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A stunning, revelatory new translation of the only novel by one of the greatest poets of the twentieth century, from one of “the most trustworthy and exhilarating of Rilke’s contemporary translators” (Michael Dirda, Washington Post). A groundbreaking masterpiece of early European modernism originally published in 1910, The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge unspools the vivid reflections of the titular young Danish nobleman and poet. From his Paris garret, Brigge records his encounters with the city and its outcasts, muses on his family history, and lays bare his earliest experiences of fear, tenderness, and desolation. With a poet’s feel for language and a keen instinct for storytelling, Rainer Maria Rilke forges a dazzlingly fractured coming-of-age narrative, kaleidoscopic in its alternation of vivid present encounters and equally alive memories of childhood. Strikingly contemporary, The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge reveals a writer metabolizing his own experiences to yield still-essential questions about fiction and reality, empathy and psychosis, and—above all—life, love, and death. In a fascinating introduction, award-winning translator Edward Snow explores the overlaps between Rilke’s experiences and those of his protagonist, and shows with granular attention the novel’s capacity for nuance and sympathy. Snow’s exquisite translation captures as never before the astonishing cadences and musical clarity of the poet’s prose. It reveals The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge as an urgent contemporary achievement, more than one hundred years after it was written.
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1 primary bookDie Aufzeichnungen des Malte Laurids Brigge is a 0-book series first released in 1910 with contributions by Rainer Maria Rilke and Furio Jesi.
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“And so when I returned to Ulsgaard in this frame of mind and saw all the books, I fell upon them: in a great hurry, almost with a bad conscience. Somehow I had a premonition of what I've so often felt in later life: that you didn't have the right to open one book if you weren't prepared to read them all. Wich every line you made a break in the world. Before books, it was whole, and perhaps after them it would be whole again. But how could I, who didn't know how to go about reading, take them all on? There they stood, even in this modest library, hopelessly outnumbering me, shoulder to shoulder in closed ranks. Defiant and desperate, I plunged from book to book and fought through the pages like someone who has to perform a task out of all proportion to his strength.”
“In later years I would sometimes wake up at night and the stars would be standing there so real and advancing with such clarity of purpose that I couldn't understand how people inured themselves to so much world. I had a similar feeling, I think, when I'd glance up from my books and look outside—where the summer was, where Abelone was calling from.”