Customer Reviews

Extinction

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"Extinction" is the story of Franz-Josef Murau, a wealthy Austrian gentleman living in Rome as a private tutor in German literature. His tastes run to the esoteric and philosophical, and his relationship with his student, Gambetti, is intellectually mutual. He has just returned to Rome from the wedding of his younger sister, Caecilia, to an "obese wine cork manufacturer," held at the family estate in Austria, called Wolfsegg. At the wedding were his parents, older brother Johannes, and his other younger sister, Amelia.

He receives a telegram in Rome: "Parents and Johannes killed in accident." For the first half of this 320-page book (each half being one unbroken paragraph!), he describes his life, and his narration becomes a deep reflection on his childhood and life to date. He delivers a marvelous psychological portrait of himself, as well as the family members who have just died, and his long-dead Uncle Georg, whom he remembers with great fondness. He hates his family deeply, and the feeling is mutual. He is a philosopher, they are down to earth. He is an aesthete, but they are simple folks. He is a scholar, but they are hunters and farmers, despite their fantastic wealth and their prosperous family estate. Only Uncle George understood him, artistic, free-spirited, and educated. Franz-Josef reflects passionately on his current situation, and tells us many stories of himself and his family.

For the second half of the book, he describes the funeral at Wolfsegg. Lacking parents and older siblings, he is now the master of the estate. His sisters look to him for leadership. He must now decide what to do with the estate. Will he move back to Wolfsegg in Austria, a land he loves, but an estate he hates? Will he pass it to his sisters and remain in Rome, a city he cherishes more than any other? Bernhard will stun the reader with the beauty of the resolution, but will do it in his own literary fashion.

During the story, we learn Franz-Josef disdains Catholicism and National Socialism (i.e., Nazism) in equal parts. His mother had been having an affair with a Catholic Archbishop in Rome, a relationship which was supposedly secret, but which all her children seem to know of. The Archbishop is a close family friend, and will certainly visit the estate for the funeral. His father had many Nazi friends, unbelievably still openly Nazi all these years after the war. He tells us of the fun times he enjoyed playing at his estate's Children's Villa, and how disappointed he was when it was shuttered. He vows to open and restore it when he is master. He tells us of the five libraries---five!---scattered about the estate, similarly shuttered up, collecting dust despite a half-dozen generations' worth of valuable books stored within. He tells us childhood stories of his parents, his brother, and his sister, all disdainful, and heaps contempt upon his brother-in-law, whose name he cannot even bring himself to utter, in generous proportions. At one point, he bathes in his father's bath, and wears some of his clothes. Is this a metaphor for his feelings? We learn that he blames his father only for being such a simple man, but hates his mother passionately, for dragging his father into the mud.

We struggle with the idea that this is an unreliable narrator, and we are only hearing one side of a two-sided story, but unlike Italo Svevo's masterpiece, "Confessions of Zeno", it is clear that despite this narrator's one-sided story, there is no reason to disbelieve him. He is as critical of himself as of others, and he demonstrates the pettiness and crudeness of his family in many different ways. We trust him, not only because he is self-critical, but because despite his self-confidence, he is not a fool. We also learn some untoward truths about his family, and a few hidden secrets, which cannot be dismissed, even from the most unreliable narrator. His angst comes from a simple sentiment, expressed early on: "I can't abolish my family just because I want to." He struggles to resolve the question of extinction: Must he extinguish himself to satisfy his family? Must his family be extinguished to satisfy himself?

Finally, after a rollicking narration of heartfelt emotions and deeply-help philosophies, Bernhard's narrator demonstrates how he chooses to reconcile his thoughts and feelings, his inheritance and his sisters, his legacy and his future, and all the elements demonstrated through the length of the novel braid together like a jewel. Bernhard's prose is difficult for those unfamiliar with experimental or cutting-edge literature, but actually not very difficult once one tries. Curious readers will greatly enjoy engaging their mind with this book. If they wish to sample a smaller work before digging into this one, Bernhard's "Yes" is another masterpiece of style and depth. Both are rewarding, brilliant works from a literary master.

There is great joy to be had from this wonderful book. Its first joy is its prose - sparkling in its clarity, musical, effortless - which carries one along on a journey through the thoughts and feelings of Viennese 48 year old Franz-Joseph Murau. Intellectual resident of Rome, alienated by choice from his Austrian family, friend to Archbishop Spadolini(who is also his mother's lover!), he receives a telegram that his father, mother and brother have died in a car accident making him at one stroke inheritor of the family's wealthy estate. He is now MASTER OF WOLFSEGG. The first half of the novel THE TELEGRAM concerns his recollections of childhood and relationships and events that shaped his life. Example: " At first we always tell ourselves that our parents naturally love us, but suddenly we realise that, equally naturally, they hate us for some reason - that is to say, we appear to them as I appeared to mine, as a child that didn't conform with their notion of what a child should be, a child that had gone wrong. They had not reckoned with my eyes which probably saw everything I was not meant to see when I opened them. First, I looked in DISBELIEF, as they say, when I stared at them, and finally, one day I SAW THROUGH THEM, and they never forgave me, could NOT forgive me.(p 76)" The second half of the novel THE WILL concerns his attendance at the estate where he oversees the funeral and greets and reflects upon the range of visitors paying their respects.

Example: "In ROME I often lay on my bed, unable to stop thinking of how our nation was guilty of thousands, tens of thousands, of such heinous crimes, yet remained silent about them. The fact that it keeps quiet about these thousands and tens of thousands of crimes is the greatest crime of all, I told my sisters. It's this silence that's so sinister, I said. It's that nation's silence that's so terrible, even more terrible than the crimes themselves.(p 231)" This bare outline of the two parts cannot prepare you, dear reader, for the experiences of this novel. It is as if one becomes privy as another Viennese Mr Freud did, to the real secrets of the heart of an individual, an individual nevertheless, shaped by the world in which he was born but determined to realise some truths about that world. WE are privy then to the feelings, equivocations, doubts, fears, guilt and searching. It is a revalatory experience, scaldingly honest, which provides one man's analysis of 20th Century Austrian culture, including National Socialism, the class system, religion, architecture, cuisine et al. Sometimes mocking, sometimes self excoriating, sometimes savagely funny, we travel with Mr Murau through his thoughts and feelings at this turning point in his history. In the end, Mr Murau makes a stunning act of redemption which concludes his statement and rounds off this wonderful work of literature on a joyous note. Please accompany, or perhaps follow,this novel with a large dose of HAYDN. Most modern novels pale into the ordinary compared to this work.

In Extinction Bernhard creates his most indulgent, and most inscrutable work since On the Mountain - the likes of which only he can muscle into great literature. These two works can very much be seen as the brackets around all of his work, the beginning and the end. Extinction is the pile driving of Correction and Gargoyles, the lyricism of Old Masters and The Loser, and the sustained climax of Yes. I may even choose one of those novels as his most important work, or my personal favorite - Extinction will never be remembered as an example of Bernhard's work - it's artistry might just be too profound to be very useful. Bernhard's last novel flows very much like the last movement of a dark symphony - it borrows phrases, and alludes to even his first published words, but it is very clearly the end. To one who has read the complete works of Bernhard and who has seen time and again his genius use devices and set motion upon everything from the merits of artistic expressions and intents, to in other works, the fabric of cognition and existence, to the very fabric of the words on the page - the very reason for the work Extinction becomes unclear. It is not like any of Bernhard's other works. Page after page it challenges the reader to give up. Its almost as if Bernhard left this work as a special gift for only those who could really interpret and appreciate his art. Sticking with Extinction while Bernhard is shooing you and the collective literary world away is the greatest artistic experience one can undertake - because in the end, when you are sure you are the only one on the planet who has stuck with him to the last, he leaves you with one of his greatest surprise gifts. One which will float by silently and smash you in the face at the same time. It is all - only how its done. Over drinks, my friend the author, Rick Whitaker once said, 'Bernhard is the only author who ever succeeded in removing himself from everything.' Or at least he should have.

I read this great book a few years ago and still find myself frequently thinking about it and laughing out loud, something that I seldom otherwise do. It is certainly one of the funniest books, along with Celine's Death on the Installment Plan, that I've ever had the pleasure to read. If you enjoy angry, crazy, repetitive but pointed vituperative tirades as much as I do, this is the stuff for you. After all, there is plenty to be angry about in this world of ours. Bernhard's repetitive denunciations of the Nazi's, Germans, Austrians, philosophy and all sorts of other stuff is especially appealing. This is a dead serious book that will have you shaking with liberating laughter.

Is there a word in German that signifies "Bernhardism" or, more to the point, "Bernhardists"? I ask because all the other reviewers seem to belong to this camp; most seem to be fluent in German and, indeed, to have more or less memorised his entire corpus of works. This book is my first exposure to this great Bernhard, and I have a few caveats for the neophyte reader of him:

* Beware of him if you suffer from chronic depression
* Beware of him if you absolutely love cameras and photography
* Beware of him if you are Catholic and attend mass and go to confession
* Beware of him if you have any sort of sentimental attachment to Austria, or anywhere in Central Europe
* Beware of him if you think Nazi uniforms look "cool"
* Beware of him if you think that German literature is the ne plus ultra of modern endeavours
* Beware of him if you are "family-oriented"
* Beware of him if you take everything seriously

The last, of course, is the only credible caveat. The exaggerated spleen and diatribe on display here borders on the ridiculous so often, that it is really impossible not to laugh, all the while knowing that there exists at least a crumb of existential truth in each sentence of this extended rant.

Bernhard or the narrator "Murau" or however you wish to parse it remarks herein at one point, "Without the art of exaggeration, I told him (his pupil Gambetti), we'd be condemned to an awfully tedious life, a life not worth living."

And, indeed, without the dark humour the book would be pitch-black unreadable. For the sake of brevity, I'll mention the character Spadolini, as a sort of synecdoche of everything with which the narrator is absorbed and obsessed: Spadolini, that elegant, worldly Roman Nuncio who's been having it off with the narrator's mother for years. Of him, our narrator says:

"Yet although everything Spadolini said about my father is wrong, I thought, it has an air of authenticity. We often hear the most arrant nonsense spoken about someone, downright lies and falsehoods, but accept it as the unadulterated truth because it is uttered by someone whose words carry conviction."

It is the comforting verbiage of a Spadolini about our families, our lives, our deaths, and our ulterior motives that Bernhard, successfully it seems to me, pours venom on here. Yet, he remarks earlier that this same Spadolini is the most capital sort of fellow, who made life liveable for him in Rome, who showed him around, made introductions on his behalf, who acquired his pupil Gambetti for him.

So, there is actually a deep ambiguity about the world underlying the spleen on superficial display. I would argue that it is this undertow of underlying ambiguity which makes the book such a deeply unsettling, important one to read.

EXTINCTION is the book that Franz-Josef Murnau wanted to write. To extinguish his past, the memories of a family, a country (Austria), and a world he couldn't respect or even abide, was his aim, and the endeavor made with the full knowledge that the burning of those bridges could also involve his own immolation. How does Murnau go about this process of extinction? By exaggeration. According to Murnau every great work of art is a product of exaggeration. Every bit of venom he spews with regards to family or society, is an integral piece of that exaggerated puzzle of the world he has fashioned, which once assembled, can be safely obliterated from his life. The vitriol though, is tempered with lots of dark humor, making the book Murnau wanted to write, and the one Thomas Bernhard did write, a pleasure to read. A good deal of intellectual pretension is mixed with a measure of self loathing and recrimination. Murnau goes on rants, but often pauses to regret his intolerant attitude and acknowledge his own shortcomings. Another balancing act is performed in Murnau's mind where the love of the natural beauty and splendour of his ancestral home of Wolfsegg, is counterbalanced by the disdain for the forces of stupidity, ignorance, and loathsomeness that inhabit and surround it. His likes are specific, but his dislikes quite general, encompassing much of modern society. Along the way he skewers photography, almost the whole of Germanic literature including Goethe and Mann, along with almost everything found in bourgeois society and culture. The exaggeration is at it's most strident when he links Catholicism with National Socialism in the Austrian national psyche and deems them the twin evils of that society. Is the extreme contumely to be taken at face value, or with a grain of salt? That's for the reader to decide. Bernhard in the guise of his alter ego Murnau, is an atypical man in an obtuse world. He is set up as a rare beacon of light in a world clouded with crudeness, dullness, and ignorance, and his final act puts an exclamation point on the obliteration of the past he so despises and can't live with any longer. EXTINCTION was Thomas Bernhard's last novel, and it provides much food for thought, and material for debate. The writing style at first might appear daunting, since the book is divided into 2 sections, without chapters or even paragraph breaks, but the prose is very digestible. I finished it in 3 days.

If you really want to understand how your own mind works....the mechanics of thinking and reflection...consider the voice of Bernhard. This is the end piece in one of the most ambitious and interesting literary projects of the 20th century and hardly anyone knows about it...Bernhard stands in the first rank of cut-throat modernists and it will only be a matter of time before the true nature of his vision is finally appreciated.

It doesn't get any better than this, writes A reader, having just reached the close of Extinction after making the book last for weeks, wishing to prolong the pleasure of occupying Bernhard's mind, despite the fact that Bernhard himself would likely decry such a location as any source of *pleasure*. But I am not entirely content with the ending, writes A reader, to amazon.com, which I should have bought at the IPO, because the ending seems to me an uncharacteristic gesture of generosity, an act of overwhelming faith from a character who already seemed human enough and did not need this gesture to elevate him in my eyes. I find Murau to be Bernhard's most compelling persona because we see his complexities and contradictions in sublime detail and actually *live inside his mind* and witness layer upon layer of his thought, at once responding to his external surroundings and reflecting on his responses and all the while seemingly digressing in inimitable Bernhard fashion. And so I do not need his grand and altruistic gesture at the end, and in fact am unconvinced that the Murau that I have lived inside for the entire book would have been capable of making such a gesture in an unironic way -- one faith is as problematic as another, I would imagine that the analytical Murau would say, and I would have much preferred to see a fully random act of charity if there needed to be one at all. Can the ending be interpreted as a mere *affront*, a strong extinction of Wolfsegg's fascist past, without necessarily embracing its inheritors? I don't think so, and I simply cannot reconcile the seemingly uplifting ending with the sentiment that "the only advice I can offer to any thinking person is to kill himself *before the millenium*," although I suppose that the parenthetical in the last sentence of the novel does offer a possibility of relief. Despite any concerns that I may have about the ending, amazon.com, I would still recommend this book as one of Bernhard's *roundest*, although I'm not quite certain whether it will linger in my mind as did Concrete, Yes, Old Masters and The Lime Works, four of his books that made an impact on me that I doubt Extinction, while still *a good read*, will come to rival, writes A reader, already thinking about reentering The Lime Works as Extinction starts to fade.

The genius of Bernhard is in that he has brought his expressive skills to the edge: The edge of the ability to express, through a novel, through the writer's eye, the emotive highlights of a man's life and showing us how dinstant such a perspective is from a barely chronological report. of moods. It's amazing how we can feel, in our intimate thoughts, how close we are to this man, we nearly feel his pain and his breath weakened by the violence of life. Read him,feel what you read, at least do it here, this is a genuine poet who is born to give, and reflect (don't fall into the mainstream of the "misantropic interpretation", you would miss an extraordinary experience). Trust me, this is one of the greatest poets who wrote in German (what a pity that the poems are not translated into english ( I translated them into Italian, write me an e-mail if you want them ), maybe I'll try to do it with the help of some better-English-speaking friend ). Finally, this is a man with an exceptional sense of humour. Karl Kraus, who is an Austrian, too, doesn't get so high.

Franz-Josef Murau is a wealthy intellectual living in Rome as a tutor of high German literature and philosophy. He has also abandoned his home in Austria-a country estate named Wolfsegg, until he is pulled back into the throes of the Austrian aristocracy when his parents and brother are killed in a car accident and the estate is bequeathed to him. What follows is a mordantly brilliant monologue excoriating the decadence of the Austrian rich in grand Bernhard style, which is to say ruthlessly and deliberately. This extraordinary novel represents the culmination of a signature voice, well-honed and developed over the course of a brilliant lifetime. In Extinction, Bernhard creates a world of militant philistinism with the thick residue of National Socialism, only to overturn and extinguish the world through the act of its recollection. The work is the work of extinction-the extinction of the bloody past, and the sense that its truth must be overdetermined in the interpretive mind. While I am less excited about Bernhard's explicit announcements about his program, this is still a very rich and nuanced aesthetic achievement.