ayaklarınızın altında uzandığını görüyorsunuz. Çırılçıplak bir yamacı çıkıyorsunuz ve gölgelik bir vadiye geliyorsunuz, bir evin avlusundan giriyor ve bir caddeye çıkıyorsunuz. Pazarda dolanırken birdenbire kendinizi mezar taşlarının arasında buluyorsunuz. Çünkü tıpkı ölüm gibi İstanbul’un mezarlıkları da yaşamla iç içe.” tBu muhteşem betimlemeler bizi 1913 yılının karmaşık politik ortamının uzağında pastoral bir İstanbul’a götürüyor. Elbette Cosmo ve Ambros’un gezi notları Pera Palas otelinden, Haliç’e, kentin kıyılarından, içlerine, banliyölerden, kahvehanelerine dek uzanan bir yolcuğunun tüm ayrıntılarını kapsamıyor, çünkü İstanbul insana esriklik veren bir nefesi almayı konuklarında zorunlu kılıyor ve böylece zihin tutku dolu bir merakla algıladığı her şeye estetik katma zorunluluğu duyuyor. Gezintilerinin en ilginç anlarından birinde ise, güneşten kamaşan gözlerine çöl gezginleri gibi siper ettikleri elleriyle limana doğru yürürken, kocaman horoz büyüklüğünde bir güvercin karşılarına çıkıyor ve onlara yol gösteriyor. Sokakta henüz on iki yaşında olduğu anlaşılan bir derviş, konuşmadan onlara bakıyor. Bu ilginç anı da fotoğraflamayı unutmuyorlar.tSebald’in tüm yapıtlarının içinde Göçmenler’in bu açıdan özel bir yeri var. İstanbul üzerine yapılmış bütün tutkulu betimlemelerin, uzun romanların ve gezi yazılarının yanında, yalnızca üç sayfa tutan bu olağanüstü metni okumak, okurda önü alınamaz hazlar bırakıyor.
When I was a kid I thought that everyone was happier than me, that they felt connected to the world in a way that I did not. I experienced life as though I was behind glass, as though some barrier existed between me and the world that obscured, muffled, and distorted it. That wasn’t, as it is tempting to assume, a consequence of being raised in straightened circumstances - although I guess that did not help at all – it was something that was in me and has remained with me, at least in a diluted form, as I have got older and, relatively speaking, moved up in the world. In part, this feeling is probably why I turned to books, because books allowed me to experience something, in my imagination, with a kind of clarity that was otherwise denied me, allowed me to connect with something in the way that I often could not connect with my surroundings or other people.With age comes understanding, of course, and understanding who I am and why I behave the way that I do has brought comfort and allowed me to lighten up and enjoy myself; with age also comes the realisation that most people are a little bit lost, that it isn’t the case that everyone is blithely strolling through life, whistling and twirling a cane, without a care in the world. So I no longer feel quite so oppressed these days. Yet, it is safe to say that what I experienced as a child, and what I experience still now from time to time, albeit less intensely, is why the work of W.G. Sebald resonates with me so much. All four of Sebald’s novels are populated by eccentric, otherworldly, almost ghost-like, figures, some well-known and others not previously known, whose lives went awry in some way, people who, it seems, could not cope with day-to-day existence, could not successfully endure. In The Rings of Saturn the narrator himself has had a kind of mental breakdown, and, upon leaving the hospital, begins a walking tour through Norfolk, on the way making wry, melancholy observations, and telling anecdotes about strange phenomena and odd, depressive, people; and in Austerlitz the focus of the story is the Holocaust and a man who was sent to England as a child to avoid the same fate as his parents, and suffers, as a result, feelings of dislocation, isolation, and anguish.In The Emigrants, published prior to The Rings of Saturn and Austerlitz, Sebald tells the separate stories of four characters, each of whom left their home country, and each of whom were damaged in some way. In many ways the book is a rehearsal for Sebald’s two major novels, as it covers much the same territory and deals with many of the same themes. There is, of course, the same Sebaldian style on display, which means long stately sentences and very few paragraphs, and, punctuating the text, a series of evocative black and white photographs. Furthermore, there is also the customary balancing act between fact and fiction, which is, perhaps, the most intriguing thing about the German’s body of work. With The Emigrants, like The Rings of Saturn and Austerlitz and Vertigo, one is unsure as to what is real and what is not, what is truth and what is fiction, and the effect is disorientating. There is no clear indication as to whether the lives of the four characters are imagined lives, are creations, or whether Sebald is sharing genuine episodes from his travels, experiences, and family history. The photographs, which we are led to believe are genuine representations of the people and things being discussed, may not be at all. I’ve always found that disquieting, that Sebald may have invented his so believable and desperately human characters.However, as one would expect from a rehearsal The Emigrants isn’t as polished or impressive as what came after. It may share the same themes, tone, and style as The Rings of Saturn and Austerlitz, but those two novels work as complete narratives while The Emigrants reads like four independent short stories or novellas collected in one volume. Of the four sections, stories, or biographies, three are excellent, but one, concerning Ambros Adelwarth, did pass me by a little. It’s not bad at all, but I didn’t find it as engrossing as its three companions. It is also worth noting that Sebald’s photographs seem to appear with much greater frequency in The Emigrants, which I felt diluted their impact. I found that with there being so many I tended to glance at them or ignore them completely, when previously, while reading his novels where they feature less often, I would study them carefully. Of course, none of these things are major issues, but they do go some way, perhaps, to distinguishing between what is a masterpiece and what is merely a great novel.
Do You like book The Emigrants (2002)?
quattro storie di uomini che, per sfuggire alle persecuzioni o alla fame, sono andati via dal proprio paese di origine. quattro storie ondivaghe, di infelicità e ricordi, di passato che pian piano prende forma- attraverso frammenti, vecchie foto, diari, fogli sparsi. quattro storie in cui si tenta di elaborare un pezzo di storia tedesca mai accettato dall'autore e in cui viene reso omaggio a uno dei grandi emigrati della letteratura- vladimir nabokov, scrittore e cacciatore di farfalle. il tutto con la narrazione obliqua e ammaliante di sebald che non finisce mai di sconcertarmi per la capacità di trascinare il lettore (me) in una caduta verticale nella memoria altrui- che magicamente viene condivisa e, in qualche modo, diventa la propria.
—Ffiamma
In The Emigrants time and space again contract as our narrator, whom I’ll call Sebald, traces the steps of the dead, going to their home, listening to or reading their stories, and — it’s beautiful — looking at their photographs, which are embedded in the text. And though in Vertigo Sebald managed to make everything very intimate, in The Emigrants the intimacy is much more intense. Yet still I’m reading about people I know nothing about; their experiences are not part of my heritage.The Emigrants is divided into four accounts: that of (1) Dr. Henry Selwyn, whose family emigrated from Lithuania from England, a secret he kept from his wife for a while; (2) Paul Bereyter, a quarter-Jew, still discriminated against though he served in the Wehrmacth, who taught Sebald in school and, later in life, emigrated to France; (3) Ambros Adelwarth, Sebald’s great-uncle, who travelled the Near East with a great friend but who, when that friend was committed to a mental institution, then went to be the butler to that friend’s family in Long Island; and (4) Max Ferber, a painter in Manchester, who ended up in Manchester when his parents succeeded in sending him away from Germany on a plane in 1939 but then failed to get themselves out. The book begins with a picture of a cemetery, the same one showed on the cover above. It is 1970, and Sebald is driving around the English countryside with his wife, taking everything in, apparently, though not fully understanding the weight of everything he sees. At least, he doesn’t know how much he will eventually be affected by Dr. Henry Selwyn, the husband of his new landlord. Dr. Selwyn is surprisingly open to Sebald, telling him about a past friend named Naegeli, with whom he climbed mountains:I can still see him standing at the station at Meiringen, waving. But I may only be imagining it, Dr Selwyn went on in a lower tone, to himself, since Elli has come to seem a stranger to me over the years, whereas Naegeli seems closer whenever he comes to my mind, despite the fact that I never saw him again after that farewell in Meiringen.Naegeli disappeared, and they think that he was buried in the snow. Dr. Selwyn doesn’t cease divulging to Sebald there. In a later visit, he tells more of his past, “prompted by his asking whether I was ever homesick,” Sebald says. Interestingly, the fact that Sebald himself is an emigrant stays underneath the narrative most of the time. Dr. Selwyn tells Sebald of his emigration to England (they thought they’d landed in New York, got off the boat, and, realizing their mistake, decided to stay). Henry Selwyn’s name was Hersch Seweryn. When Dr. Selwyn finally divulged this information to his wife, their relationship changed. Now, he thinks his secret is what made them drift apart. Sebald finds out later that Dr. Selwyn eventually took his own life. As shaking as this must have been, Sebald says, “I had no great difficulty in overcoming the initial shock.” Years pass.But certain things, as I am increasingly becoming aware, have a way of returning unexpectedly, often after a lengthy absence.Many times throughout the book we find the past encroaching on the present, whether in the lives of the subjects or Sebald:And so they are ever returning to us, the dead.As he grows older, he begins to feel the weight of history. Or, perhaps more exact, he begins to understand the nature of time as it moves through people, and he begins to devote his time to finding the past these people left behind, the past they themselves have tried to forget. One of tales is told primarily by Mme Landau, and she talks about “the systematic thoroughness with which these people kept silent in the years after the war, kept their secrets, and even, I sometimes think, really did forget. . .”But Sebald suggests they don’t forget. In fact, it’s all they can remember, and it follows them everywhere, to their death. This is a fantastic book, and while I’d love to keep paraphrasing the accounts and quoting Sebald, I think the best thing is to say you should read this book.
—Trevor
On the 21st of September, 2001 W.G. Sebald was interviewed by the Guardian. "Just days after the Manhatten apocalypse, Sebald is troubled by Hitler's fantasy of setting New York ablase, as the blitz did London." The author, who died in December of that year, was always preoccupied with the past. Born in June, 1944 he tells the interviewer that "while I was being pushed in a pram through the flowering meadows in my Alpine village, just a few hundred miles away Kafka's sister was being deported to Auschwitz. It's the chronological contiguity that makes you think it has something to do with you."Sebald's sets out in THE EMIGRANTS to tell four seemingly separate stories of Jewish men the author meets in Manchester, England. These exiles left Germany at different times in the 20th century and their stories bring to light what had been buried in memory for a century. We meet Dr. Henry Selwyn, an isolated man who lives on the property shared with his wife. He acknowledges the marital estrangement and wonders if it has something to do with his immigration from Germany to England due to his ethnicity, all of which was kept a secret from her. Facing the end of his life, his ruminations are of loss and alienation, and his plans for relief are terminal.Paul Bereyter was the narrator's teacher when he was sent to England out of harms way by his parents. Bereyter's circumstance is less known in fiction, as his one-quarter Jewish heritage prevented him from doing what he loved in Germany, teaching, but did not exclude him from fighting in Hitler's motorized artillery for six years. In later years his eyesight failed him, but the memory of railroads seemingly leading to forever didn't.The great-uncle of the narrator is Ambros Adelwarth, an elder of the German emigrants who came to the New York area in the early decades of the century. With skills and connections, Ambros scales the Chrysler Building, services the Brooklyn Bridge and travels the world. He writes in his agenda book at the end of his life, that memory is like looking down from a great height at a towering building lost in the clouds.The final story of this overarching narrative is about a now famous painter, Max Ferber who passes on to the narrator his mother's writings of her life in Germany before Hitler. Max had emigrated to Manchester when his father's business was sold to an aryian and the family's furniture was confiscated. He corresponded with them until he realized he was no longer receiving letters, and then news came of their deportation and deaths. The symbolism of passing his mother's journals on to the narrator can be seen as the role Germans and all people should play after the worst crime of the century...carrying forward the part Jews played in creating Germany's civilized society, and what is left because of their destruction. The last pages find the narrator traveling to the Litzmannstadt ghetto. He discovers an old photo of three Jewish women working behind a loom. He describes the young women as "the one in the middle is blonde and has the air of a bride about her. The weaver to her left has inclined her head a little to one side, whilst the woman on the right is looking at me with so steady and relentless a gaze that I cannot meet it for long. I wonder what the three women's names were--Roza, Luisa and Lea, or Nona, Decuma and Morta..." Each had a name, a story to tell, and a life to lead. Even now, we should all be unable to meet their gazes for long. HIGHEST RECOMMENDATION!
—Cheryl Kennedy
