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The Walk (Serpent's Tail Classics)

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Ranging from one-page fantasies to novella-length studies of everyday existence, The Walk reveals the irresistible genius of one of the twentieth century's greatest writers. Under-appreciated even in his own lifetime, Robert Walser has nonetheless been recognised by such writers as W.G. Sebald, Susan Sontag, Franz Kafka, Herman Hesse and J.M. Coetzee. Like Kafka and Sebald Ranging from one-page fantasies to novella-length studies of everyday existence, The Walk reveals the irresistible genius of one of the twentieth century's greatest writers. Under-appreciated even in his own lifetime, Robert Walser has nonetheless been recognised by such writers as W.G. Sebald, Susan Sontag, Franz Kafka, Herman Hesse and J.M. Coetzee. Like Kafka and Sebald, Walser wrote about the solitude and unease of human existence. Honest, wry and idiosyncratic, his stories are snapshots of the lives great artists, poor young men, beautiful women and talking animals alike. Ranging from the realist to the allegorical, the short fiction collected in this volume demonstrates Walser's uncanny ability to capture both life's strangeness and its small joys.


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Ranging from one-page fantasies to novella-length studies of everyday existence, The Walk reveals the irresistible genius of one of the twentieth century's greatest writers. Under-appreciated even in his own lifetime, Robert Walser has nonetheless been recognised by such writers as W.G. Sebald, Susan Sontag, Franz Kafka, Herman Hesse and J.M. Coetzee. Like Kafka and Sebald Ranging from one-page fantasies to novella-length studies of everyday existence, The Walk reveals the irresistible genius of one of the twentieth century's greatest writers. Under-appreciated even in his own lifetime, Robert Walser has nonetheless been recognised by such writers as W.G. Sebald, Susan Sontag, Franz Kafka, Herman Hesse and J.M. Coetzee. Like Kafka and Sebald, Walser wrote about the solitude and unease of human existence. Honest, wry and idiosyncratic, his stories are snapshots of the lives great artists, poor young men, beautiful women and talking animals alike. Ranging from the realist to the allegorical, the short fiction collected in this volume demonstrates Walser's uncanny ability to capture both life's strangeness and its small joys.

59 review for The Walk (Serpent's Tail Classics)

  1. 5 out of 5

    Ilse

    I walk, therefore I am And then I see a darkness “Did I pick flowers to lay them upon my sorrow?” I asked myself, and the flowers fell out of my hand. Modernism, romanticism, melancholia, irony: it is all there, in the few pages of this bittersweet fairy-tale. As this was my first acquaintance with Walser’s prose, and there is plenty left to discover, here is a happy reader. The narrator, a poet, flees from his writing room, “or room of phantoms”, and goes out for a stroll. Crossing the path of a v I walk, therefore I am And then I see a darkness “Did I pick flowers to lay them upon my sorrow?” I asked myself, and the flowers fell out of my hand. Modernism, romanticism, melancholia, irony: it is all there, in the few pages of this bittersweet fairy-tale. As this was my first acquaintance with Walser’s prose, and there is plenty left to discover, here is a happy reader. The narrator, a poet, flees from his writing room, “or room of phantoms”, and goes out for a stroll. Crossing the path of a variety of passers-by, he gives a tragi-comical account on his impressions, thoughts, futile undertakings and encounters on his walk through a nameless little town and the countryside. As in a manic frenzy, he natters on, slowing down his walking pace, almost stumbling over his own words in his eagerness to report on every detail hitting his eye or striking his mind. It is a walk without a purpose or destination. As the day and the walking progress, the hypersensitive narrator experiences a multitude of mood swings, changing from frantic happiness and ecstatic joy, an almost neurotic rapturous state, to defeatism, indignation and back to euphoria: the hues of four seasons in one day. In a state of jubilant exultation, the narrator/poet loses himself, he coincides with nature, becomes one with the world soul, Anima Mundi: The soul of the world had opened and I fantasized that everything wicked, distressing and painful was on the point of vanishing….all notion of the future paled and the past dissolved. In the glowing present, I myself glowed. The earth became a dream; I myself had become an inward being, and I walked as in an inward world. The exuberant torrent of words is obviously hiding something. Behind this sprightly verbosity, there is despair, loneliness and angst. Which demons is the voluble narrator running from? The blank page, a writer’s block? The critics? Himself? The dark thoughts that the narrator so skilfully tries to keep at bay on his stride, slowly obfuscate the pleasure he takes in the Arcadian scenery. His bumping into the pitiable giant Tomzack, an allegoric alter ego of himself, could be seen as a first gloomy omen: Without motherland, without happiness he was; he had to live completely without love and without human joy. He had sympathy with no man, and with him and his mopping and mowing no man had sympathy. Past, present and future were to him an insubstantial desert, and life was too small, too tiny, too narrow, for him. For him there was nothing which had meaning, and he himself in turn meant something to nobody. Out of his great eyes there broke a glare of grief in overworlds and underworlds. Infinite pain spoke from his slack and weary moments. A hundred thousand years old he seemed to me, and it seemed to me that he must live for eternity, only to be for eternity no living being. He died every instant and yet he could not die. For him, there was no grave with flowers on it. Walser’s prose bristles with exaggerations and reprises; he accumulates pointless tautologies (pun intended) resulting in baroqueness and pomposity, which creates an alienating and deranging effect to the reader at first. Once one becomes used to his curvy, hyperbolic style, the whimsical, syntactically almost derailing sentences turn out strikingly appropriate and functional, as a cunning mimicry of moving, funny ineptitude. At times his prose reminded me of Hrabal’s, yet less gaudy. In his encounters with the outer world, the narrator/poet behaves himself in a most peculiar, awkward way. He profuses with uncongenially solemn courtesy, is obsequiously polite, while inwardly (or in writing) scolding and disdaining the high and mighty, oscillating from self-disparaging and cowardice to elation; self-destructive recklessness, supercilious megalomania and delusions of grandeur. Facing settled society’s intolerance for day-thieving artists, lazybones, vagrants, ‘unproductive’ dreamers – and the weak and destitute – he exhausts himself in justifying his observant life, his vocation, his very existence. Presenting his narrator/poet – actually himself - as the gentle village idiot, a queer, enigmatic and eccentric figure, Walser considers the relation between the artist and society. In all its jocularity and irony, this relation, for Walser, could only be one of torment, according to his friend Carl Seelig. Often the narrator directly addresses the reader, seeking his approval and legitimating himself to the point of absurdity. While on the one hand he attempts to ingratiate himself with the reader, he simultaneously lectures the reader on the radical freedom of the artist, making crystal clear that writing is not a game of give and take to oblige the reader. As a “serious writer” he doesn’t feel called upon to jump at the reader’s fancies, at the same time giving a firm sneer at rising consumerism (rather visionary, it’s 1917): Perhaps there were a few repetitions here and there. But I would like to confess that I consider man and nature to be in lovely and charming flight from repetitions, and I would like further to confess that I regard this phenomenon as a beauty and a blessing. Of course, one finds in some places sensation-hungry novelty hunters and novelty worshippers, spoiled by overexcitement, people who almost every instant covet joys that have never been seen before. The writer does not write for such people, nor does the composer compose for them, nor does the painter paint for them. On the whole I consider the constant need for delight and diversion in completely new things to be a sign of pettiness, lack of inner life, of estrangement from nature, and of a mediocre or defective gift of understanding. It is little children for whom one must always be producing something new and different, only in order to stop their being dissatisfied. The serious writer does not feel called upon to supply accumulations of material, to act the agile servant of nervous greed; and consequently he is not afraid of a few natural repetitions, although of course he takes continual trouble to forfend too many similarities. And so Walser throws his pearls, his graceful sentences, at us, like “delectable, luscious tidbits”. Ambulo ergo sum – I walk therefore I am (Pierre Gassendi) Walser, the walker, fits in the long tradition of numerous walking writers and philosophers (Kant, Nietzsche, Rousseau, Sebald, Woolf, the Dutch philosopher Ton Lemaire, the list is endless). For the narrator, and for Walser, walking is not only stimulating aesthetical and philosophical reflection. However complex and strained the artist’s relation towards the wilful outside world, the outing is a vital need, social interaction is required for inspiration; walking is living, is being in the world, like writing is. A ragged soul, Sebald called him, quoting from Walser’s The Tanners (in Sebald’s essay on Walser that was published in A Place in the Country, Le Promeneur Solitaire: A Remembrance of Robert Walser). A part of this essay (which however does not relate much to The Walk) can be found here.

  2. 5 out of 5

    s.penkevich

    The earth became a dream; I myself had become an inward being, and I walked as in an inward world. The joys, clear-headed thinking, and sheer beauty of a walk through the world come alive in Robert Walser’s The Walk. This is a sentiment that I too share, as I find I do my best thinking and arrive at my best inspirations while out on a run—I never review a book without getting at least one run in between the completion of the novel and sitting down to write so I can contemplate what it is I want t The earth became a dream; I myself had become an inward being, and I walked as in an inward world. The joys, clear-headed thinking, and sheer beauty of a walk through the world come alive in Robert Walser’s The Walk. This is a sentiment that I too share, as I find I do my best thinking and arrive at my best inspirations while out on a run—I never review a book without getting at least one run in between the completion of the novel and sitting down to write so I can contemplate what it is I want to say and formulate at least one satisfactory statement to include in the review. There is a certain clarity that seems to accrue with my heart thumping out in the greater world as I attempt to conduct phrases to the rhythm of my footfalls down the paths cut between the trees, a clarity and rejuvenation of heart and soul that the narrator of The Walk seems to enlist as a canvas for his literary creations. Leaving behind his ‘room of phantoms’ where he was ‘brooding gloomily over a blank sheet of paper’, the narrator embarks on foot through the open air where ‘everything I saw made upon me a delightful impression’. Chronicling his walk through the town and countryside, Walser’s narrator builds an introspective portrait of an artists creation process and philosophical musings through the allegorical, and often surreal, events that transpire along the way. ’Walking is for me not only healthy, it is also of service—not only lovely, but also useful.’The walks around town have become an essential component of the narrators writing process, a segment he holds in higher regard than the actual act of writing. ‘Without walking I would be dead, and would have long since been forced to abandon my profession,’ he writes. ‘A pleasant walk most often veritably teems with imageries, living poems, attractive objects, natural beauties, be they ever so small.’ It is a time for inspiration, of intense soul searching, where one can appreciate their small place in a world so great and beautiful. Although others question his walks as being the sign of a lazy man, he is proud of them and considers them a high point of industriousness. The reader sees how his emotional and intellectual state is so tied to his walks and the world around him as the bright, welcoming sky raises his spirits, while oppressive encounters with offensive others instantly plunge him into fear and sadness. It is in the solitude of nature where he finds himself most at peace, and the ineffable beauty of the natural world quickly assuages any dark thoughts and pulls him to ecstatically aware of his place in the present. The soul of the world had opened and I fantasized that everything wicked, distressing and painful was on the point of vanishing….all notion of the future paled and the past dissolved. In the glowing present, I myself glowed. These walks instill a near-religious experience in him and allow him to comfortably—and without the fear of shadows, pain and phantoms but guided by warmth and love instead—move inward into his soul and true self where he can extract the essentials needed to produce his literature. ‘In the sweet light of love I believed I was able to recognize—or required to feel—that the inward self is the only self which really exists.’ It is his encounters with other people that send the narrator into a downward spiral of anger and grief. While the sight of a pretty woman inspires great confidence and loquacious praise to her talents, his encounters with the wealthy or those with airs of power get his blood boiling. Each event chronicled into text becomes an exceptional allegory for the society around him, and Walser emphasizes the comical grotesqueries in each scene to give an absurdly surreal look at the people and places that pass before the narrator. The upper class and those with power are typically the ones that most come under his satirical aim. He describes the any actions that ‘gratify the thirst for money’ as ‘the vilest thing on earth’ and is constantly furious at any signs of one displaying themselves as above anyone else. Even the sight of golden lettering on a bakery inspires a vitriolic rant. The narrator reflects an uneasy sense of alienation from those with wealth, those who ‘think themselves important because they are inconsiderate and discourteous, who think themselves powerful because they enjoy protection.’ He rejects these people, and their pleasures, for they are the ones he sees as holding down him and fellow artists of letters. He enters a bookshop to ‘cold-bloodedly’ dismiss the most popular and widely read novel that he request the bookseller to find, He insists that critics are nothing but injurious to the lives and livelihoods of artists. His sources of income are few and far between, and even then, they are suffocating. The narrator makes a plea for the author and artists. He compares an author to a military general because of their ‘laborious preparations before they dare march to the attack and give battle: in other words, fling their book or artistic or shoddy product into the book market, an action which sometimes vigorously provokes very forceful counterattacks.’ He argues that a true lover or art appreciates even the most dull and inferior forms because they acknowledge that heart, soul and passion went into its creation. Is not all music, ever the most niggardly, beautiful to the person who loves the very being and existence of music? Is not almost any human being you please - even the worst and most unpleasant - loveable to the person who is a friend of man? What he argues for is a polite society where we accept we all have weaknesses. I here implement a policy of softheartedness, which has a beauty that is not to be found anywhere else; but I consider a policy of this sort to be indispensible. Propriety enjoins us to be careful to deal as severaly with ourselves as with others, to judge others as mildly as we judge ourselves… The narrator attempts to practice what he preaches and always checks himself when he lets his indignation get out of hand and apologizes to the reader. ‘Abuses of writing should not be practiced,’ he often says, and keeps his promise to return to criticize himself just as he does those around him. When this moment arrives, it is utterly heart wrenching and leaves the reader drenched in sorrow and pity, yet full of blossoming adoration. The narrator writes in an engaging, highly descriptive style that often switches tenses to occasionally accommodate a present tense. As he often addresses the reader, pontificating and apologizing to the reader at times in an attempt to appear as a cordial, good natured narrator, these shifts in tense help build a sense that the reader is out on the walk with them, with the narrator occasionally overtaking them or walking along-side them. It also helps highlight the difference between the narrator-on-the-walk and the narrator-writing-the-book, with the reader always conscious that the narrator must return to his gloomy room and battle with the blank page before him to wrangle his experiences into words. While the reader is aware of the joys experienced by the walking narrator, they are always besieged by the omnipresent melancholy of the authorial narrator locked away in his shadowy studio—despite the comedic nature of most events, on the fringes lurks a vicious sadness that keeps the reader in a state of unease even in the most jovial of passages knowing that the narrator must leave the warm inward world or the outdoors to enter the vicious introspection behind closed doors. The final pages of the book are sure to break the readers heart, hinting at a looming sadness and allowing them to feel the burden of his painful self-criticisms. While the novel is a blend of both images of the narrator, the interplay between both mindsets it what brings out the sheer brilliance of this short book. Originally written in 1917 but then heavily edited in 1920, this new translation by Susan Bernofsky is mostly a reworking of the Christopher Middleton translation in accordance with Walser’s own revisions. Apparently, Walser altered nearly every sentence, cutting out the superfluous to achieve his incredible minimalism, ensuring that every sentence maintained an eloquent flow, and ‘minimizing the divide between the walking protagonist and the writing protagonist’ (from Bernofsky’s introduction). Although I have never read the original translation—The Walk being Walser’s only work to be translated into English during his lifetime—what appears in print here is a darkly comedic masterpiece of subtlety. While this short novel initially didn’t strike me as anything special, about halfway though (and while out on a run, which seems fitting) I realized the incredible depths that hid within each carefully crafted sentence. Walser has a very special story to tell about being an author and offers a very positive plea for those who appreciate art to be good to one another and to not drown authors in negative criticism or suffocate them with elitism. This is a wonderful little book (the New Directions Pearl edition is 96pgs and about the size of a checkbook) with a wide wealth of ideas to ponder on your next walk. I will certainly be back for more Walser. I’ll take you out [with dedication to the lovely (ifer) of course] on this seemingly appropriate song. Now I need to go for my own walk. 4.5/5 ’I would like to confess that I consider nature and human life to be a solemn and charming flow of fleeting approximations, which strikes me as a phenomenon which I believer to be beautiful and replete with blessings.’

  3. 5 out of 5

    Guille

    Nuevamente acabo maravillado por lo aparentemente injustificado que se me antoja el placer que me proporciona leer a Walser. No es fácil explicar cómo me atrapa la sencillez y la austeridad de su prosa, la simplicidad aparente de su narración, la despreocupación y la indolencia con la que parece haber sido escrita. Al igual que las divagaciones no parecen responder más que al azar que rige los encuentros, tan propias de un paseo por otra parte, todo predispone a pensar que no se persigue ningún Nuevamente acabo maravillado por lo aparentemente injustificado que se me antoja el placer que me proporciona leer a Walser. No es fácil explicar cómo me atrapa la sencillez y la austeridad de su prosa, la simplicidad aparente de su narración, la despreocupación y la indolencia con la que parece haber sido escrita. Al igual que las divagaciones no parecen responder más que al azar que rige los encuentros, tan propias de un paseo por otra parte, todo predispone a pensar que no se persigue ningún propósito concreto, que no se pretende llegar a sitio alguno. A ello contribuye en buena medida el tono paródico, burlesco y hasta sarcástico que endosa Walser a este poeta de personalidad solemne y arrogante, sin inspiración ni público, inclinado a las lucubraciones y fantasías literarias que sublima y lamenta su oficio, siempre expuesto a la cruel opinión ajena, y gran invasor de la vida cuyas satisfacciones son, antes que disfrutadas, pensadas para darles forma escrita después. Sin embargo, son muchas las reflexiones que caben en este corto paseo y en estas pocas páginas. Walser, huyendo de la grandilocuencia con el mismo horror con que el paseante de este relato huye del oro y la plata que adornan el rótulo de una panadería, reivindica el placer de la contemplación silenciosa de esos detalles y elementos cotidianos y habituales que, por tal condición, son fácilmente inadvertidos y que con rapidez son convertidos por el paseante en ideales objetos de fantasía o análisis. Nuestro paseante escenifica ese silencio que domina el alma feliz, donde nada perturba, donde surgen sin dificultad castillos y castellanos de reluciente armadura; un alma de donde emana la alegría de vivir, una alegría del mediodía, de la juventud, con la que poder disfrutar de caminos, calles, campos y bosques; un tiempo en el que las resoluciones de las inevitables y molestas responsabilidades pueden predisponernos rápidamente al éxtasis, al entusiasmo de la libertad y a la libertad del juego y a la posibilidad de ser otro y, precisamente por eso, “ser otra vez yo”. Pero también, un poeta molesto con los que engañan con una dulce y suave sonrisa, con un mundo donde impera el valor del dinero, del parecer más que del ser, del oropel, de la novedad por la novedad, donde son abundantes las inmensas e injustas desigualdades, donde es común la opresión del débil por el fuerte de la que ni él mismo duda en disfrutar en cuanto tiene ocasión. Un poeta para el que, además de las “muchas ocurrencias, relámpagos y luces de magnesio (que) se mezclan y se encuentran con naturalidad para ser cuidadosamente elaboradas” también surge el monstruo, el conflicto con uno mismo, su particular Tomzack. Un paseo en el que inevitablemente llega el momento de hacer recuento del cumplimiento y los inevitables descuentos que se produjeron en “nuestros anhelos, en los osados deseos, en las dulces y elevadas concepciones de la felicidad” que tuvimos. Un paseo en el que no tarda en caer la tarde creando un ambiente propicio para la nostalgia de aquella hermosa muchacha que estúpidamente dejamos ir, en la que nos asaltan reproches y malos recuerdos donde no faltan la infidelidad, el odio, la terquedad, la maldad. Un ocaso, donde nos sacude la necesidad de tumbarnos ya en la orilla… porque ya es tarde y todo está oscuro.

  4. 4 out of 5

    Sawsan

    كل مشوار مشي طويل يصاحبه مشاهدات وتأملات ولقاءات وكأنه مشوار الحياة البطل هنا كاتب مشاغب ثرثار يخرج في بداية القصة في مشوار مشي ويحكي تفاصيل مشاهداته وحواراته ونظرته الخاصة لكل ما يصادفه في الطريق مشوار لطيف, مشحون بأفكار وملاحظات عن الحياة والناس والطبيعة والمعالم روبرت فالزر كاتب سويسري حياته كانت بين حب الكتابة والمشي عانى في السنوات الأخيرة من حياته من الفقر والعزلة والمرض النفسي يدخل المصحة النفسية بإرادته وبعد سنين يموت وحيدا أثناء مشوار للمشي وبعد وفاته تُعاد طباعة أعماله ليستعيد شهرته ومكانته كل مشوار مشي طويل يصاحبه مشاهدات وتأملات ولقاءات وكأنه مشوار الحياة البطل هنا كاتب مشاغب ثرثار يخرج في بداية القصة في مشوار مشي ويحكي تفاصيل مشاهداته وحواراته ونظرته الخاصة لكل ما يصادفه في الطريق مشوار لطيف, مشحون بأفكار وملاحظات عن الحياة والناس والطبيعة والمعالم روبرت فالزر كاتب سويسري حياته كانت بين حب الكتابة والمشي عانى في السنوات الأخيرة من حياته من الفقر والعزلة والمرض النفسي يدخل المصحة النفسية بإرادته وبعد سنين يموت وحيدا أثناء مشوار للمشي وبعد وفاته تُعاد طباعة أعماله ليستعيد شهرته ومكانته مرة أخرى

  5. 4 out of 5

    Araz Goran

    جولة سريعة ساحرة ، ملهمة ، تختزل حياة إنسان، ذكريات وشجون، إناس بعيدون من هنا وهناك ومغامرة تجسدها الرواية في مشوار مشي .. رواية لطيفة للغاية يصحبنا فيها "روبرت فالزر" في مشوار هاديء مليء بالتأمل والعمق والمعاني الجميلة والدهشة ومغازلة الطبيعة، رحلة لا تأخذ منك وقتاً طويلاً وتعطيك بعضاً من قيم الجمال وتحفزك على إستشعار كل كلمة وخطاب يوجهه لنفسه أو لذكرياته أو للناس الذين يلتقي بهم، قد لا تجد أحداثاً معينة، قد لا تجد مغامرة ، أو فلسفة، ولكن هنا روح الإنسان وحدها، عارية أمام نفسها ، وأمام الطبيعة . جولة سريعة ساحرة ، ملهمة ، تختزل حياة إنسان، ذكريات وشجون، إناس بعيدون من هنا وهناك ومغامرة تجسدها الرواية في مشوار مشي .. رواية لطيفة للغاية يصحبنا فيها "روبرت فالزر" في مشوار هاديء مليء بالتأمل والعمق والمعاني الجميلة والدهشة ومغازلة الطبيعة، رحلة لا تأخذ منك وقتاً طويلاً وتعطيك بعضاً من قيم الجمال وتحفزك على إستشعار كل كلمة وخطاب يوجهه لنفسه أو لذكرياته أو للناس الذين يلتقي بهم، قد لا تجد أحداثاً معينة، قد لا تجد مغامرة ، أو فلسفة، ولكن هنا روح الإنسان وحدها، عارية أمام نفسها ، وأمام الطبيعة .. مشوار ربما يتكرر كل يوم مع الحالمين .. أحببتها جداً ..

  6. 5 out of 5

    Susan Budd

    I love walking and the weather has been so pleasant lately that I have been taking long walks everyday. But this morning it was raining, so instead of walking, I sat by the open window, listened to the sweet summer rain pouring down, and read The Walk. If I couldn’t take my walk, I would at least get some vicarious pleasure from reading of the walk of someone else who loved to walk. But it was a very different walk I took with Walser than I have ever taken on my own! Walser observes everyone and I love walking and the weather has been so pleasant lately that I have been taking long walks everyday. But this morning it was raining, so instead of walking, I sat by the open window, listened to the sweet summer rain pouring down, and read The Walk. If I couldn’t take my walk, I would at least get some vicarious pleasure from reading of the walk of someone else who loved to walk. But it was a very different walk I took with Walser than I have ever taken on my own! Walser observes everyone and everything he sees ~ the people, the storefronts, the scenery. Nothing escapes his notice. But Walser’s brilliance is not confined to description. He also muses, reflects, and philosophizes on everything that he passes. He engages in conversation, if his profuse speeches to bewildered men and women can be called conversation. And he is hilarious. One moment he is railing against the ostentation of a bakery’s sign and the next he’s merrily waving to a workman who teases him for idling during working hours. In fact, he is at his most amusing when he is outraged. The most mundane errands become madcap adventures with Walser as my walking companion and I am very much his companion on this walk, for he addresses me directly and sometimes even begs my pardon. In the course of our walk through town and countryside he engages with everyone from banker to tailor to tax collector. He mails a letter and eats lunch. Escapades almost beyond imagining! But I will confine my remarks to three themes which are closest to my heart. 1. Writing: The Walk begins as Walser takes a break from writing. The relationship between his writing and his walking is apparent throughout the book. Yet he also reveals many of his frustrations with his profession ~ not with writing itself, which he loves, but with the business of being a writer. His comical exchange with the bookseller is actually a scathing reproach against book critics. He confesses his fear of his readers, likens the author to a general preparing for battle, and explains to the tax collector that his books have been ill-received by the public. As an indie author, how could I not relate to his worries and woes? 2. Nature: Walser becomes positively rhapsodic once he passes from town to countryside. Here he effuses on how beautiful, humble, and spiritual everything is. Thoughts of pure goodness and love fill his mind. Past and future slip away, leaving him with a deep appreciation of the present moment. He is nearly in ecstasy. These pages are the loveliest in the book. City-dweller that I am, when I take my walks I head for the nearest trees and they never let me down. There may be no countryside for me to wander through, but there are a few grand old trees that fill me with the joy Walser feels as he gazes upon fields, cottages, and gardens. 3. Walking: Although Walser accepts the good natured ribbing he sometimes receives from people who see him strolling around town when most folks are at work, he never doubts the value of his walks. Neither do I. In his defense of walking, he explains that he is at his most industrious when he appears most idle, that his walks inspire him with ideas and allow him to forget himself in the contemplation of nature. As a writer, there are times when I too must throw down my pen and go for a walk, allow my thoughts to meander along with my feet, and forget myself. As Walser says: “Walking is for me not only healthy, it is also of service—not only lovely, but also useful” (60). In the last few pages of the book it becomes apparent that there are memories Walser would like to forget. It is a somber note upon which to end his walk, but a walk always leads back home again. This touch of bittersweetness recalls to my mind the end of Robert Walser. Troubled by mental illness, living his final years in an asylum, he died while taking a walk on Christmas day. A good death, I think. But any melancholy thoughts I might be inclined to entertain are banished by the return of the sun. Now that the rain has ended, I can take my walk under a clear blue sky and idly muse, reflect, and philosophize my afternoon away.

  7. 5 out of 5

    Fernando

    "Declaro que una hermosa mañana, ya no sé exactamente a qué hora, como me vino en gana dar un paseo, me planté el sombrero en la cabeza, abandoné el cuarto de los escritos o de los espíritus, y bajé la escalera para salir a buen paso a la calle." Si un escritor es admirado con devoción por Franz Kafka, Thomas Mann, Elías Canetti, Robert Musil o Walter Benjamin es porque su prestigio y calidad literarios son inalterables y dignos de respeto, además de ser inspirador para cualquier lector que aprec "Declaro que una hermosa mañana, ya no sé exactamente a qué hora, como me vino en gana dar un paseo, me planté el sombrero en la cabeza, abandoné el cuarto de los escritos o de los espíritus, y bajé la escalera para salir a buen paso a la calle." Si un escritor es admirado con devoción por Franz Kafka, Thomas Mann, Elías Canetti, Robert Musil o Walter Benjamin es porque su prestigio y calidad literarios son inalterables y dignos de respeto, además de ser inspirador para cualquier lector que aprecia la buena literatura. Dicen que Kafka amaba leer sus escritos a sus allegados en voz alta, para que todos pudieran reconocer la maestría de Walser. Lamentablemente, el deterioro mental de Walser, que era de origen hereditario (su madre y hermanos habían muerto de lo mismo) terminó con su vida, paradójica y casualmente durante un paseo cerca del hospital psiquiátrico en el que residía. Vivió 78 años, pero su período más fructífero a nivel literario se desarrolló entre 1904 y 1925. En esos años dejó plasmadas sus mejores novelas y cuentos. Las más recordadas son "Los hermanos Tanner" y "El ayudante", además de numerosos relatos como éste, "El paseo". Y es verdaderamente exquisito y delicioso leer "El paseo". Se deja uno llevar por la miradas y los encuentros de este narrador donde se cruza con personas de distinta índole, con los que entabla entretenidas charlas para también encontrarnos también que al estar narrado obviamente en primera persona, roza este por momentos con toques de monólogo interior pero tal vez más del estilo de Edouard Dujardin en "Los laureles cortados" que de los famosos stream of conciousness de James Joyce. El narrador (que obviamente es Walser) nos invita a que lo acompañemos con su declaración de principios: "Pasear me es imprescindible, para animarme y para mantener el contacto con el mundo vivo, sin cuyas sensaciones no podría escribir ni media letra más ni producir el más leve poema en verso o en prosa". "Sin pasear estaría muerto, y mi profesión a la que amo apasionadamente, estaría aniquilada. Para mí pasear no es solo sano y bello, sino también conveniente y útil." "Sin el paseo y sin la contemplación de la Naturaleza a él vinculada, sin esa indagación tan agradable como llena de advertencias, me siento como perdido y lo estoy de hecho." Repito que es "El paseo" es en verdad delicioso, ya que en su economía y su estilo simple radica la belleza que podía demostrarnos este escritor tan particular como fue Robert Walser y de quien intentaré conseguir más obras. Por lo pronto, invito a los lectores que no hayan leído este libro a dar un paseo con el incomparable Robert Walser.

  8. 4 out of 5

    Mike Puma

    The Walk is my first exposure to Walser, and it makes me eager ready to read more. Why ‘ready’ rather than ‘eager’? There’s an intentional tediousness at work in the novella—a tendency to over-qualify, to ‘beat to death,’ if you prefer. As the narrator begins his perambulation (paragraph one), he encounters on the stair a woman, a “Spaniard, a Peruvian, or a Creole,” and accounts for his mood (in paragraph two) by saying, “Everything I saw made upon me a delightful impression of friendliness, of The Walk is my first exposure to Walser, and it makes me eager ready to read more. Why ‘ready’ rather than ‘eager’? There’s an intentional tediousness at work in the novella—a tendency to over-qualify, to ‘beat to death,’ if you prefer. As the narrator begins his perambulation (paragraph one), he encounters on the stair a woman, a “Spaniard, a Peruvian, or a Creole,” and accounts for his mood (in paragraph two) by saying, “Everything I saw made upon me a delightful impression of friendliness, of goodliness, and of youth. I quickly forgot that up in my room I had only just a moment before been brooding gloomily over a blank sheet of paper. Sorrow, pain, and grave thoughts were as vanished, although I vividly sensed the seriousness still before me and behind me,” before (paragraph five) he encounters a second character, one of “incontrovertible power in person, serious, ceremonial, and majestical. Professor Meili trod his way; in his hand he held an unbendable scientific walking stick, which infused me with dread, reverence, and esteem. Meili’s nose was a sharp, imperative, stern hawk- or eagle-nose.” You get the picture. The text is weighted by a listedness; it renders what might be an aimless ramble more of a trudge. Human interaction is largely exaggerated—emotionally and with tremendous verbosity—also, it’s frequently painful to witness: an unnecessary argument with a bookseller, fawning when presented with a generous monetary gift, ranting at anyone nearby when he encounters signage that insults his intelligence and sense of propriety, adulation when addressing a woman who’d been singing in her yard, an odd brevity and well wishes when he encounters the giant Tomzack, a source of torment, and terror while at a much anticipated luncheon with Frau Aebi, his adamant and garrulous equal. Over the course of his walk, he tells the reader (the reader is frequently addressed personally), “’All this,’ so I proposed resolutely, ‘I shall soon sketch and write down in a piece or sort of fantasy, which I shall call ‘The Walk.’”The novella isn’t merely an account of the people the narrator meets, by chance or design, as he walks. He also speculates on art, nature, adornment, and more as he wanders and eventually recalls…but, that would be a spoiler.If one were to think about it, when an aimless walk becomes purposive, it necessarily becomes a list of sorts, doesn’t it? Doesn’t it? Purpose becomes a list, a list becomes a novella, a novella becomes “The Walk.”Averaging the eight titles I’ve read from the New Directions Pearls series, they’re at 4.5 stars, appreciably (if you’re me) more than the 4.1 average over all the books I’ve rated—and, yes, it is a high average, but I’m lucky enough to have not read a lot of crap, due in great part to the recommendations from GR acquaintances. In retrospect, I’ve probably been generous as often as not.

  9. 5 out of 5

    Hakan

    kitap bir derleme, bütünlüklü bir değerlendirmesi yapılabilir mi bilmiyorum. çünkü kitaba adını veren öykü apayrı bir yerde duruyor. bir uç, bir zirve. okuyup bitirdikten sonra yeni bir öyküye geçmedim günlerce. öykünün gücü-etkisi bir tarafa, sonraki öykülerin bu öykünün yanına bile yaklaşamayacağını düşünüyordum. imkansızdı bu. bir süre ara verdikten sonra gezinti’yi tekrar okudum, sonra bir kez daha okumaya karar verdim. bugüne kadar okuduğum en iyi öykülerden biri gezinti, birincisi belki de kitap bir derleme, bütünlüklü bir değerlendirmesi yapılabilir mi bilmiyorum. çünkü kitaba adını veren öykü apayrı bir yerde duruyor. bir uç, bir zirve. okuyup bitirdikten sonra yeni bir öyküye geçmedim günlerce. öykünün gücü-etkisi bir tarafa, sonraki öykülerin bu öykünün yanına bile yaklaşamayacağını düşünüyordum. imkansızdı bu. bir süre ara verdikten sonra gezinti’yi tekrar okudum, sonra bir kez daha okumaya karar verdim. bugüne kadar okuduğum en iyi öykülerden biri gezinti, birincisi belki de. bu birincilik payesinin gerekçesi ne derseniz, şöyle bir şey söyleyebilirim genel olarak: gezinti çocuksu bir saflıkla keskin bir zekanın birlikteliğiyle oluşturulup biçimlendirilmiş. günlük hayatın içinden zamanına, zamanından tüm zamanlara ulaşan bir perspektife sahip. neredeyse her satırında müthiş bir inceliğin, inanılması güç bir duyarlılığın izleri var. mizah ve ironi eksik olmuyor diğer yandan. ölçü korunuyor, denge hep gözetiliyor. tüm bunların varlığının borçlu olduğu yazarlık gücü ve ustalığı var bir de elbette: yaklaşımda, dilde, üslupta...gezinti’yi okuduğunuzda kusursuza yakın bir metin okuduğunuzu düşünüyorsunuz. genel övgü cümleleri altının doldurulmasına muhtaç tabii. ayrıca yazardan bahsetmek gerek. gezinti’deki kahramanı bir pencere kenarından şarkı söyleyen genç bir kızı duyduğunda “kahırdan ölmeyi andırıyordu bu,” diye yazan bir yazar çünkü robert walser. o yüzden walser okumaya ve okuduklarım hakkında yazabildiğim kadar yazmaya devam edeceğim diyerek bitireyim şimdilik. “kahırdan ölmeyi andırıyordu bu; belki de aşırı hassas bir sevinç, aşırı mutlu bir aşk ve hayat yüzünden ölmeyi ve fazla zengin ve güzel bir hayat hayali yüzünden yaşama becerisinden yoksun kalmayı andırıyordu; öyle ki, şefkat dolu, aşk ve mutluluktan taşan, varoluşu coşkuyla dolduran düşünce sanki bir bakıma kendi üzerine çullanıyor ve kendisinin altında kalıyordu.”

  10. 5 out of 5

    Lee Klein

    Keyword: aureoled. Ambulatory satori. Reminded me of Bruno Schulz, Hrabal, a bit of Joseph Roth, Aira, A Confederacy of Dunces. Took some time to acclimate to the old-timey overwritten language, especially in dialogue. Too many modifiers early on? Had to reread unclear constructions that sometimes revealed flat-out errors. Wasn't sure I was gonna rate it more than two stars. But things settled down and clarified. The narrator developed. The language flowed after the road was cleared of modifier Keyword: aureoled. Ambulatory satori. Reminded me of Bruno Schulz, Hrabal, a bit of Joseph Roth, Aira, A Confederacy of Dunces. Took some time to acclimate to the old-timey overwritten language, especially in dialogue. Too many modifiers early on? Had to reread unclear constructions that sometimes revealed flat-out errors. Wasn't sure I was gonna rate it more than two stars. But things settled down and clarified. The narrator developed. The language flowed after the road was cleared of modifier pile-ups. I saw around the narrator's elaborate complimentary effusions to young lasses. Not a walk without a goal: he has to hit the post office, tailor, and tax man. But it's something more than a walk. It becomes an ecstatic experience of oneness before he returns to society, faced with an exasperatingly exacting lodging house call for well-educated men, whereupon he retreats to a quiet secluded spot to settle down for good in a way that suggests permanence as the world sheds tears. Good-natured and playful, with a sorrowful finish. Better read on foot than in bed.

  11. 5 out of 5

    Dimitri

    C’è bisogno di un libro come questo per riconciliarsi con il mondo, un libro che racconta con grazia, poesia, ironia e leggerezza una specie di fantasia, una passeggiata pullulante di incontri forse mai avvenuti. Eppure ciò può avvenire, e io credo che in realtà sia avvenuto. Uscire dal proprio scrittoio o stanza degli spiriti e imbattersi in un autorevole scienziato e in due signore dalle gonne sbalorditivamente corte. Leggere il manifesto di una trattoria riservata solo a signori distinti, fare C’è bisogno di un libro come questo per riconciliarsi con il mondo, un libro che racconta con grazia, poesia, ironia e leggerezza una specie di fantasia, una passeggiata pullulante di incontri forse mai avvenuti. Eppure ciò può avvenire, e io credo che in realtà sia avvenuto. Uscire dal proprio scrittoio o stanza degli spiriti e imbattersi in un autorevole scienziato e in due signore dalle gonne sbalorditivamente corte. Leggere il manifesto di una trattoria riservata solo a signori distinti, fare i complimenti a una vecchia attrice e a una giovane cantante, entrare in banca dove le domande si formulano solo sottovoce e chiedere all’ufficio delle imposte una riduzione delle tasse. C’è anche il tempo per una visita in libreria, per chiedere qual è l’opera che sta mettendo d’accordo pubblico e critica. “Può lei giurarmi che questo è il libro di maggior successo dell’anno?” “Senza dubbio.” “Può affermare che questo è il libro che bisogna assolutamente aver letto?” “Assolutamente.” “E’ davvero un bel libro?” “La sua domanda è del tutto superflua e inopportuna!” “La ringrazio molto” dissi imperturbabile, lasciai dove si trovava il libro e uscii senz’altro aggiungere, ossia in perfetto silenzio. “Uomo ignorante e incolto!” non mancò di gridarmi dietro il libraio, nel suo giustificato corruccio. E cercare, in un piccolo paese svizzero di un secolo fa, la calma della natura e il silenzio del bosco, lontano dal traffico automobilistico con tutto il suo fetore ammorbante. E fare questo col sorriso, dimenticando per qualche ora i momenti tristi e gli antichi errori. “Ho raccolto fiori solo per deporli sulla mia infelicità?”

  12. 4 out of 5

    Ben Winch

    NOTE: This is a review of the Serpent’s Tail edition (a collection of stories) NOT the New Directions edition (a single novella). For those interested, a 2013 reprint of the Serpent’s Tail edition is available (ISBN 9781846689581); also the same text has been printed by NYRB Classics as Selected Stories (9780940322981) and, I believe, by Farrar, Straus, Giroux also as Selected Stories ( 9780374259013). I have read many Walsers since but this was the first, and it contains my favourite story (so f NOTE: This is a review of the Serpent’s Tail edition (a collection of stories) NOT the New Directions edition (a single novella). For those interested, a 2013 reprint of the Serpent’s Tail edition is available (ISBN 9781846689581); also the same text has been printed by NYRB Classics as Selected Stories (9780940322981) and, I believe, by Farrar, Straus, Giroux also as Selected Stories ( 9780374259013). I have read many Walsers since but this was the first, and it contains my favourite story (so far) in all of world literature: “Kleist in Thun”. Just on this basis the book is worth five stars. Does it matter if, at the time I read it, I didn’t really comprehend most of the other (mostly autobiographical, occasionally drole and often very short) pieces in this book? When later I better understood Walser I came to like the long title story, and to enjoy the warm-hearted, lightly mocking humour of the other pieces, many of which were written for publication in the highbrow newspapers and journals of Switzerland and Germany before, during and immediately after the First World War, by a young Swiss “hayseed” who had wanted, upon his arrival in Berlin, to be an actor, and who despite early successes had become increasingly desperate in his search for a modest living. Masquerade & Other Stories may be a better overall introduction, and it’s certainly a beautiful paperback edition (John Hopkins University Press, I think), but it doesn’t have “Kleist in Thun”, and it doesn’t have Susan Sontag’s introduction. As so often, Sontag is passionate here: “heartbreaking” is the word she uses, and in truth the entire story of Robert Walser is a little heartbreaking. I won’t outline his life here – this has already been done by many, often passionately, notably W.G. Sebald and J.M. Coetzee. Also a kind of cult appears to have developed around certain aspects of Walser’s life, much of it based less upon facts than on their absence. Luckily, I knew nothing of this when I first read “Kleist in Thun” in the winter of 1997 in Tasmania, having just found this book in its rare earlier Serpent’s Tail incarnation in an otherwise un-noteworthy secondhand bookstore in Hobart on one of my weekly expeditions to the city. At the time I was living in a cabin about ten minutes drive into the mountains from New Norfolk, up behind the Wellington Range whose front slopes can be seen from central Hobart. I was alone, writing, possibly the most receptive I would ever be to a story about the breakdown of a writer in the mountains in Switzerland – in surroundings, Walser says, “considerably more beautiful than I have been able to describe here, the lake is twice as blue, the sky three times as beautiful.” There’s something indescribable that takes hold of you when you read certain of Walser’s sentences. Sometimes (as in The Robber, in his late work) they are jarring, apparently deliberately so, but in this story they lull you, soothe you, coo to you as if to a baby. There’s something childlike – like daubs on a canvas – about the whole way he describes Thun and its surroundings and Kleist’s life there. The picture seems as if backlit, illuminated. It glows. “The Alps have come to life and dip with fabulous gestures their foreheads into the water.” I have read this thing – it’s nine pages long – at least ten times now, more than the Jorge Luis Borges stories I so revered in my twenties, more than Kafka’s “A Country Doctor”, more than Carver, Kavan or Poe. Yet with each re-reading of Walser I hesitate; I want to savour it. And... I’m scared. This is writing that changes you – or changed me, at least. And it lingers. It haunts you. Walser the person lingers too, as does Samuel Beckett when we read a lot of him, and know something of his life. Often this seems inevitable – for instance when Walser writes, as so often, of his endless walks, of his bedsit rooms, of the trials of his almost-invisible everyday existence. But in the Kleist story it’s something magical. A hall-of-mirrors effect: what we know or can discover of Kleist and what we know or have just read (in Sontag’s introduction) of Walser, and then every archetypal story we have heard of some writer’s breakdown in the mountains, from Georg Buchner’s Lenz (which must surely have influenced this) to King’s and Kubrick’s The Shining (not that Kleist or Walser ever go to work with the axe!) The thing is, Walser knows he is caught in this prison of reflections: “I know the region a little perhaps, because I worked as a clerk in a brewery there.” The story is beautiful and disquieting anyway, but with this added layer of Walser’s self-knowledge and self-reference intruding it is actually – Sontag’s word again – heartbreaking. To me, it’s this quality above all that defines Walser’s writing – this self-referencing. As with another (in English) neglected modernist, Fernando Pessoa, certain critics have proclaimed Walser not merely a precursor of but an early example of postmodernism. I don’t know about this, but I do consider Walser unique, and if not ahead of his time then certainly outside of it. Still, I suspect this may be a side effect of that virtual invisibility which I mentioned earlier. Famously, Walser is supposed to have approached upper-class Viennese literary hero Hugo von Hofmannsthal at a dinner party with the words, “Couldn’t you just forget you’re famous for a while?” Self-importance – it’s in scant supply in Walser, even when he’s comparing himself to Heinrich von Kleist. Instead, a warm heart. A sense of humour. And – even allowing for hiccups in translation (which become clearer when you compare the work of his two main translators so far, Susan Bernofsky and Christopher Middleton, each with his/her positive and negative traits) – an imaginative approach to style almost without equal among his contemporaries. (Beckett and Kafka – an admirer of Walser – spring to mind as peers.) In the past fifteen or so years I have encountered Walser with increasing rapidity, as a kind of snowball effect has made possible Bernofsky’s translations of all his major existing works. The Robber and The Assistant are both excellent, but nothing matches this one story. Bear in mind, the language is twice as potent as I have been able to describe here, the imagery three times as beautiful. And I know the region a little perhaps, because I spent some time there.

  13. 4 out of 5

    Stephen P

    I have read too many good books around the same time. Now I have no idea how to organize what, or what to review when. I will ask the book gods and hopefully they will deliver to me what is needed. This book certainly deserves a full review It is finally time. A sad tale. The sadness is etched beneath the eyes peeking out from the covering of a spoofed whimsy. The writer in this short novel wants to get out into the world. Beyond his office, on his walk around the town and adjoining countryside, h I have read too many good books around the same time. Now I have no idea how to organize what, or what to review when. I will ask the book gods and hopefully they will deliver to me what is needed. This book certainly deserves a full review It is finally time. A sad tale. The sadness is etched beneath the eyes peeking out from the covering of a spoofed whimsy. The writer in this short novel wants to get out into the world. Beyond his office, on his walk around the town and adjoining countryside, he finds no angle within which he can enter and participate. He finds himself as less-than, overwhelmed, or fawning, his responses unpredictable , inappropriate. Lingering just beyond the antics and reverie is the slow-burn understanding that his world will only be in that writing room searching a sheet of blank white paper. Then the last 2-3 pages is the precious stone we have been stepping toward, the unbearable, moving writing, the true sadness almost unspoken. When finished I had no idea the book would continue. But here I am and it shows no sign of leaving.

  14. 4 out of 5

    lorinbocol

    con la levità di un jacques tati nella svizzera d’inizio ‘900, robert walser racconta la passeggiata del suo monsieur hulot. gli incontri surreali che la scandiscono e l’entusiasmo per l’idea alta e nobile del passeggiare. «lei non crederà assolutamente possibile che in una placida passeggiata del genere io m’imbatta in giganti, abbia l’onore di incontrare professori, visiti di passata librai e funzionari di banca, discorra con cantanti e con attrici, pranzi con signore intellettuali, vada per b con la levità di un jacques tati nella svizzera d’inizio ‘900, robert walser racconta la passeggiata del suo monsieur hulot. gli incontri surreali che la scandiscono e l’entusiasmo per l’idea alta e nobile del passeggiare. «lei non crederà assolutamente possibile che in una placida passeggiata del genere io m’imbatta in giganti, abbia l’onore di incontrare professori, visiti di passata librai e funzionari di banca, discorra con cantanti e con attrici, pranzi con signore intellettuali, vada per boschi, imposti lettere pericolose e mi azzuffi fieramente con sarti perfidi e ironici. eppure ciò può avvenire, e io credo che in realtà sia avvenuto». dietro (e sotto e sopra) l’ironia acuta di walser, una malinconia costantemente sottotraccia.

  15. 5 out of 5

    M. Sarki

    http://msarki.tumblr.com/post/1487116... Of late, in my independent reading study, I have subjected myself to numerous mundane and verbose works. Because of my slightly depressing literary summer boredom I decided to pull from my cabin shelf a title I had previously read at least two times. The Walk by Robert Walser was first translated into English by Christopher Middleton in 1957. In 2012 New Directions published a contemporary translation by Susan Bernofsky which included Walser’s significant http://msarki.tumblr.com/post/1487116... Of late, in my independent reading study, I have subjected myself to numerous mundane and verbose works. Because of my slightly depressing literary summer boredom I decided to pull from my cabin shelf a title I had previously read at least two times. The Walk by Robert Walser was first translated into English by Christopher Middleton in 1957. In 2012 New Directions published a contemporary translation by Susan Bernofsky which included Walser’s significant revisions and added text made after its initial publication. It is a charming tale and Walser spares no punches in his relating of it. Near the end of the book the main character, a struggling writer, is required to meet with a revenue official regarding his failure to pay income taxes and explain why it appears to most he does not have to work due to his leisurely lifestyle of walking and daydreaming everyday. Do you realize that I am working obstinately and tenaciously with my brain, and am often perhaps in the best sense active when I present the appearance of a simultaneously heedless and out-of-work, negligent, dreamy, idle pickpocket, lost out in the blue, or in the green, making a bad impression, apparently devoid of any sense of responsibility? For those of us who take long walks or ride our bicycles extensively it comes as no surprise the comforts and delights Walser describes available to the enchanted lover of invigorating lore found in nature and country. It is quite obvious that Walser himself believes his craft is not enough respected, and shoddy reviewers and hacks can cause great harm to any serious writer already impoverished and living frugally. He pleads to this official that his taxes be reduced to the lowest rate possible. There accompanies the walker always something remarkable, something fantastic, and he would be foolish if he wished to let this spiritual side go unnoticed; by no means, however, does he do this, but rather cordially welcomes all peculiar phenomena, becomes their friend, their brother; he makes them into formed and substantial bodies, gives them soul and structure just as they too for their part instruct and inspire him. It is both soothing and fantastical to allow the mind to run free on a walk through an easy forest or sandy coastline where Walser writes chaos begins and the orders vanish. His instruction insists there is a sweet song of departure among these solid technicians. As the walk nears its end and darkness overcomes him, his thoughts turned lamentable and filled him with regret. He was alone now with self-reproof, his heart a burden to him as rain rustled gently down the leaves. With what seemed to him now tears, the drama of his former life opened, and all his miserable failures occurred to him. He knew he had been remiss in expressing his honest devotion to her, and regretted now he never said, “I love you.” I thought of a beautiful girl…and a poor, forsaken man…and nausea took hold of me.

  16. 4 out of 5

    g

    Wonderful book published in 1917. Don Quixote went for a walk. Don Quixote became a Swiss flâneur, talked to everyone and described his impressions on the road. Walser’s Spaziergang is poetry in prose. His fluent phrases systematically cross the boundaries of language, society, philosophy, and literature itself. This character reminds some Chesterton’s characters like those of Manalive (1912), who live in a windy asylum. A healthy twist on our daily impressions suggest that our regular daily imp Wonderful book published in 1917. Don Quixote went for a walk. Don Quixote became a Swiss flâneur, talked to everyone and described his impressions on the road. Walser’s Spaziergang is poetry in prose. His fluent phrases systematically cross the boundaries of language, society, philosophy, and literature itself. This character reminds some Chesterton’s characters like those of Manalive (1912), who live in a windy asylum. A healthy twist on our daily impressions suggest that our regular daily impressions are twisted and probably ill. This short book is a beautiful insight, the rediscovery of a better human experience.

  17. 5 out of 5

    Vasko Genev

    Пренебрегвам умишлено помпозния стил, който на моменти караше погледа ми да се свлича по страницата без да съм прочел нищо. Тази книжка учтиво и деликатно, с маниера на изискан и възпитан господин обръща внимението ти на това, че медитацията е нашата същност. Издигането в култ на разхождащия се и съзерцаващ човек - как само напомня на "Платеро и Аз" на Хименес! Същото! Дай едно магаренце на Валзер в неговата разходка и става точно това! Разхождащ се, мотащ се, съзерцаващ, наблюдаващ, мечтаещ, фант Пренебрегвам умишлено помпозния стил, който на моменти караше погледа ми да се свлича по страницата без да съм прочел нищо. Тази книжка учтиво и деликатно, с маниера на изискан и възпитан господин обръща внимението ти на това, че медитацията е нашата същност. Издигането в култ на разхождащия се и съзерцаващ човек - как само напомня на "Платеро и Аз" на Хименес! Същото! Дай едно магаренце на Валзер в неговата разходка и става точно това! Разхождащ се, мотащ се, съзерцаващ, наблюдаващ, мечтаещ, фантазиращ - що е то?! Ами, човекът! Това е то! Винаги съм издигал в култ разходката, тя винаги е била нещо много важно. Въобще не става дума за нейната "спортна" страна. "Разходката" започва от прохождането и свършва някъде там - примерното горе... Недочетох послеслова на Джорджо Агамбен (ще го направя по-късно), припряно затворих книгата, моето мнение по същество съвпадаше с неговото по отношение антропологическия характер на това произведение. Е, докато има писатели които дръзнат да "не им дреме" и не се съобразяват с "тайните правила" и "холивудски принципи" на т.нар. "творческо писане" ще има и истински КНИГИ. Защото истинската книга не се "плаши" и "съобразява" да се изрази. Малко писатели биха се осмелили да пишат за магията на разходката. ПП. Моята бройка на "Разходката" я дадох на възрастен приятел - професор плакатист. Той всеки ден, методично, извършва своята разходка из квартала. Как да не му я дам. Но вече не си спомня, че съм му я дал. Това е животът, и Разходката.

  18. 4 out of 5

    Jonfaith

    Think of Knut Hamsun. Now think of him drinking and being a pacifist. The Walk explores modernity's challenges to a quiet life. The bookseller, the tax office and the tailor are among the riptides encountered by our humble man of letters, out to fill his lungs and prime his mind for poetic fomentation. There is an ache among the laughter. The rumble of not-so-distant war perists. Students are thrashed by zealous teachers. Our protagonist carries unrequited love in his breast and eventually ponde Think of Knut Hamsun. Now think of him drinking and being a pacifist. The Walk explores modernity's challenges to a quiet life. The bookseller, the tax office and the tailor are among the riptides encountered by our humble man of letters, out to fill his lungs and prime his mind for poetic fomentation. There is an ache among the laughter. The rumble of not-so-distant war perists. Students are thrashed by zealous teachers. Our protagonist carries unrequited love in his breast and eventually ponders madness and suicide.

  19. 5 out of 5

    João Reis

    I started reading this little book after a friend told me my novel "A Noiva do Tradutor/ The Translator's Bride" reminded her, in part, of this "The Walk", by Walser. My readings of Walser were pratically non-existent, so I got curious to know if this one another of those cases in which there are similarities between my work and an author or a book I had never read. There are, in fact, some similarities. In "The Walk", an impoverished writer walks around the town and encounters several people, f I started reading this little book after a friend told me my novel "A Noiva do Tradutor/ The Translator's Bride" reminded her, in part, of this "The Walk", by Walser. My readings of Walser were pratically non-existent, so I got curious to know if this one another of those cases in which there are similarities between my work and an author or a book I had never read. There are, in fact, some similarities. In "The Walk", an impoverished writer walks around the town and encounters several people, from bank clerks to tailors, with whom he has refined-language conversations full of irony and insults and, in the end, one discovers he is missing someone. A good, slow and funny reading, though the style and language might frighten some readers.

  20. 5 out of 5

    Veronica Velasco

    Un libro un tanto particular, repleto de descripciones tanto desde la introspección de Walser, como del mundo que lo rodea. Uno va unido al otro... Al comienzo de su libro el autor introduce este párrafo como puntapié inicial “Declaro que una hermosa mañana, ya no sé exactamente a qué hora, como me vino en gana dar un paseo, me planté el sombrero en la cabeza, abandoné el cuarto de los escritos o de los espíritus, y bajé la escalera para salir a buen paso a la calle»….y a partir de allí nos abre Un libro un tanto particular, repleto de descripciones tanto desde la introspección de Walser, como del mundo que lo rodea. Uno va unido al otro... Al comienzo de su libro el autor introduce este párrafo como puntapié inicial “Declaro que una hermosa mañana, ya no sé exactamente a qué hora, como me vino en gana dar un paseo, me planté el sombrero en la cabeza, abandoné el cuarto de los escritos o de los espíritus, y bajé la escalera para salir a buen paso a la calle»….y a partir de allí nos abre su concepción del mundo. Su relato no tiene un argumento delineado, su paseo, no tiene un destino definido. Pero ya, desde el comienzo él lo advierte, no podemos reprochárselo. Con una narrativa a modo de diario íntimo pero dirigida al “el lector” y donde seguramente ya habremos aceptado ser acompañantes y ser cómplices en su recorrido, caminaremos a su lado. Su relato está lleno de intriga, ironía, sarcástico, melancólico… Que por momentos aturde dentro de sus pensamientos, a veces no me fue fácil seguirlo, ya que el texto no tiene pausas, ni grandes espacios y tuve que ir haciendo pausas para apreciarlo realmente Nos muestra lugares insólitos, nada de lugares comunes que cuentan otras historias, él las cuenta desde otra mirada, interpreta los paisajes, la realidad, lo cotidiano…. Realmente una historia muy especial para leer , experimentar y disfrutar

  21. 5 out of 5

    Guillermo Gonca

    Después de leer este libro me atrevo a decir que Robert Walser no solamente es el gran autor olvidado por la historia, sino que también puede ser uno de los grandes innovadores del modernismo literario. Si confrontamos las fechas de publicación de sus obras quedaremos impresionados, pues algunas de sus ideas se anticipan a las de otros grandes escritores. Su novela corta “El paseo” (1919), parece ser un humilde -pero brillante- primer paso en torno al concepto literario de “Un día en la vida de… Después de leer este libro me atrevo a decir que Robert Walser no solamente es el gran autor olvidado por la historia, sino que también puede ser uno de los grandes innovadores del modernismo literario. Si confrontamos las fechas de publicación de sus obras quedaremos impresionados, pues algunas de sus ideas se anticipan a las de otros grandes escritores. Su novela corta “El paseo” (1919), parece ser un humilde -pero brillante- primer paso en torno al concepto literario de “Un día en la vida de…” que culminarían Virginia Woolf y el propio James Joyce. La diferencia radica en que Walser ofrece una obra mucho más corta, sin la profundidad intelectual de los autores citados, pero a cambio, despliega una belleza literaria notable y un extraordinario valor poético, cualidades que podrían compararse con las de Rainer Maria Rilke e incluso con las de Marcel Proust. La novela trata sobre una de las largas caminatas por la ciudad que nuestro escritor acostumbraba hacer en busca de inspiración para sus escritos. Enemigo de los automóviles, Walser caminaba durante todo el día registrando los acontecimientos que iba encontrando en su recorrido. Los biógrafos dicen que la vida del escritor fue un “constante vagabundeo”, pero contradiciendo tal presunción cosmopolita, la ciudad a la que “El paseo” se refiere, no es otra sino su ciudad natal, Biel, Suiza. Y ése es todo el argumento... Más que una historia vertiginosa, esta novela ofrecerá fugaces y hermosas impresiones; reflexiones llenas de sabiduría, prosa poética y un ligero comentario social. Sin embargo, con eso basta y sobra para convencernos. El excelente personaje principal (en realidad el único) se muestra dotado de un excelente humor, siendo capaz de observar todos los detalles que le rodean y transformarlos en poesía. Con frecuencia recurre al humor, como si quisiera demostrar que también el ser humano es capaz de burlarse de las circunstancias que el destino le va presentando. Nuestro caminante derrocha el entusiasmo sarcástico de quién se sabe conocedor de la vida y sus reveses. Por consiguiente, posee el criterio suficiente para brindarle a cada quién un trato a su medida; Walser era un poeta generoso, pero también un ciudadano dotado de solemne dignidad, capaz de expresar desprecio a quién lo merecía. En esta dinámica el narrador se muestra obsequioso con las personas comunes que no tienen necesidad de ocultar su sencillez; en cambio, se vuelve severo con aquellos seres que se ubican en una posición de poder o en un entorno de falsedad (por ejemplo un vendedor, un banquero o un funcionario). Hay dos pasajes verdaderamente memorables: el categórico texto del anuncio para un restaurante y la epístola que nuestro personaje termina de redactar en la oficina de correos; tan sólo por leer esa “carta a un funcionario desconocido” vale la pena adquirir el libro. Por otro lado, el incidente con la Señora Aebi me parece una sutil y divertida metáfora de índole sexual. En otro destacado episodio, el autor sucumbe gozosamente al bosque, fundiéndose con la naturaleza, y ese entusiasmo parece profetizar su propia muerte. Recordemos que el escritor suizo fue hallado muerto a los 78 años, tras no regresar de una de sus caminatas. Sobre aquel fatal evento, el escritor español Enrique Vila-Matas dice: “Me fascina la muerte de Robert Walser. Ocurrió un día de Navidad que salió a caminar por los alrededores del sanatorio y murió sobre la nieve. Fue encontrado por dos niñas que pasaban por allí y colocaron una flor al lado del cadáver. No pudo ser una muerte más metafórica sobre la pureza de su estilo y de su vida.” Hablando de lo técnico, el narrador en primera persona resulta tan personal que su estilo se asemeja al de un diario íntimo. No obstante, los enormes párrafos repletos de adjetivos y florituras, nos indican que nos encontramos frente a una verdadera obra literaria de ficción. Además, los diálogos no son representativos de una conversación mundana, sino más bien el resultado de una exaltación poética (Si hoy en día existiese una persona que hablara como este personaje, no sería comprendida por nadie). Walser es el amo de la floritura y su mundo no es el mundo real, sino el mundo de las letras, la poesía y el pensamiento. Sólo el lenguaje escrito tiene la capacidad de expresar tales honduras. El texto no ofrece pausas; no hay capítulos ni espacios significativos. Los párrafos son largos y recargados. Aún así, la novela no resulta tan difícil de leer. Sin duda existen fragmentos más pesados (principalmente aquel párrafo en que el personaje justifica su tendencia a pasear en horas hábiles), aún así el lector promedio debería salir avante en la lectura de este libro. Por ultimo, el narrador se permite constantes muestras de simpatía hacia nosotros los lectores; un aprecio que asumimos genuino, pues armoniza perfectamente con el carácter del personaje. “El paseo” es una obra experimental de gran belleza llena de recursos literarios. Al igual que “Ulises” y “La señora Dalloway” todas las incidencias narradas en la novela ocurren en un sólo día. Fuera de eso no caben demasiadas comparaciones, puesto que la obra de Walser carece de la pesadez intelectual y el profundo entramado psicológico de las novelas mencionadas. Empero, la capacidad poética, el generoso humor y el ostentoso dominio del lenguaje nos permite considerarle también entre las grandes obras de la época. Aquellos que afirman que Robert Walser es la gran revelación de los lectores de libros clásicos, tienen algo de razón.

  22. 5 out of 5

    Marc

    The story "The Walk" makes a misleadingly simple impression: an author walks in high spirits through the city streets, reporting what he sees on his way, constantly making comments; but through a number of confrontations with others his cheerful mood changes into melancholy and dejection. The tone at times is lofty, but with an ironic undertone that often changes into sarcasm; especially the feverish monologues and fierce arguments with others made me think very much of Gogol (as W. G. Sebald no The story "The Walk" makes a misleadingly simple impression: an author walks in high spirits through the city streets, reporting what he sees on his way, constantly making comments; but through a number of confrontations with others his cheerful mood changes into melancholy and dejection. The tone at times is lofty, but with an ironic undertone that often changes into sarcasm; especially the feverish monologues and fierce arguments with others made me think very much of Gogol (as W. G. Sebald notes in the added essay on Walser). Thus, not a realistic narrative, but a succession of bizarre reflections and encounters in a sometimes surreal atmosphere. It is clear that Walser intended to bring 'The Walk' as an allegory, a story of a human life in brief, from birth to death; a poor human life, with emphasis on the weaknesses of the narrator and the shortcomings of his condition (especially in his relationship to others), and also regular references to the tough life of a writer. Simultaneously Walser provides a critical reflection on what civilization seems to be: constantly the pomposity and gaudiness of passing people and of modern life is criticized, even the at first authentic looking aesthetic and ethical experiences of the narrator (with a particularly ecological reflex) are punctured in short sentences. What remains in the end is a very daunting, tragicomic impression of life, not coincidentally the closing words of the story are: "everything was dark." Truly a discovery, this Walser!

  23. 5 out of 5

    Heba

    إنني على قناعة بأن مشوار المشي لابد والقيام به وأنت تأخذ حذرك ألا يصادفك أحد فى طريقك فهو ينذر بتهديد صريح لما انتويت عليه من رفقة ذاتك، تسير بخطى ثابتة ، رغم استقامة قامتك لكن رأسك ينحني قليلاً فهو مثقل بالأفكار المتزاحمة ، تترقب انت ما بين لحظة واخرى التماعة فكرة ما تطفو على السطح ، او قد تستدعي ذكرى ما ترتسم على اثرها ابتسامة خاطفة ، ولربما تخلف وراءها فوضى عارمة تسلم نفسك لها ، وقد تنظر الى من حولك دونما ان ترى شيئاً بعينه ، فأنت لا تأبه إلا برفقة ذاتك دون سواها.. هنا مشوار المشي يخالف قناعتي إنني على قناعة بأن مشوار المشي لابد والقيام به وأنت تأخذ حذرك ألا يصادفك أحد فى طريقك فهو ينذر بتهديد صريح لما انتويت عليه من رفقة ذاتك، تسير بخطى ثابتة ، رغم استقامة قامتك لكن رأسك ينحني قليلاً فهو مثقل بالأفكار المتزاحمة ، تترقب انت ما بين لحظة واخرى التماعة فكرة ما تطفو على السطح ، او قد تستدعي ذكرى ما ترتسم على اثرها ابتسامة خاطفة ، ولربما تخلف وراءها فوضى عارمة تسلم نفسك لها ، وقد تنظر الى من حولك دونما ان ترى شيئاً بعينه ، فأنت لا تأبه إلا برفقة ذاتك دون سواها.. هنا مشوار المشي يخالف قناعتي ولكنني تقبلته الى حد ما ، فالكاتب انطلق بمزاج رائق ومغامر ، التقى بعديد من الأشخاص واستطرد فى محاوراتهم وقد استنتجت ان ذلك تحقيقاً لمتعة شخصية بابداء اراءه الحماسية المندفعة ازاء الفن والجمال والمجتمع .. سرعان ما كان يعقب اندفاعاته باعتذار ما لبقاً ومهذباً... لقد انتهى مشوار المشي حيث استلقى أرضاً مستظلاً بغمامة من حزن شفيف واحساسه بالعجز لفقد حبيبته ، فلقد تأخر الوقت وبات معتماً..

  24. 4 out of 5

    Nate D

    Slight yet cosmic, comedic yet serious, classic yet postmodern, finely attuned to details external and internal, Walser's novella is almost boldly frivolous (the writer, bored, departs for a walk, and relates all he sees in an often excessive descriptive effusion) yet surprisingly brushed with philosophical detail (as seems to be his frequent modus operandi -- so summarized on the jacket by Sebald: "A clairvoyant of the the small"). This stylistic and interrogatory excess applied to such non-sto Slight yet cosmic, comedic yet serious, classic yet postmodern, finely attuned to details external and internal, Walser's novella is almost boldly frivolous (the writer, bored, departs for a walk, and relates all he sees in an often excessive descriptive effusion) yet surprisingly brushed with philosophical detail (as seems to be his frequent modus operandi -- so summarized on the jacket by Sebald: "A clairvoyant of the the small"). This stylistic and interrogatory excess applied to such non-story seems almost a kind of self-lampooning: the writer with too many words and thoughts to contain. This is especially noticeable when our narrator addresses a shot keeper for multiple pages of overwrought pleasantries or complaints, only to receive a succinct one-line reply. It's part of Walsers continual drawing attention to himself, to the writer, to the act of writing, to the act of thought. The three stars is because this is a deliberately minor work in many ways, but not because it's not very very worth its meager demands upon your time.

  25. 5 out of 5

    Elaenia Montañera

    Una flor de los libros, un nuevo hogar, un libro milagro.

  26. 5 out of 5

    Jesica Canto

    La primera mitad me gustó, hasta donde el personaje habla con el recaudador de impuestos, luego me pareció forzado, hay un cambio notorio en cuanto a lo que cuenta y me parece que sobra. Hay una postura respecto al arte y la inscripción que es, sin dadas, interesante. Al menos, me lo parece a mí como escritora.

  27. 5 out of 5

    Hakan

    Bazen dalgacı bazen de yakıcı uslubuyla kendisini ilgiyle okutan bir yazarmış Walser. 1917'de bir otel odasında yazıldığı belirtilen hikayelerin önemli bir bölümü de yazarın, yaratıcının karşı karşıya kaldığı sorunları, sınamaları işliyor. Kitaba adını da veren, novella niteliğindeki ilk hikaye Gezinti müthiş. Ortalardaki hikayeler biraz didaktik, ama sonra tekrar kalite yükseliyor. Toplum içinde yaşamanın sıkıntılara gayet iyi değiniyor, doğaya güzel selam veriyor. Yeterince hakkı verilmemiş bi Bazen dalgacı bazen de yakıcı uslubuyla kendisini ilgiyle okutan bir yazarmış Walser. 1917'de bir otel odasında yazıldığı belirtilen hikayelerin önemli bir bölümü de yazarın, yaratıcının karşı karşıya kaldığı sorunları, sınamaları işliyor. Kitaba adını da veren, novella niteliğindeki ilk hikaye Gezinti müthiş. Ortalardaki hikayeler biraz didaktik, ama sonra tekrar kalite yükseliyor. Toplum içinde yaşamanın sıkıntılara gayet iyi değiniyor, doğaya güzel selam veriyor. Yeterince hakkı verilmemiş bir yazarlardan olduğu kesin. Aşağıdaki iki alıntı bunu teyid etmiyor mu... Toprağa, havaya, gökyüzüne bakarken gökyüzüyle yeryüzü arasında zavallı bir tutsak olduğum gibilerinden, üzücü, kaçınılmaz bir düşünceye kapıldım; tüm insanların bu biçimde acınılası bir tutsaklık yaşadıklarını, herkesin önünde sadece tek bir karanlık yolun bulunduğunu, bu yolun deliğe, toprağa uzandığını, mezardan geçenin dışında, öteki dünyaya giden bir başka yolun olmadığını düşündüm. "İşte her şey ama her şey, tüm bu zengin hayat, bu sıcak, düşünceli renkler, bu haz, bu hayat sevinci ve isteği, tüm bu insani anlamlar, aile, arkadaş, sevgili, ulvi güzellikte resimlerle dolu bu aydınlık hava, ana ve baba evleri ve sevgili, nazik yollar günün birinde ölecek ve yok olacak; tepedeki güneş, mehtap ve insanların yürekleri ve gözleri" (s.70) Yaşlanan insan zamanla pek çok şeyini ya da Tanrı aşkına, her şeyini kaybetse, yoksul düşse ve giderek daha da yoksullaşsa, güzel ve iyi bildiği her şey dağılıp parçalansa, acımasız rüzgarlar umutlarını kapıp götürse, kafası ve kalbi git gide soğusa, yaşama sevinci, tıpkı korktuğu gibi yavaş yavaş sönse, tatsız, dondurucu şartlar, kaçınılmaz olarak bir olguya, muhtemelen çok karanlık ve çok üzücü bir halikate dönüşse bile, en azından geçip giden ve kaybedilen güzel zamanların daima yeni, taze, sıcak, genç kalan hatırası yine de kaybolmaz ve yaşlı insanın bu hatırayı büyük bir şevkle ve özenle koruduğunu görmek kimseyi şaşırtmamalıdır, çünkü esasen güzel olan hatıra, neşeli ve güzel saatlerden yana giderek yoksullaşan insana, başka neşeli ve güzel saatler, hatta belki de daha güzellerini bile hazırlar. İnsan, büyüleyici, neşe dolu kendi Kudüsü'nün yıkılmasını ve harabeye dönüşmesini engellemek için neden böyle gayretle çabaladığını bilir; anıların sevgi bahçesini neden böyle bir sadakat ve azimle suladığını, çapaladığını ve koruduğunu ve soğuk, çıplak şimdiki zamanın ortasında neden çiçekler açan canlı geçmişi filizlendirdiğini ve yetiştirdiğini bilir. (s.160)

  28. 4 out of 5

    Juliana Muñoz

    Un libro como un paseo. Con momentos luminosos sobre el mundo que observamos, la sensibilidad del poeta y los personajes que encontramos en el camino. Y otros momentos en que de tanto divagar no me conecté y sentía que no iba a ninguna parte.

  29. 4 out of 5

    Proustitute

    ... the inward self is the only self which really exists. Walser's The Walk is anything but a light, jolly stroll: it's a trek uphill through spiraling landscapes, before the reader realizes that Walser has begun an abrupt, downward descent. The closing pages of The Walk are utterly heart-rending. This is a novella about everything and nothing. The narrator, a writer, leaves his "writing room, or room of phantoms" to take a walk through the town and the countryside. Along the way, he meets man ... the inward self is the only self which really exists. Walser's The Walk is anything but a light, jolly stroll: it's a trek uphill through spiraling landscapes, before the reader realizes that Walser has begun an abrupt, downward descent. The closing pages of The Walk are utterly heart-rending. This is a novella about everything and nothing. The narrator, a writer, leaves his "writing room, or room of phantoms" to take a walk through the town and the countryside. Along the way, he meets many different people from various walks of life: a postal worker; a tailor; a bookseller; a young woman singing; dogs; children; "the giant" Tomzack; a woman with whom he dines; and several others. It's no wonder that W. G. Sebald has called Walser "a clairvoyant of the small" as each of these interactions—and the bizarre, often archaic, speech acts we witness (e.g., after seeing a sign for lodgings, the narrator goes on for three pages to give the reader the sign's strange subtext)—tells us more about both the narrator's psychological state of mind as well as the world in which he feels so displaced. In many ways, The Walk can be read as a parable of a changing world where natural scenes are giving way to increasingly industrialized ones; it can also be read as a commentary on how insular a writer's world is, and how the sense of sequestration and loneliness carry over into social interactions and also inform prejudices rooted in aesthetic judgments rather than firsthand observations. One can see how Walser's prose is indebted to pastoral influence of the nineteenth century while also forging new ground stylistically in his modernist musings, causing a strange chorus of dissonant tones to run throughout The Walk—a dissonance that works quite well here, if the reader is patient, knowing he or she is in masterful hands. As Walser's narrator/alter ego exlaims here: "I am a solid technician!" And so he is.

  30. 5 out of 5

    Matt

  31. 5 out of 5

    Adam

  32. 5 out of 5

    Laura

  33. 4 out of 5

    Mike

  34. 5 out of 5

    Fredoviola

  35. 4 out of 5

    Sylvain

  36. 4 out of 5

    Jason

  37. 4 out of 5

    Distress Strauss

  38. 4 out of 5

    Donald

  39. 5 out of 5

    Bet

  40. 4 out of 5

    Yaj 苏安

  41. 5 out of 5

    Alberto

  42. 5 out of 5

    Mario

  43. 4 out of 5

    Fernanda

  44. 5 out of 5

    Catherine

  45. 4 out of 5

    Alejandro Martínez

  46. 5 out of 5

    Adam

  47. 5 out of 5

    Bieiris

  48. 5 out of 5

    Harry

  49. 5 out of 5

    Steve

  50. 5 out of 5

    Jesse

  51. 5 out of 5

    Alexander

  52. 5 out of 5

    Valuska

  53. 5 out of 5

    Michael sinkofcabbages

    Bought this book ages ago while on a trip to NY and have been waiting for the right time (mindset) to read it. Sounds silly? When an author means so much to you; its hard to parcel out their writings before you read everything. I always want to learn/absorb as much as i can from the greats. And i think its pretty common that people feel they can rip through an important art work and claim that they "got it". Thats why im waiting.

  54. 4 out of 5

    Chuck LoPresti

  55. 4 out of 5

    Clarina

  56. 5 out of 5

    RRoncato

  57. 5 out of 5

    Wendy

  58. 5 out of 5

    Matt Schlichter

  59. 4 out of 5

    MEGAN C

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