Beginning a book is like entering someone's house for the first time. You might feel a little uncomfortable and unsure about your host; your initial apprehension may develop into a sense of ease and reassurance or, barely across the threshold, you might feel that you are about to have a experience you will savour, with someone whose every word and action is beguiling.
I was half way through the prelude to the first chapter of'The Snows of Yesteryear' when I felt completely beguiled. That feeling
Beginning a book is like entering someone's house for the first time. You might feel a little uncomfortable and unsure about your host; your initial apprehension may develop into a sense of ease and reassurance or, barely across the threshold, you might feel that you are about to have a experience you will savour, with someone whose every word and action is beguiling.
I was half way through the prelude to the first chapter of'The Snows of Yesteryear' when I felt completely beguiled. That feeling of being in the company of someone who not only had an engaging story to tell, but who could tell it with vivid details and astounding insight, using fully ripened language was there from the beginning and never let up until, at the point of departure, it faltered just a little.
Through five main chapters we learn about the life of a boy whose family is materially privileged but emotionally fractured. Each of those chapters focuses on a person who was central to Gregor's life as he grew towards manhood, beginning with Cassandra, a maid as untamed as she is spirited. Right at the start we learn that
They had peeled her out of her peasant garb and had instantly consigned the shirt, the wrap skirt, the sleeveless sheepskin jacket and the leather buskins to the flames.
Devoid of all her colour, Cassandra says:
They turned a goldfinch into a sparrow
. For Gregor she represents a whole other way of being. Described as "simian", she nonetheless introduces Gregor, in a casual, though not entirely unintentional way, to sensual experiences which, even at a young age, he recognises as significant:
behind the black silken curtain of Cassandra's hair, in the baking-oven warmth of her strong peasant corporeality, I found refuge at all times from whatever pained me.
Their closeness is a cause of irritation to Gregor's neurotic mother, but eventually it is age that begins to break the bond as, at age 8, the intrusive nature of potty time can be tolerated no longer and a rift occurs. But nothing can take from the impact that this woman with strong roots in the north of Romania has on a boy whose early childhood is marked by a sense of belonging nowhere.
Not only did the family have to flee Czernowitz, in Bukovina because of World War 1, but on making their way as far as Trieste they were forced, after less than a year, to move again this time to a village in Lower Austria. That idyll had to be abandoned too for a house in Vienna before an eventual return to Czernowitz. But had they never left Bukovina, the turmoil and empire-building of the 20th century would have meant that they would have been a part of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, then Romania, then split between Romania and the Soviet Union before becoming a part of the Ukrainian SSR, at which time Czernowitz became Chernovtsy!
Little wonder that Gregor's mother was a deeply unhappy woman, but it seems that far more than history impinged on her and formed her into a woman who was incapable of being happy and who seemed to have no idea of how contentment might be achieved and so remained always in
the rusting shell of her unapproachability
. Dissatisfaction with a life that was permanently out of focus meant that she was continuously finding fault with those around her, with vexation all too easily turning into sharp cruelty. Even so I was shocked when Gregor said that
All too often her demonstrations of maternity had had the earmarks of rape
. It is difficult to find any evidence in Gregor's detailing of their relationship that quite justifies that accusation, but he has nonetheless an astonishing ability to incisively analyse the precise nature of his mother's dilemma:
The strictness of her own upbringing had established for her a world cast in primer-like simplicity, which contained no real human beings but merely standard roles whose comportment was assigned irrespective of individuality, character, temperament or nervous disposition...any deviation into the specifically individual was a step towards chaos
Another element in the unsatisfactory life of Gregor's mother is her marriage to a man whose passion is hunting which results in his being absent much of the time. In attempting to explain his father's compulsion to kill wild animals Gregor says:
that his all consuming passion for hunting was in reality an escape to and a shelter from the reminder of a truer and unrealised vocation...A gesture of defiance stood at the very origin of his fixation- indeed, obstinate defiance was the determining trait in his character.
He does have a job too which involves visiting old monasteries to examine the artifacts they possess. Some of Gregor's happiest times were spent accompanying his father on expeditions which encompassed both facets of his life and allowed Gregor to experience moments of transcendent and revelatory beauty:
We are guests of the abbot; with paternal kindliness the prior shows me fifteenth-century illuminated manuscripts in bindings of chased silver ; sunlight falls through the tall windows, in broad stripes alive with dancing motes of dust, into the semidarkness of the library, and outside, jays are heard quarreling in the pines; my longing thoughts wander to the glories of the autumnal forest beyond the church walls blazing in picture-book colours.
He portrays his father as a man who was far more even-tempered than his mother,but who had several dark and unpleasant aspects to his character too, most notably a vicious antisemitism which contrasts with Gregor's mother who was much liked by her Jewish neighbours.
Gregor's sister was four years older than him and he attached major significance to those years, believing that she had foundational experiences which steadied her life in a way which eluded him. But he would eventually become much older than her because her life was to end long before it should have when she succumbed to just the sort of disease her mother had spent her life worrying about and through this horrible affliction her mother finally found a purpose by attending constantly to the daughter who, when she was healthy had been much less favored by her mother. In contrast she had always been doted on, and indulged fully, by a father who, now that she was ill, withdrew completely and stayed where he could not witness the indignity of her final weeks.
Above, around and within this family the benign presence of the children's governess Bunchy prevailed. Warm and encouraging Bunchy whose laughter was
reminiscent of pigeons cooing.
Both children learned much from this deeply knowledgeable woman:
When a certain pettiness of outlook degenerated into stubborn narrow-mindedness , Bunchy's determined intervention drew our attention to basic discrepancies between the conception of life held by normal civilized people and that held by us. We then made haste to follow her implicit injunction
Although Gregor was not suited to the conventions of the school system he developed into a man with an outstanding ability to record the endlessly complicated ways in which people choose, or are forced, to live their lives. Bunchy, it would seem, more than any of the others opened up the world for him. Within that world Gregor had available to him four amazingly divergent examples of womanhood. Yet he is honest enough to tell us that he had, throughout his life and in his relationships with women, a cold heart.
I found some evidence of that cold heart in the epilogue to this book and I still can't decide whether or not it was wise to include it. By revisiting Czernowitz he was always going to be disappointed. What I feel he fails to appreciate is the extent to which a city of ones youth - a place in which one can , for a little while, believe in the limitless possibilities of oneself and of the city - can never be revisited because it was always more than just a physical reality. By recounting his understandable disappointments he risks being just another grumpy man, finding fault with the many ways in which the world has changed. Except that here, because of the subjugations of communism, almost nothing has changed:
I couldn't get over it. There could be no doubt that this was indeed the Cernauti of my childhood, tangibly concrete and real- and yet it wasn't the Czernowitz whose vision I had carried in me for half a century.
Famously, of course, you can't go home again and I'm inclined to wish he hadn't.
But this is a remarkable book, evocative, witty and beautifully written.
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I try to never say "Proustian" in a review because it really means "hey, I've read Proust" which is a laudable achievement worthy of public proclamation but a generally vague and misleading element in a literary review. Rezzori's Snows... is a look back, look for and look out for what are memories are and what we let them do to us - that's Proust-like. His language/prose is remarkably erudite and complex but never desultory - that's Proust-like too. Rezzori draws with words, makes music with wor
I try to never say "Proustian" in a review because it really means "hey, I've read Proust" which is a laudable achievement worthy of public proclamation but a generally vague and misleading element in a literary review. Rezzori's Snows... is a look back, look for and look out for what are memories are and what we let them do to us - that's Proust-like. His language/prose is remarkably erudite and complex but never desultory - that's Proust-like too. Rezzori draws with words, makes music with words and contemplates how words construct thoughts - again - much like the work of Proust. But where Rezzori is unique is that he never is reduced to neurotic coiled reflection that seems largely onanistic - that is very un-Proust like. Rezzori has an amazing insight to the formation of human characteristics and social interaction that rivals Stendhal but unlike Stendhal's romantic and purely literary leanings - it's art-history that informs Rezzori's insights. He paints with words - aware of style in every stroke and in great respect of his audience. If you are interested in reading about how a family lives and dies in post Trianon eastern-Europe - you won't do much better than this. Illuminated by the same crepuscular glow that brings Schulz's Drohobych out of the darkness and impermanence of temporary Poland, Rezzori's Czernowitz flickers on the edge of memorial non-beingness with arresting dalliance. There's no need to romanticize such memories when their foundation is more "irreal" than any rainbow-streak of grease that populated Proust's tea cups. If you subscribe to the notion that the greatest generations of humans probably came and went around the time of the Second World War - this little giant of a beautifully packaged NYRB short novel will leave you pleasantly unchanged and better informed. It is sort of Proustian.
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Essentially this book is a series of portraits of Rezzori's family and two most intimate nurses/governesses, and their lives during the two World Wars and the time in between, when their home city of Czernowitz was caught in the post-collapse of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, when it was handed over (and over again) between Romanian, German, and Russian rule. The people of the Bukovina were basically in the hands of whatever army happened to be roaming through the land at the time, and eventually
Essentially this book is a series of portraits of Rezzori's family and two most intimate nurses/governesses, and their lives during the two World Wars and the time in between, when their home city of Czernowitz was caught in the post-collapse of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, when it was handed over (and over again) between Romanian, German, and Russian rule. The people of the Bukovina were basically in the hands of whatever army happened to be roaming through the land at the time, and eventually the whole identity of the region seemingly vanished. There are many parallels throughout the story of the dissipation of the empire and the disintegration of the family, but what this book did so well, and so brilliantly, was elucidate that strange, mythological period of adolescence and early childhood, when we, at the time, are experiencing such vivid and lasting impressions but do not yet have the faculty to express what they mean, even to ourselves, while all the while our individuality and personality are being formed by these same occurences. One can't help but draw the comparison of lost empire/lost childhood, but there is more going on here than that. A melancholy nostalgia, a dry and absurd humor, intimate emotional observation, and a sense of something irrevocable that we all seem to experience when looking back at our own lives are what this book succeeds in communicating. Perhaps only
Speak, Memory
has come so close to illustrating those twilight years. But Rezzori's prose is more centered in the emotional, while Nabokov is solidly discoursing through the intellect. As far as memoirs of childhood go, I can't say yet which I prefer. But if you enjoyed
Speak, Memory
definitely give this a go.
Some favorite parts: Cassandra making the snow flowers (which inevitably dissolve in time); the image and detail of the sinking toy ship (which is referenced throughout); his father dragging a dead, bloody boar through his mother's snobby, aristocratic social gatherings; all the descriptions of the gardens, the roads into the wilderness, the ecstatic recollection of the weather and natural surroundings of the Bukovina and how that was reflected in the people. There is so much here to sift through, I will certainly reread this at some point.
Among the many memoirs I have read this is one of the most beautiful and meaningful. Gregor Von Rezzori has uncanny ability to create beautiful metaphors that convey a sense of both place and history. It is this that sets his memoir apart from the others. The memoir is subtitled "portraits for an autobiography". Thus Von Rezzori structures the memoir around the members of his family with chapters titled simply "The Mother", "The Father", and "The Sister". These are his portraits and it is only w
Among the many memoirs I have read this is one of the most beautiful and meaningful. Gregor Von Rezzori has uncanny ability to create beautiful metaphors that convey a sense of both place and history. It is this that sets his memoir apart from the others. The memoir is subtitled "portraits for an autobiography". Thus Von Rezzori structures the memoir around the members of his family with chapters titled simply "The Mother", "The Father", and "The Sister". These are his portraits and it is only when he wrote two chapters about people close to him as family, but not related, that he give them names, "Cassandra" and "Bunchy"; these being the childhood appellations by which they were known. The result of this organization by family portrait is a chronological mosaic made up of vignettes melded together by his memory.
The memoir ends with the disappearance of his beloved homeland with the onset of the second world war. Stemming from the aftermath of the Great War this provides a historical context for his personal story. Thus the themes of the memoir are under girded with the sense of a world destroyed, collapsed, and faded into an age that becomes his "yesteryear". Von Rezzori describes them metaphorically in the introduction to "The Mother":
"The mermaid is blind; her world has turned to rubbish. The chest contains the tinsel of a forgotten carnival of long ago. And the mermaid herself is rotting."(p 55)
The expectations that were so vivid and bold when he was young become the "golden mists" of the past. Yet amidst this story of decline there is much humor and lovely details, for the author shared the Rabelaisian exuberance of moments with his father, the pride taken in learning how to hunt, and the sweet, if rare, moments when his Mother showered him with all the love that she had hidden from him through her habitual neglect of her family. He also shares intimate moments with his sister, describing their similarities and differences: "I envied her for being our father's favorite; she despised the blind infatuation my mother showed me, suffered maternal injustices with mute pride and devalued he mother's preference in my own eyes. She was a graceful girl, when I was a small oaf; she was a precociously exemplary young lady whil I was still a lout." (p 204)
The memoir ends with a short epilogue where, among other things, the adult Gregor Von Rezzori (who become an accomplished journalist, media personality, and author) shares his personal return to his birthplace of Czernowitz and found that "it wasn't the Czernowitz whose vision I had carried in me for half a century". He found like so many who grow up and leave their home of birth that you literally cannot go home again for the place you left is different than the myth your mind has created and hidden by the mists of time. The story of this memoir is ultimately one of dissolution of both an idea and an ideal. It is memorable for the beauty and love that was experienced by this often lonely man. It is this that shines through and creates a glowing memoir of a yesterday that will remain forever impressed upon all who read it.
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There are plenty of good books which you gulp down and then forget. And there are those rare excellent books which are made and meant to stay so that you choose to take your time to read them. 'The Snows of Yesteryear' belongs to the latter.
I'm not an avid reader of self biographies, but I'm always glad to read one of them when the name of the writer justifies it which is to say when the author did something in literature. (ok, I reckon how 'Open' by Andre Agassi doesn't quite belong here).
Now,
There are plenty of good books which you gulp down and then forget. And there are those rare excellent books which are made and meant to stay so that you choose to take your time to read them. 'The Snows of Yesteryear' belongs to the latter.
I'm not an avid reader of self biographies, but I'm always glad to read one of them when the name of the writer justifies it which is to say when the author did something in literature. (ok, I reckon how 'Open' by Andre Agassi doesn't quite belong here).
Now, 'Speak Memory' by Vladimir Nabokov and Witold Gombrowicz's 'Polish Memories' are both superb books. On the same subject, I've reasons to believe that I will enjoy those three self-biographic volumes by Canetti as soon as I have enough time to dig into them.
The thing is, Gregor von Rezzori did a better job than Nabokov and Gombrowicz in writing about his childhood. Mark my words.
One of the chief reasons why I liked 'The Snows of Yesteryear' so much is that von Rezzori doesn't focus on himself as much as Nabokov (quite obviously) and Gombrowicz did. That and the fact that the author chose to select his memories very carefully thus giving the book a very distinctive frame were beautiful writing goes straight to the point and every unexpected detour does lead to a specific episode.
'The Snows of Yesteryear' is shaped by people, spiced up by places and smells of history.
Von Rezzori here baked a delicious madeleine which brings back to life the five most important characters of his childhood: his mother, father, sister, wet nurse and governess.
Whereas it's the opening poignant lines of the chapter dedicated to his sister which cannot left anyone untouched, I believe that von Rezzori is particularly masterful when writing about his 'savage' wet nurse, Cassandra, and on his teacher/governess, Mrs Strauss - also known as Bunchy.
There you have an oddity. The emotional detachment von Rezzori felt for his long bygone mother and father when he wrote this book as an elderly man is less noticeable when the author remembers about Cassandra and Bunchy. As a matter of fact these two women did have a deeper influence on the future novelist's early life than his parents who were either overworried about him or hopelessly distant.
At a first glance, Gregor von Rezzori certainly had a privileged childhood. Son of a rich man of distant Italian origins but who praised his Germanness and a proud servant of a collapsing Habsburg Empire, von Rezzori grew up in a world of country houses, city mansions and holidays in spa towns or by the Carinthian lakes. His mum was a fashionable woman ruling over a half dozen servants while his father was a dedicated hunter who enjoyed conversating in Latin (and, accidentally, despised the Jews).
And yet, the von Rezzoris didn't fit the usual Belle Epoque picture of an uptown bourgeois Austro-Hungarian family giving parties, going to the opera, blaming the Versailles Treaty and - alas - flirting with antisemitism.
Living in multicultural but troubled Bukovina, the family was forced to leave their home and belongings behind more than once during young Gregor's childhood. Suffice is to say that in the short span of thirty years, von Rezzori's hometown of Czernowitz passed from Austria to Romania to Soviet Union only to become an Ukrainian city back in 1991 under the current name of Chernivtsi.
'The Snows of Yesteryear' is much more than family history and an elderly novelist reminiscing on his childhood, it's a document of extraordinary importance to understand why a single town could bear six different names: Czernowitz, Chernivtsi, Chernovtsy, Cernauti, Czerniowce and Czernopol.
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THE SNOWS OF YESTERYEAR. (1989). Gregor Von Rezzori. ****.
A friend of mine recommended this book. It’s by an author I never heard of, but will follow up and seek out more of his titles. When you look at his name, you can’t tell where he is from – other than somewhere in Europe. ‘Gregor’ might be Russian; ‘Von’ usually comes from Germany; ‘Rezzori’ smacks of Italy. When you read this book, you will discover that those regions all played a part in the author’s life. The book itself is a masterful
THE SNOWS OF YESTERYEAR. (1989). Gregor Von Rezzori. ****.
A friend of mine recommended this book. It’s by an author I never heard of, but will follow up and seek out more of his titles. When you look at his name, you can’t tell where he is from – other than somewhere in Europe. ‘Gregor’ might be Russian; ‘Von’ usually comes from Germany; ‘Rezzori’ smacks of Italy. When you read this book, you will discover that those regions all played a part in the author’s life. The book itself is a masterful approach to an autobiography, using the technique where the author defines himself by his memories of the major personalities who are around him at various stages in his life. The author is a fantastic and has the ability to accurately define his landscapes and personalities to a tee. This talent makes for a slow-reading book; you can’t take a chance on missing any detail by trying to read quickly. This must have been a difficult book to translate from the German, but the translator did a marvelous job. It is difficult which portrait I liked best of those presented by Rezzori, but I suspect that I would have to vote for the peasant companion who lived with his family, Cassandra. Recommended.
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My friend Louisa recommended The Snows of Yesteryear over a bowl of steaming pork belly ramen in the East Village. Von Rezzori's memoir is Japanese comfort food for the winter-bound soul. He writes about a town in the Bukovina area of what was once the Austrian Empire, briefly under Romanian control, then Russian occupation, and now part of the Ukraine.
Rezzori was an expat in his own home. a man without the possibility of national identity.
In part the book is a social comedy. Portraying the fu
My friend Louisa recommended The Snows of Yesteryear over a bowl of steaming pork belly ramen in the East Village. Von Rezzori's memoir is Japanese comfort food for the winter-bound soul. He writes about a town in the Bukovina area of what was once the Austrian Empire, briefly under Romanian control, then Russian occupation, and now part of the Ukraine.
Rezzori was an expat in his own home. a man without the possibility of national identity.
In part the book is a social comedy. Portraying the futility and hilarity of the main figures of Rezzori's life defining their identities around past and or present political alliances and bourgeoisie existence.
The title drew me in, then I highly enjoyed this book, a memoir about Rezzori growing up in Berkovina, with a polyglot of minorities and how the area changed from 1914 until after WWII. He spends a long section each on the people who he felt raised him: his early nanny, his mother & father (who were mismatched and wildly neurotic) , a sister and a governess/tutor. He is the author of "Memoirs of an Anti-semite" which I haven't read, but will now.
gregor von rezzori is creeping his way to the top of my most-exciting-authors list. he has an astounding ability to arrange his thoughts with insight and poetry, and he manages to do so while remaining a few paces away from the threshold of self-indulgence and "purple prose."
the snows of yesteryear
(that's
blumen im schnee
in german, or "flowers in the snow") is more directly autobiographical than his also amazing
memoirs of an anti-semite
, but the two make a perfect pair in the long run. with e
gregor von rezzori is creeping his way to the top of my most-exciting-authors list. he has an astounding ability to arrange his thoughts with insight and poetry, and he manages to do so while remaining a few paces away from the threshold of self-indulgence and "purple prose."
the snows of yesteryear
(that's
blumen im schnee
in german, or "flowers in the snow") is more directly autobiographical than his also amazing
memoirs of an anti-semite
, but the two make a perfect pair in the long run. with even deeper intimacy,
snows
examines the peculiar, multifaceted personalities that populated his youth in czernowitz, which during his lifetime began as an outpost of the austria-hungarian empire, then became part of romania, was eventually claimed by the soviet union and, following its collapse, is now currently part of the ukraine. rezzori's precarious upbringing as the pseudo-aristocratic child of a dying empire filled his head with all sorts of contradictory (and often hilarious) prejudices, which he examines with merciless scrutiny and sensitivity.
the book is split into five sections, each devoted to a different figure from his life. three are devoted to direct members of his family (mother, father and sister), and two involve servants. the first chapter, devoted to his servant cassandra, is probably the memoir's highlight, because it sets the stage for his various obsessions (race, class, cultural idiosyncrasies, child care, superstition) and offers him the strongest figure through which to unravel the chauvinism at the root of his own psychological development. cassandra is described in terms that would never be used in any such inquiry today ("simian," for example), and rezzori's assessment of the cultural sphere in czerowitz is often quite curmudgeonly. but his warts-and-all approach also avoids a lot of the obvious sentimentality implied by the memoir form (and the book's awkwardly-translated title, while we're at it). rezzori's tough love is so insistently introspective that his cruelest thoughts are often circular in form. as soon as he shares them, he immediately pivots to the roots of his own biases - and applies the same scalpel to his own life story. surprisingly enough, this approach is never cool or detached. in the case of cassandra, she emerges as a character of great strength without confirming to the "magical" stereotypes of idealized otherness.
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Four stars is more accurate as the book was very well written. But I have so many other favorites it wouldn't be fair to give it more than three that basically says "I liked it". My problem with the book was my own unfamiliarity with the writer and his works and the fact that world history is not something I am too concerned with even in light of its importance. I do enjoy personal history which there was plenty of in this book, but the wars and politics of the time probably bother me more than
Four stars is more accurate as the book was very well written. But I have so many other favorites it wouldn't be fair to give it more than three that basically says "I liked it". My problem with the book was my own unfamiliarity with the writer and his works and the fact that world history is not something I am too concerned with even in light of its importance. I do enjoy personal history which there was plenty of in this book, but the wars and politics of the time probably bother me more than interest me. I had difficulty connecting to all the different characters and never became emotionally involved with any of them. But I do know how respected and admired Gregor von Rezzori is to some and I wish I felt differently about this fine work.
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My continuing obsession with pre-WWII Mitteleuropa culture has landed me at the doorstep of Herr Gregor von Rezzori (obviously). The Snows of Yesteryear is by no means a masterpiece, but it is an incredibly charming, witty, enlightening memoir describing the sort of lost world characterized by children with flaxen curls and sailor suits, fascist uncles and communist daughters, beery Germans and oniony Romanians and gloomy Hasidim, daring youthful romances, saber-scarred cheeks, courtly love, all
My continuing obsession with pre-WWII Mitteleuropa culture has landed me at the doorstep of Herr Gregor von Rezzori (obviously). The Snows of Yesteryear is by no means a masterpiece, but it is an incredibly charming, witty, enlightening memoir describing the sort of lost world characterized by children with flaxen curls and sailor suits, fascist uncles and communist daughters, beery Germans and oniony Romanians and gloomy Hasidim, daring youthful romances, saber-scarred cheeks, courtly love, all that. More or less exactly what I expected. I love that shit, and so I loved every minute of reading this book.
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Gregor von Rezzori was born in 1913, and his childhood saw his hometown of Czenowitz pass from Austro-Hungary to Romania in the wake of World War I. This region, Bucovina, which is now split between Romania and Ukraine, was host to a remarkable diversity: Germans, Ruthenians (Rusyns), Romanians, (Yiddish-speaking) Jews, Poles, Russians and Armenians lived side by side in Czernowitz. In his memoir THE SNOWS OF YESTERYEAR (originally published in German as Blumen im Schnee), Rezzori depicts the ch
Gregor von Rezzori was born in 1913, and his childhood saw his hometown of Czenowitz pass from Austro-Hungary to Romania in the wake of World War I. This region, Bucovina, which is now split between Romania and Ukraine, was host to a remarkable diversity: Germans, Ruthenians (Rusyns), Romanians, (Yiddish-speaking) Jews, Poles, Russians and Armenians lived side by side in Czernowitz. In his memoir THE SNOWS OF YESTERYEAR (originally published in German as Blumen im Schnee), Rezzori depicts the changing ethnic and political landscape of the town until roughly the mid-1940s, with reminisces that continue into the post-war era and an epilogue from 1989 seeing him return to Czernowitz after five decades away.
But this is mainly a family chronicle. Rezzori divides the book into five parts focusing on a particular member of his household. His nanny Cassandra was illiterate and brutish, hired out of some isolated place in the Carpathians. His mother is remembered as overprotective and more than a little neurotic, tragically trapped in a loveless relatioship with Rezzori's father. That father was obsessed with hunting, using his business trips as a government functionary to bag all kinds of animals in the vastness of the Carpathians. His dislike for the Jews was great, but he stayed forever faithful to Austro-Hungarian values and was aghast at the rise of the Nazis and German agression. His sister, four years old than him and a perennial but beloved rival, died in young adulthood after a long illness. Finally, his governess Ms. Lina Strauss (nicknamed "Bunchy" in a German-language pun) brought a cosmopolitan flair to his home.
Rezzori mentions Marcel Proust early on in this book, but even if he didn't, many readers would think of Proust nonetheless. Rezzori has the same passion for introspection on the most mundane issues of childhood. I must admit, his reveries and his psychological analyses of his family do tend to drag, especially in the last third or so of the book. I must admit to skimming for long passages about his sister and Bunchy.
However, as a source of first-hand information on the dying of the Austro-Hungarian Empire and a cosmopolitan Bucovina that is now gone forever, this is a valuable book, and however frustrating its longwindedness might be, I am very glad I read it.
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La Editura Humanitas a apărut la începutul acestui an un volum de memorii al lui Gregor von Rezzori, intitulat Zăpezile de altădată. Titlu intertextual trimite la faimoasa întrebare pe care François Villon și-o tot pune în poemul Ballade des dames du temps jadis, poem al nostalgiei trecutului și al îndepărtării de un prezent mizer și nedemn.
Titlul, prin tot ceea ce sugerează el, nu este dezmințit de cele 300 de pagini de amintiri despre cele cinci persoane care i-au marcat viața autorului: doica
La Editura Humanitas a apărut la începutul acestui an un volum de memorii al lui Gregor von Rezzori, intitulat Zăpezile de altădată. Titlu intertextual trimite la faimoasa întrebare pe care François Villon și-o tot pune în poemul Ballade des dames du temps jadis, poem al nostalgiei trecutului și al îndepărtării de un prezent mizer și nedemn.
Titlul, prin tot ceea ce sugerează el, nu este dezmințit de cele 300 de pagini de amintiri despre cele cinci persoane care i-au marcat viața autorului: doica, mama, tatăl, sora și guvernanta. Aristocrat de origine chezaro-crăiască, născut în Bucovina, naratorul spune povestea oamenilor care au avut o importanță semnificativă în viața lui. O poveste detaliată, plină de amănunte din cele mai interesante despre descoperirea și construirea sinelui. Deși înverșunat împotriva lui Freud, ale cărui teorii i se par trase de păr, autorul nu ezită să pună, de multe ori, problema raportării la membrii familiei sale în termenii psihanalizei freudiene. (cronică:
http://bookaholic.ro/in-cautarea-zape...
)
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rezorri tenderly, beautifully, and with the most amazing descriptive prose tells his life experiences through the stories of the five most important people in his life. his insights are full of feeling, history, and subtle humor. his perception regarding intimate details of character and thought is incredibly keen.
A fantastic memoir of a lost world, namely the multiethnic world that existed between Prussia, Austria, and Russia and which came to an end between the wars. Also a touching, and sad family memoir, with unsparing portraits of his parents, his sister, and himself. Dragged a bit at times, otherwise would have been a full five stars.
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Stunning account of the fall of the Austro-Hungarian empire told by way of the figures of Von Rezzori's childhood. A very special and beautiful book.
Quite simply one of the best books I have ever read. The writing is sublime, erudite and hugely readable. The memoir is set on the borders of the old Austro Hungarian empire as it crumbles after the first world war, leaving Rezzori and his family stranded in the new Roumania. This former Austrian aristocratic family lose their position and security as the second world war looms. The young Rezzori is better able to adapt than are his parents but ultimately he leaves whilst they stay on with no wh
Quite simply one of the best books I have ever read. The writing is sublime, erudite and hugely readable. The memoir is set on the borders of the old Austro Hungarian empire as it crumbles after the first world war, leaving Rezzori and his family stranded in the new Roumania. This former Austrian aristocratic family lose their position and security as the second world war looms. The young Rezzori is better able to adapt than are his parents but ultimately he leaves whilst they stay on with no where else to go. A great portrait of a family caught up in the changing Europe of the twentieth century. Definitely on my desert island disc list.
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The model ship story would suffice to make this a great book. But there is plenty more. The idea of a Ruritanian History book by a guy who was almost, but not quite, Ruritanian is enticing, and very well executed here. Zenda is both less and more of a joke seen from within. 'Exotic' lands that once flourished outside the bounds of modern nationality - let's say Sicily in the Friedrich II Hohenstauffen era - are often deployed to portray an Utopian past; in Bukovina's case one destroyed by modern
The model ship story would suffice to make this a great book. But there is plenty more. The idea of a Ruritanian History book by a guy who was almost, but not quite, Ruritanian is enticing, and very well executed here. Zenda is both less and more of a joke seen from within. 'Exotic' lands that once flourished outside the bounds of modern nationality - let's say Sicily in the Friedrich II Hohenstauffen era - are often deployed to portray an Utopian past; in Bukovina's case one destroyed by modern dystopias disguised as utopias: that's what Von Rezzori depicts here, and no writer could do more justice to a tale most likely untrue.
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A beautifully written evocation of what is something of a lost world - the remnants of the Austro-Hungarian empire between the two world wars.
There are some excellent reviews on here - e.g. Declan's - that do the book much more justice than I can.
Why not 5 stars? Well firstly I set the bar high on that award. But secondly, as a matter of personal taste, I prefer fiction to non-fiction, albeit that this is my favourite type of autobiographical non-fiction, told by a fiction writer so that it read
A beautifully written evocation of what is something of a lost world - the remnants of the Austro-Hungarian empire between the two world wars.
There are some excellent reviews on here - e.g. Declan's - that do the book much more justice than I can.
Why not 5 stars? Well firstly I set the bar high on that award. But secondly, as a matter of personal taste, I prefer fiction to non-fiction, albeit that this is my favourite type of autobiographical non-fiction, told by a fiction writer so that it reads more like a novel, just one very grounded in real events and some very memorable real people.
A beautiful memoir and a remarkable meditation on memory. Even though Rezzori describes a less than perfect childhood life, the reminiscing has a tinge of lost Eden tone to it. He draws portraits of a few people dear to him in his childhood, and like Knausgaard is brutal in his honesty at some points. But other than that, this is a memoir far removed from Knausgaard's autobiography and is closer to Proust's enchanted story of growing up.
wonderful autobiography of growing up and old in eastern and western europe. born in the bukovina (austo-hungro empire)in what? 1914, which changed to Romania, which changed to ukraine. this is a reprint of nyrb 2010, originally in german from 1989. goes well with orringer's "invisible bridge" and Patrick fermor's "a time of gifts". intro by john banville.
Von Rezzori's character analysis of his childhood authority figures is unlike anything I've previously read. Imagery is also outstanding. The character development is such that I remember the details after a year.
Gregor von Rezzori was born in 1914 in Chernivtsi in the Bukovina, then part of the Austro-Hungarian Empire and now part of Ukraine. In an extraordinarily peripatetic life von Rezzori was succesively an Austro-Hungarian, Romanian and Soviet citizen and then, following a period of being stateless, an Austrian citizen. The great theme of his work was the multi-ethnic, multi-lingual world in which he
Gregor von Rezzori was born in 1914 in Chernivtsi in the Bukovina, then part of the Austro-Hungarian Empire and now part of Ukraine. In an extraordinarily peripatetic life von Rezzori was succesively an Austro-Hungarian, Romanian and Soviet citizen and then, following a period of being stateless, an Austrian citizen. The great theme of his work was the multi-ethnic, multi-lingual world in which he grew up and which the wars and ideologies of the twentieth century destroyed. His major works include
The Death of My Brother Abel
,
Memoirs of an Anti-Semite
and his autobiographical masterpiece
The Snows of Yesteryear
. He died in his home in Italy in 1998.
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“To recognize what is absurd and to accept it need not dim the eye for the tragic side of existence; quite on the contrary, in the end it may perhaps help in gaining a more tolerant view of the world.”
—
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