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Death In Venice (Vintage Crucial Classics) Kindle Edition
A tale of genius in which Thomas Mann explores the artist's relation to life.
First published in 1912, Death in Venice tells how Gustave von Aschenbach, a writer utterly absorbed in his work, arrives in Venice as the result of a 'youthfully ardent thirst for distant scenes', and meets a young boy by whose beauty he becomes obsessed. His pitiful pursuit of the object of his affection and its inevitable and pathetic climax are told here with the particular skill the author has for this shorter form of fiction.
- LanguageEnglish
- PublisherVintage Digital
- Publication date30 Nov. 2010
- File size908 KB
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It was the nurse's fault. In vain Frau Consul Friedemann, when the matter was first suspected, had solemnly urged her to relinquish so heinous a vice; in vain she had dispensed to her daily a glass of red wine in addition to her nourishing stout. It suddenly came to light that the girl had actually sunk so low as to drink the methylated spirits intended for the coffee machine; and before a replacement for her had arrived, before she could be sent away, the accident had happened. One day, when little Johannes was about a month old, his mother and three adolescent sisters returned from a walk to find that he had fallen from the swaddling table and was lying on the floor making a horribly faint whimpering noise, with the nurse standing by looking stupidly down at him.
The doctor's face, as he carefully but firmly probed the limbs of the crooked, twitching little creature, wore an exceedingly serious expression; the three girls stood in a corner sobbing, and Frau Friedemann prayed aloud in her mortal anguish.
Even before the baby was born it had been the poor woman's lot to see her husband, the consul for the Netherlands, reft from her by an illness both sudden and acute, and she was still too broken in spirit to be even capable of hoping that the life of her little Johannes might be spared. Two days later, however, the doctor squeezed her hand encouragingly and pronounced that there was now absolutely no question of any immediate danger; above all, the slight concussion of the brain had completely cleared up. This, he explained, was obvious if one looked at the child's eyes; there had been a vacant stare in them at first which had now quite disappeared . . . "Of course," he added, "we must wait and see how things go on'and we must hope for the best, you know, hope for the best . . ."
Chapter Two
The gray gabled house in which Johannes Friedemann grew up was near the north gate of the old, scarcely middle-sized merchant city. Its front door opened onto a spacious stone-paved hall, from which a stair with white wooden banisters led to the upper floors. On the first was the living room with its walls papered in a faded landscape pattern, and its heavy mahogany table draped in crimson plush, with high-backed chairs and settees standing stiffly round it.
Here, as a child, he would often sit by the window, where there was always a fine display of flowers; he would sit on a little stool at his mother's feet, listening perhaps as she told him some wonderful story, gazing at her smooth gray hair and her kind gentle face, and breathing in the slight fragrance of scent that always hung about her. Or perhaps he would get her to show him the portrait of his father, an amiable gentleman with gray side-whiskers. He was (said his mother) now living in heaven, waiting for them all to join him there.
Behind the house was a little garden, and during the summer they would spend a good deal of time in it, notwithstanding the almost perpetual sickly sweet exhalations from a nearby sugar refinery. In the garden stood an old gnarled walnut tree, and in its shade little Johannes would often sit on a low wooden stool cracking nuts, while Frau Friedemann and her three daughters, now grown up, sat together in a gray canvas tent. But Frau Friedemann would often raise her eyes from her needlework and glance tenderly and sadly across at her son.
Little Johannes was no beauty, with his pigeon chest, his steeply humped back and his disproportionately long skinny arms, and as he squatted there on his stool, nimbly and eagerly cracking his nuts, he was certainly a strange sight. But his hands and feet were small and neatly shaped, and he had great liquid brown eyes, a sensitive mouth and soft light brown hair. In fact, although his face sat so pitifully low down between his shoulders, it could nevertheless almost have been called beautiful.
Chapter Three
When he was seven he was sent to school, and now the years passed uniformly and rapidly. Every day, walking past the gabled houses and shops with the quaintly solemn gait that deformed people often have, he made his way to the old schoolhouse with its Gothic vaulting; and at home, when he had done his homework, he would perhaps read some of his beautiful books with their brightly colored illustrations, or potter about in the garden, while his sisters kept house for their ailing mother. The girls also went to parties, for the Friedemanns moved in the best local society; but unfortunately none of the three had yet married, for their family fortune was by no means large and they were distinctly plain.
Johannes, too, occasionally got an invitation from one or other of his contemporaries, but it was no great pleasure for him to associate with them. He was unable to join in their games, and since they always treated him with embarrassed reserve, it was impossible for any real companionship to develop.
Later there came a time when he would often hear them discuss certain matters in the school yard; wide-eyed and attentive, he would listen in silence as they talked of their passions for this little girl or that. Such experiences, he decided, obviously engrossing though they were for the others, belonged like gymnastics and ball games to the category of things for which he was not suited. This was at times a rather saddening thought; but after all, he had long been accustomed to going his own way and not sharing the interests of other people.
It nevertheless came to pass'he was sixteen years old at the time'that he found himself suddenly enamored of a girl of his own age. She was the sister of one of his classmates, a blond, exuberant creature whom he had met at her brother's house. He felt a strange uneasiness in her company, and the studied self-conscious cordiality with which she too treated him saddened him profoundly.
One summer afternoon when he was taking a solitary walk along the promenade outside the old city wall, he heard whispered words being exchanged behind a jasmine bush. He cautiously peeped through the branches, and there on a seat sat this girl and a tall red-haired boy whom he knew very well by sight; the boy's arm was round her and he was pressing a kiss on her lips, which with much giggling she reciprocated. When Johannes had seen this he turned on his heel and walked softly away.
His head had sunk lower than ever between his shoulders, his hands were trembling and a sharp, biting pain rose from his chest and seemed to choke him. But he swallowed it down, and resolutely drew himself up as straight as he could. "Very well," he said to himself, "that is over. I will never again concern myself with such things. To the others they mean joy and happiness, but to me they can only bring grief and suffering. I am done with it all. It is finished for me. Never again."
The decision was a relief to him. He had made a renunciation, a renunciation forever. He went home and took up a book or played the violin, which he had learned to do despite his deformity.
Chapter Four
At seventeen he left school to go into business, like everyone else of his social standing, and he became an apprentice in Herr Schlievogt's big timber firm down by the river. They treated him with special consideration, he for his part was amiable and cooperative, and the years passed by in a peaceful and well-ordered manner. But in his twenty-first year his mother died after a long illness.
This was a great sorrow for Johannes Friedemann, and one that he long cherished. He savored this sorrow, he surrendered himself to it as one surrenders oneself to a great happiness, he nourished it with innumerable memories from his childhood and made the most of it, as his first major experience.
Is not life in itself a thing of goodness, irrespective of whether the course it takes for us can be called a "happy" one? Johannes Friedemann felt that this was so, and he loved life. He had renounced the greatest happiness it has to offer, but who shall say with what passionate care he cultivated those pleasures that were accessible to him? A walk in springtime through the parks outside the town, the scent of a flower, the song of a bird'surely these were things to be thankful for?
He also well understood that a capacity for the enjoyment of life presupposes education, indeed that education always adds at once to that capacity, and he took pains to educate himself. He loved music and attended any concerts that were given in the town. And although it was uncommonly odd to watch him play, he did himself become not a bad violinist and took pleasure in every beautiful and tender note he was able to draw from his instrument. And by dint of much reading he had in the course of time acquired a degree of literary taste which in that town was probably unique. He was versed in all the latest publications both in Germany and abroad, he knew how to savor the exquisite rhythms of a poem, he could appreciate the subtle atmosphere of a finely written short story . . . One might indeed almost say that he was an epicurean.
He came to see that there is nothing that cannot be enjoyed and that it is almost absurd to distinguish between happy and unhappy experiences. He accepted all his sensations and moods as they came to him, he welcomed and cultivated them, whether they were sad or glad: even his unfulfilled wishes, even his heart's longing. It was precious to him for its own sake, and he would tell himself that if it ever came to fulfillment the best part of the pleasure would be over. Is not the sweet pain of vague desires and hopes on a still spring evening richer in delight than any fulfillment the summer could bring? Ah yes, little Herr Friedemann was an epicurean and no mistake.
This was something of which the people who passed him in the street, greeting him with that mixture of cordiality and pity to which he had so long been accustomed, were doubtless unaware. They did not know that this unfortunate cripple, strutting so quaintly and solemnly along in his light gray overcoat and his shiny top hat (for oddly enough he was a little vain of his appearance) was a man to whom life was very sweet, this life of his that flowed so gently by, unmarked by any strong emotions but filled with a quiet and delicate happiness of which he had taught himself the secret.
Chapter Five
But Herr Friedemann's chief and most absorbing passion was for the theater. He had an uncommonly strong sense of drama and at moments of high theatrical effect or tragic catastrophe the whole of his little body would quiver with emotion. At the principal theater of the town he had a seat permanently reserved for him in the front row, and he would go there regularly, sometimes accompanied by his three sisters. Since their mother's death they had lived on in the big house which they and their brother jointly owned, and did all the housekeeping for themselves and him.
They were, alas, still unmarried; but they had long reached an age at which one sets aside all such expectations, for the eldest of them, Friederike, was seventeen years older than Herr Friedemann. She and her sister Henriette were rather too tall and thin, whereas Pfiffi, the youngest, was regrettably short and plump. This youngest girl moreover had an odd habit of wriggling herself and wetting the corners of her mouth whenever she spoke.
Little Herr Friedmann did not pay much attention to the three girls, but they stuck loyally together and were always of the same opinion. In particular, whenever any engagement between persons of their acquaintance was announced, they would unanimously declare that this was very gratifying news.
Their brother went on living with them even after he had left Herr Schlievogt's timber firm and set up on his own by taking over some small business, some sort of agency which did not demand much exertion. He lived in a couple of rooms on the ground floor of the house, in order not to have to climb the stairs except at mealtimes, for he occasionally suffered from asthma.
On his thirtieth birthday, a fine warm June day, he was sitting after lunch in the gray tent in the garden, leaning against a new soft neck rest which Henriette had made for him, with a good cigar in his mouth and a good book in his hand. Now and then he would put the book aside, listen to the contented twittering of the sparrows in the old walnut tree and look at the neat gravel drive that led up to the house and at the lawn with its bright flower beds.
Little Herr Friedemann was clean-shaven, and his face had scarcely changed at all except for a slight sharpening of his features. He wore his soft light brown hair smoothly parted on one side.
Once, lowering the book right onto his lap, he gazed up at the clear blue sky and said to himself: "Well, that's thirty years gone. And now I suppose there will be another ten or perhaps another twenty, God knows. They will come upon me silently and pass by without any commotion, as the others have done, and I look forward to them with peace of mind."
Chapter Six
It was in July of that year that the new military commandant for the district was appointed, a change of office that caused a considerable stir. The stout and jovial gentleman who had held the post for many years had been a great favorite with local society, and his departure was regretted. And now, for God knows what reason, it must needs be Herr von Rinnlingen who was sent from the capital to replace him.
It seemed, in fact, to be not a bad exchange, for the new lieutenant colonel, who was married but had no children, rented a very spacious villa in the southern suburbs, from which it was concluded that he intended to keep house in some style. At all events the rumor that he was quite exceptionally rich found further confirmation in the fact that he brought with him four servants, five riding and carriage horses, a landau and a light hunting brake.
Shortly after their arrival he and his wife had been to pay calls on all the best families, and everyone was talking about them; the chief object of interest however was definitely not Herr von Rinnlingen himself, but his wife. The men were dumbfounded by her and did not at first know what to think; but the ladies most decidedly did not approve of Gerda von Rinnlingen's character and ways.
"Of course, one can tell at once that she comes from the capital," observed Frau Hagenstrom, the lawyer's wife, in the course of conversation with Henriette Friedemann. "One doesn't mind that, one doesn't mind her smoking and riding'naturally not! But her behavior isn't merely free and easy, its unrefined, and even that isn't quite the right word . . . She's by no means ugly, you know, some might even think her pretty'and yet she totally lacks feminine charm, her eyes and her laugh and her movements are simply not at all calculated to appeal to men. She is no flirt, and far be it from me to find fault with her for that, goodness knows'but can it be right for so young a woman, a woman of twenty-four, to show absolutely no sign of . . . a certain natural grace and attractiveness? My dear, I am not very good at expressing myself, but I know what I mean. The men still seem to be quite stunned, poor dears: mark my words, they will all be sick to death of her in a few weeks' time."
"Well," said Fraulein Friedemann, "she has made a very good marriage, anyway."
"Oh, as to her husband!" exclaimed Frau Hagenstrom. "You should see how she treats him! You will see it soon enough! I am the last person to deny that up to a point a married woman should act toward the opposite sex with a certain reserve. But how does she behave to her own husband? She has a way of freezing him with her eyes and calling him 'mon cher ami' in pitying tones, which I find quite outrageous! You have only to look at him'a fine upstanding first-class officer and gentleman of forty, well behaved and well mannered and very well preserved! They've been married for four years . . . My dear . . ."
Product details
- ASIN : B004C055BI
- Publisher : Vintage Digital; New edition (30 Nov. 2010)
- Language : English
- File size : 908 KB
- Text-to-Speech : Enabled
- Screen Reader : Supported
- Enhanced typesetting : Enabled
- X-Ray : Not Enabled
- Word Wise : Enabled
- Print length : 418 pages
- Best Sellers Rank: 48,469 in Kindle Store (See Top 100 in Kindle Store)
- 230 in Classic Romance Fiction
- 486 in Classic Literary Fiction
- 949 in Romance Literary Fiction
- Customer reviews:
About the author
Paul Thomas Mann (German: [paʊ̯l toːmas man]; 6 June 1875 – 12 August 1955) was a German novelist, short story writer, social critic, philanthropist, essayist, and the 1929 Nobel Prize in Literature laureate. His highly symbolic and ironic epic novels and novellas are noted for their insight into the psychology of the artist and the intellectual. His analysis and critique of the European and German soul used modernized German and Biblical stories, as well as the ideas of Goethe, Nietzsche and Schopenhauer.
Mann was a member of the Hanseatic Mann family and portrayed his family and class in his first novel, Buddenbrooks. His older brother was the radical writer Heinrich Mann and three of his six children, Erika Mann, Klaus Mann and Golo Mann, also became important German writers. When Hitler came to power in 1933, Mann fled to Switzerland. When World War II broke out in 1939, he moved to the United States, returning to Switzerland in 1952. Thomas Mann is one of the best-known exponents of the so-called Exilliteratur, literature written in German by those who opposed or fled the Hitler regime.
Bio from Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia. Photo by Carl Van Vechten [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
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Customers praise the writing quality and structure of the book. They describe the story as profound, mystical, and haunting. The events become poignant and meaningful, making it a joy and honor to read.
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Customers appreciate the writing quality and literary expertise of the book. They find the descriptions exquisite and the writing beautifully conceived and written. The book is described as an excellent collection of classic short stories that can be read many times.
"A most beautifully conceived and written novella - exquisite descriptions - a joy and honour to read...." Read more
"...I appreciate the literary expertise and structure but my, my, this Mann can write in long sentences such that by the time one has got to the end of..." Read more
"Mann's stories are dark, deep, profound, and beautifully crafted." Read more
"...it can be read many times" Read more
Customers enjoy the pacing of the book. They find the story profound and mystical, weaving a tale with skill and determination. The story is described as haunting and memorable.
"...of the Venice episode was much more beautiful and was quite haunting and memorable. Vincent Gormley, Galway" Read more
"Deceptively simple and yet profound short story with a central character who stays long in the mind. Somehow his thoughts become your own...." Read more
"Mann's stories are dark, deep, profound, and beautifully crafted." Read more
"A profound and somewhat mystical tale he weaves with skill and determination. Enthralling in the message it conveys to today from the past." Read more
Customers find the book's events poignant and meaningful. They describe it as a joy and honor to read, with exquisite descriptions.
"...beautifully conceived and written novella - exquisite descriptions - a joy and honour to read...." Read more
"...Venice episode was much more beautiful and was quite haunting and memorable. Vincent Gormley, Galway" Read more
"An almost inconsequential series of events become poignant and deeply meaningful in the hands of this master writer. Read it." Read more
Top reviews from United Kingdom
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- Reviewed in the United Kingdom on 14 November 2021A most beautifully conceived and written novella - exquisite descriptions - a joy and honour to read.
You may already know the book - certainly the story - but do read this it if not or re- read - it’s so wonderful.
- Reviewed in the United Kingdom on 1 December 2013The episode in Venice, towards the latter stages of the book, I found engrossing, however, much of this work did not appeal greatly to me and was far too narcissistic for my liking.
The film of the work, concentrating of the Venice episode was much more beautiful and was quite haunting and memorable.
Vincent Gormley, Galway
- Reviewed in the United Kingdom on 19 June 2019I thought I should read this book as it is on several "best books" lists, and having watched the film several decades ago. I appreciate the literary expertise and structure but my, my, this Mann can write in long sentences such that by the time one has got to the end of a very complex sentence with a multitude of sub-clauses, one has forgotten how the sentence started and its main point; meaning that in several places, amongst a whole load of abstract descriptive language I had to re-read the whole sentence to try to discover what on earth he was talking about, thereby ruining the rythym of reading and the enjoyment of the book in general. (Geddit?)
- Reviewed in the United Kingdom on 29 June 2023I'd be happy to be stuck in a lift with Thomas Mann but not in Venice
- Reviewed in the United Kingdom on 19 August 2015Deceptively simple and yet profound short story with a central character who stays long in the mind. Somehow his thoughts become your own. Only read this translation if you're on a kindle. I abandoned the other one.
- Reviewed in the United Kingdom on 7 November 2019Mann's stories are dark, deep, profound, and beautifully crafted.
- Reviewed in the United Kingdom on 10 May 2017Not quite what I expected. Very dated of course. Not really as enjoyable as we were having a short holiday there and expected it to be a bit more atmospheric.
- Reviewed in the United Kingdom on 27 May 2015If you want to read Death In Venice in English, then go for this, the David Luke translation. Not only is he a superb translator (cf. his translation of Goethe's Faust Parts I & II, considered masterpieces in their own right), but he hasn't bowdlerized it, which is the egregious failing of the other major translation available.
Top reviews from other countries
- P. SalusReviewed in Canada on 14 February 2024
5.0 out of 5 stars Superb translations
There's no question as to the high quality of the stories in this volume. But the late David Luke was a superb translator. His Goethe and his Kleist are outstanding, but the renditions of Mann's novellas put the prior work of Lowe-Porter to shame. Luke's "Death in Venice" and "Tristan" are notable. But this is a brilliant volume ... for the author and for his translator.
- Saikat GhoshReviewed in India on 13 August 2018
5.0 out of 5 stars Excellent.
Very good collection of stories. Love to have this.
- ChaxelleReviewed in the United States on 28 October 2013
5.0 out of 5 stars True literature
I read modern novels, etc. but always end up with a feeling that something is missing. That something is the stuff of true literature. Literature shows a love of language and the ability tp paint a scene so that you feel you are there; it displays an ability to describe a character so that you feel you actually know him; it can take a simple plot and make it enthralling and it can leave you with the feeling that you want to read it again. But if you want to read literature today you must turn to the past. The in a hurry modern reader will not allow our authors to write literature.
Far be it for me to write a review of Thomas Mann. These short stories are literature. That is critique enough.
- Aran Joseph CanesReviewed in the United States on 5 December 2020
4.0 out of 5 stars Europe Before the Catastrophe of 1914
There’s a certain art, or less flatteringly, a formula to Thomas Mann’s short stories. Dialogue is minimal while there is attention paid to every minute detail of the setting. The protagonists are well drawn and emerge as full personalities but rarely undergo growth or change.
This makes them ideal if you want to travel back to Germany before the First World War. A real sense of the people and culture is strewn throughout Mann’s short stories.
They may not all be classics but they do make for good reading. If you want an extended glimpse at Europe before the catastrophic shattering of a world that was 1914, I strongly recommend reading Mann.
- insomniacReviewed in India on 19 November 2018
3.0 out of 5 stars Charged more.
Great book. But they charged me 282 although the price is printed as 250.