Customer Reviews

Werner Herzog - Of Walking in Ice: Munich - Paris 23 November - 14 December 1974

5 star:		(3)
4 star:		(0)
3 star:		(0)
2 star:		(0)
1 star:		(1)

 

 

After being out of print for so long, I was excited to see this book in print and available!

Of course it's Herzog who ends up hiking through a blizzard from Munich to Paris.

The diary is really beautiful. Lots of incredible descriptions of the countryside, moments of madness, and plenty of that Herzog charm.

The design's incredible, too! You don't really see books like this ever.

Not only is this a gorgeous little publication, lacking in gloss and imagery, but Herzog's writing style is beyond compare, apocalyptic, and yet serene.

If you are a fan of Herzog, then this book is a MUST. If you simply enjoy good writing, then you can make much worse choices than.

As an admirer of werner herzog, this marvellous book is in the same genre as Fitzcaraldo, and Aquirre, the wrath of god. Power images of the unexpected capture your attention and makes this book a book you cannot put down. From start to finish, you are caught up in the tale of his remarkable trip, which are his diary notes and are unedited. It is so well written you feel you are right there with him. The ending, not to give away secrets, is basically anticlimactic. I highly recommend this as a must have experience.

Author: Werner Herzog
Title: Of walking in ice
Time: 1974
Destination:
Munich to Paris
Length: 26 days
Type: walking
Rating: 1/10
Mournful burglar (stick to thy last)

First things first: WH is a director of New German Cinema and a very good photographer - if you happen to get your hands on a book with his photographic works, make sure to check it out. Another thing about WH that I find remarkable is how he ate one of his shoes once. I guess it's not so much about the eating part, but rather the fact that he didn't back down from a lost bet. Cool.

So far so good?

Not good. This book was horrible. Here's the basic idea: In the fall of 1974, WH hears about the French-German film critic Lotte Eisner being seriously ill in her home in Paris. He decides to walk from Munich all the way to Paris, thinking that this heroic act might save the old lady.

So he walks. And he rambles. The book is about these ramblings, and it is so slow and painful that every page feels like another blister.

I have two questions for the author:

1) Why is the overall atmosphere so grim? Sure, rain and snow have the potential to suck when you're walking against the wind, but who wants to read 100 pages of depressive blatherings? Here's a gem from a random page I just opened: "All this is pointless beyond description. Just let them find me sleeping here in this bed, those retarded bricklayers. How the wind is routing the forest outside." - Jeez... and this is after WH forced his way into an empty house by smashing a window.

That's another thing:

2) What's with all the breaking into buildings? It seem like WH is burgling every other home between Bayern and Īle de France, leaving a swath of destruction behind him. I just don't understand why that should be necessary. At one point he apparently even takes a leak into someone else's boots...

Now please don't get me wrong: I understand that a reader doesn't necessarily have to feel sympathy for an author in order to like a certain pice of writing. And I also acknowledge the fact that travel literature doesn't have to be 100% truthful. But I just can't help but dislike this book.

Let me put it this way: If walking is a glass, then WH has just poured all the joy out of it and filled it up with a mix of depression, egotism and "meaningfulness" that I find just way too repulsive to recommend drinking.

The reason why I am not giving this one a zero rating like Paulo Coelho is because I think that WH isn't as pretentious as him. In fact, he might not be pretentious at all. Maybe he was just in a state of depression during that winter of 1974, and he decided to write it down for all of us to share.

A sad 1 out of 10 is what it is.

Ugh.