What do you think?
Rate this book
Beware of Pity
In 1913 a young second lieutenant discovers the terrible dangers of pity. He had no idea the girl was lame when he asked her to dance - his compensatory afternoon calls relieve his guilt but give her a dangerous glimmer of hope. Stefan Zweig's only novel is a devastatingly unindulgent realization of the torment of the betrayal of both honor and love, realized against the background of the disintegration of the Austro-Hungarian Empire.
Stefan Zweig was born in 1881 into a wealthy Viennese Jewish family. He studied at the Universities of Berlin and Vienna and was first known as a poet and translator, then as a biographer. Zweig traveled widely, living in Salzburg, London and New York before settling in Brazil where he and his wife were found dead in 1942.
353 pages, Hardcover
First published January 1, 1939
About the author
Stefan Zweig
2,490 books10.9k followersStefan Zweig was one of the world's most famous writers during the 1920s and 1930s, especially in the U.S., South America, and Europe. He produced novels, plays, biographies, and journalist pieces. Among his most famous works are Beware of Pity, Letter from an Unknown Woman, and Mary, Queen of Scotland and the Isles. He and his second wife committed suicide in 1942.
Zweig studied in Austria, France, and Germany before settling in Salzburg in 1913. In 1934, driven into exile by the Nazis, he emigrated to England and then, in 1940, to Brazil by way of New York. Finding only growing loneliness and disillusionment in their new surroundings, he and his second wife committed suicide.
Zweig's interest in psychology and the teachings of Sigmund Freud led to his most characteristic work, the subtle portrayal of character. Zweig's essays include studies of Honoré de Balzac, Charles Dickens, and Fyodor Dostoevsky (Drei Meister, 1920; Three Masters) and of Friedrich Hölderlin, Heinrich von Kleist, and Friedrich Nietzsche (Der Kampf mit dem Dämon, 1925; Master Builders). He achieved popularity with Sternstunden der Menschheit (1928; The Tide of Fortune), five historical portraits in miniature. He wrote full-scale, intuitive rather than objective, biographies of the French statesman Joseph Fouché (1929), Mary Stuart (1935), and others. His stories include those in Verwirrung der Gefühle (1925; Conflicts). He also wrote a psychological novel, Ungeduld des Herzens (1938; Beware of Pity), and translated works of Charles Baudelaire, Paul Verlaine, and Emile Verhaeren.
Most recently, his works provided the inspiration for 2014 film The Grand Budapest Hotel.
Zweig studied in Austria, France, and Germany before settling in Salzburg in 1913. In 1934, driven into exile by the Nazis, he emigrated to England and then, in 1940, to Brazil by way of New York. Finding only growing loneliness and disillusionment in their new surroundings, he and his second wife committed suicide.
Zweig's interest in psychology and the teachings of Sigmund Freud led to his most characteristic work, the subtle portrayal of character. Zweig's essays include studies of Honoré de Balzac, Charles Dickens, and Fyodor Dostoevsky (Drei Meister, 1920; Three Masters) and of Friedrich Hölderlin, Heinrich von Kleist, and Friedrich Nietzsche (Der Kampf mit dem Dämon, 1925; Master Builders). He achieved popularity with Sternstunden der Menschheit (1928; The Tide of Fortune), five historical portraits in miniature. He wrote full-scale, intuitive rather than objective, biographies of the French statesman Joseph Fouché (1929), Mary Stuart (1935), and others. His stories include those in Verwirrung der Gefühle (1925; Conflicts). He also wrote a psychological novel, Ungeduld des Herzens (1938; Beware of Pity), and translated works of Charles Baudelaire, Paul Verlaine, and Emile Verhaeren.
Most recently, his works provided the inspiration for 2014 film The Grand Budapest Hotel.
Ratings & Reviews
Friends & Following
Create a free account to discover what your friends think of this book!
Community Reviews
Displaying 1 - 30 of 2,851 reviews
July 10, 2020
Did you enjoy Wes Anderson's film The Grand Hotel Budapest? Did you become entranced—as I did—by its nostalgia for the Austro-Hungarian Empire in those moonlight days before the Great War? Beware of Pity (1939), the novel which inspired the film, was written by Stefan Zweig--in exile, in London—during the time when the Nazis occupied his beloved Vienna, when Germany subsumed Austria into itself, and Austria--alas!--was no more. How ironic: at the very moment Zweig was mourning the cultural demise of the cosmopolitan empire of twenty-five years ago, Hitler was accomplishing the political death of the country on which it had been built, the present day republic that was his home.
Zweig was indeed a man of ironies. He was a name-dropper, a frequenter of fashionable cafes who fiercely guarded his privacy; he was a celebrated writer of popular fiction who yearned for artistic recognition; he was a husband who treated his wife as a secretary, then divorced her to marry his secretary; he was a Jew who considered his Judaism “an accident of birth,” a Jew who never thought of himself as a Jew until Hitler classified him as such, who even then declined to denounce the Third Reich with vigor, preferring to remain “objective”; and he was a cosmopolite comfortable in all cities of the world until the Nazis barred him from the comforts of his own city Vienna: he despaired, and, together with his second wife, killed himself with barbituates, in Petropolis, the "Imperial City" of Brazil, in 1942.
The title of this novel—and its overriding theme—Beware of Pity--has its ironies too. How can pity—the exercise of simple human compassion—be considered a corrosive force?And why would a man like Zweig, wounded by a pitiless tyrant, choose the dangers of pity for his theme?
The novel tells the story of a young Austrian lieutenant, Anton Hoffmiller, who, invited to the home of the great landowner Kekesfalva, performs the gentlemanly gesture of asking his host's daughter to dance. When she bursts into tears, he realizes that the young lady's legs are paralyzed. Humiliated, he immediately flees from the house, but sends her a dozen roses the next day. So begins a series of visits—motivated primarily by pity—which lead to disaster, not only for Lieutenant Hoffmiller, but for the Kekesfalva family too.
Zweig's reputation rests primarily on his novellas--”Letter from an Unknown Woman” and “The Royal Game” are masterpieces of the form—and some critics have faulted this, his only novel, as a novella padded to novel length by the addition of a few irrelevant stories. I disagree. Each of these subordinate narratives—about the landowner's fortune, the physician's marriage, the courtship of the officer turned waiter--presents a glimpse into the dynamics of male/female relationships, and how—for good or for ill—such relationships may be altered by pity. The novel would be poorer without these stories: like mirrors, they flash moonlight upon the surface of events, illuminating poor Hoffmiller's dilemma.
The tale is compelling, and there were even a few moments (two moments, to be precise) that had me gasping (small gasps, but real gasps), my hand raised to my mouth. The general course of the narrative may be tragically predictable, but there are plenty of little surprises--and pleasures--to be encountered along the way.
And of course, there is the moonlight which suffuses all: that seductive, antique Austrian atmosphere, which pities little and yet forgives everything.
November 5, 2025
Truth in advertising: the title tells us exactly what this book is about. It’s set in Austria in peacetime in 1914 in the time leading up to WW I. A young cavalry officer is invited to a party at the home of the most wealthy family in the town he is stationed in. He sees his host’s daughter sitting with women, her legs covered by a blanket. Unaware that her disfigured legs are useless, he asks her to dance (he’s 25; she’s about 18). Everything goes downhill from there.
The young woman falls in love with the officer. Her elderly father essentially begs him to marry her with the incentive of inheriting his money. The officer is also egged on by the doctor of the young woman. Years ago, the doctor married a blind woman, essentially out of pity at not being able to “cure” her, and that worked out fine.
Part of the value of this book is seeing the sea change in attitudes toward people with physical challenges. As hard as it us for us to believe, it’s a shock to the officer to finally realize (my words) “What! A ‘pathetic cripple’ and a ‘hapless invalid’ like her [he thinks of her using those words] can have human feelings like falling in love? Who would have thought?”
Even more shocking is how the young woman absorbs those attitudes and values. She writes to the officer in a letter: “A lame creature, a cripple like myself, has no right to love. How should I, broken, shattered being that I am, be anything but a burden to you, when to myself I am an object of disgust, of loathing. A creature such as I, I know, has no right to love, and certainly no right to be loved.”
The officer comes to realize that “…pity, like morphia, is a solace to the invalid, a remedy, a drug, but unless you know the correct dosage and when to stop, it becomes a virulent poison.”
“…my astonishment at the thought that I, a commonplace, unsophisticated young officer, should really have the power to make someone else so happy knew no bounds.” “It is never until one realizes that one means something to others that one feels there is any point or purpose in one’s own existence.”
As their relationship progresses, the officer becomes what we would call today, ‘manic depressive.’ Within a couple of pages we read of his highs and lows: “On that evening I was God. I had created the world and lo! It was full of goodness and justice. I had created a human being, her forehead gleamed like the morning and a rainbow of happiness was mirrored in her eyes.” A few pages later: “I was no longer God, but a puny, pitiable human being, whose blackguardly weakness did nothing but harm, whose pity wrought nothing but havoc and misery.”
The paperback edition I read gives away the ending on the back cover, so I’ll give it here but hide it in a spoiler (it’s not pretty):
The book is by Stefan Zweig, so we get great writing. It’s translated from the German. There are breaks in the writing but no chapters. At 350 pages, it’s Zweig’s longest novel, written in 1938 in his London exile before he moved to Brazil. Very much a psychological novel, it’s a good read.
Here are links to reviews of other books I’ve read by Stefan Zweig:
Chess Story
The Burning Secret
The Post-Office Girl
Journey Into the Past
Top image of Austrian cavalry officers in WW I from http://m.cdn.blog.hu/na/nagyhaboru/im...
Photo of the author from alteruemliches.at
The young woman falls in love with the officer. Her elderly father essentially begs him to marry her with the incentive of inheriting his money. The officer is also egged on by the doctor of the young woman. Years ago, the doctor married a blind woman, essentially out of pity at not being able to “cure” her, and that worked out fine.
Part of the value of this book is seeing the sea change in attitudes toward people with physical challenges. As hard as it us for us to believe, it’s a shock to the officer to finally realize (my words) “What! A ‘pathetic cripple’ and a ‘hapless invalid’ like her [he thinks of her using those words] can have human feelings like falling in love? Who would have thought?”
Even more shocking is how the young woman absorbs those attitudes and values. She writes to the officer in a letter: “A lame creature, a cripple like myself, has no right to love. How should I, broken, shattered being that I am, be anything but a burden to you, when to myself I am an object of disgust, of loathing. A creature such as I, I know, has no right to love, and certainly no right to be loved.”
The officer comes to realize that “…pity, like morphia, is a solace to the invalid, a remedy, a drug, but unless you know the correct dosage and when to stop, it becomes a virulent poison.”
“…my astonishment at the thought that I, a commonplace, unsophisticated young officer, should really have the power to make someone else so happy knew no bounds.” “It is never until one realizes that one means something to others that one feels there is any point or purpose in one’s own existence.”
As their relationship progresses, the officer becomes what we would call today, ‘manic depressive.’ Within a couple of pages we read of his highs and lows: “On that evening I was God. I had created the world and lo! It was full of goodness and justice. I had created a human being, her forehead gleamed like the morning and a rainbow of happiness was mirrored in her eyes.” A few pages later: “I was no longer God, but a puny, pitiable human being, whose blackguardly weakness did nothing but harm, whose pity wrought nothing but havoc and misery.”
The paperback edition I read gives away the ending on the back cover, so I’ll give it here but hide it in a spoiler (it’s not pretty):
The book is by Stefan Zweig, so we get great writing. It’s translated from the German. There are breaks in the writing but no chapters. At 350 pages, it’s Zweig’s longest novel, written in 1938 in his London exile before he moved to Brazil. Very much a psychological novel, it’s a good read.
Here are links to reviews of other books I’ve read by Stefan Zweig:
Chess Story
The Burning Secret
The Post-Office Girl
Journey Into the Past
Top image of Austrian cavalry officers in WW I from http://m.cdn.blog.hu/na/nagyhaboru/im...
Photo of the author from alteruemliches.at
September 8, 2021
بعد مرور أكثر من شهر :
ما الشيء الذّي يجعلني أشعر برجفة خفيفة كلّما رأيت أو لاح لي إسم هذه الرواية ؟ أو لماذا هذا الشعور ؟ أو لنكن أكثر دقّة، لماذا هذا الشعور بالذّات ؟
لازالت هناك صورة عالقة بذهني .. صورة رجل يجري في زقاق مظلم، ويتصبّب العرق منه، قد يظنّ البعض أنّ هذا العرق ناتج عن المجهود البدني المتمثّل في الجري، ولكن الأمر غير صحيح، أو لنقل أنّه صحيح من زاوية ما .. فالعرق هنا نتاج مجهود ذهني خارق مضاف إليه المجهود البدني .. رجل يجري و يفكّر ويعصر ذهنه عصرا.. إنّها الحرب.. إنّه الموت.. الموت.. الموت.. إنّه الحب .
هذه الصورة بعيدة كلّ البعد عن أحداث الرواية، لكن أنا من أخترتها لتكون نهاية لأحداث الرواية . ومن قرأ الرواية سيعرف أنّ النهاية ستحطمك .. لهذا قد تكون صورة هذا الرجل هي تمهيد لأحداث ما بعد النهاية، أو صورة للقارئ المجهد المصدوم .
أثناء القراءة :
توقفت .. وتأمّلت العنوان قليلا .. " حذار من الشفقة " .. إنّه يحذرنا من الشفقة ؟ كيف؟ وهل الشفقة خلق ذميم حتى نحذّر منها؟ ومتى كانت الشفقة مصدرا للتحذير؟
طبعا لحد الآن و أنا أقرأ سطور هذه الرواية - الأحداث لازالت ميتة إن صحّ هذا التعبير - لا يوجد أو لم أجد أو لأنّني أحب الدقة لم أكتشف سرّ هذا العنوان .. العنوان الجذّاب جدا .. وخاصة لمن يحبّ التأمل في العناوين .
بعد مرور عدّة أيام عن قراءة الرواية :
هذا عمل عبقري !!! نعم .. نعم .. هذا رأيي والذي احترمه طبعا .. هههه .. و أنا لا أريد أن أحاجج من لم يعجبه العمل .. فأنا لست ستفان زفايج !! .. وأنا لا أريد أن أضع أسبابا معينة لتصنيفه ضمن قائمة الأعمال العبقرية، ولكن فكرة الصراع بين قيمتين أخلاقيتين محمودتين الحبّ/ الشفقة عبقرية بكلّ ما تحمل هذه الكلمة من معنى .
مباشرة بعد الإنتهاء من القراءة :
لماذا هذه النهاية ؟
طبعا هناك شعور بالإضطراب يعرفه جميع القراء بدون إستثناء، لا ادري إن كانت " اضطراب " هي الكلمة التوصيفية المناسبة .. ولكن سأعوّل على ذكاء القارئ في فهمها، أو في إسترجاع ذلك الإحساس . ذلك الإحساس الذي يتولّد عند الإنتهاء من قراءة عمل عبقري .. وطبعا كل منّا صادف عملا روائيا اعتبره عبقريا بكل ما تحمل الكلمة من معنى .. و بالتّالي خبر هذا الشعور .. الشعور المزيج بين أمنية .. لماذا لم يكتب الكاتب صفحات أخرى و مرجع هذا الشعور الرّغبة في عدم إنهاء هذا العمل وبين الإحساس الناتج الذي ولّده الفضول لمعرفة النهاية والإلحاح الشّديد المستمر الذي صاحبنا أثناء القراءة لمعرفة نهاية هذه الملحمة .
قبل بداية قراءة هذه الرواية :
اتمنى أن يكون هذا الإختيار جميلا، وألاّ أضيع وقتي لأنّ القائمة طويلة جدا والوقت قصير جدا .
الآن :
أنا مشوش قليلا لهذا جاءت المراجعة مشوشة كثيرا، هناك الكثير من الأشياء في ذهني ولكن ما إن أريد إخراجها حتى تتبعثر و تصطدم بالواقع .. فتتناثر الإحساسات وتغيب التعبيرات المناسبة .
ما الشيء الذّي يجعلني أشعر برجفة خفيفة كلّما رأيت أو لاح لي إسم هذه الرواية ؟ أو لماذا هذا الشعور ؟ أو لنكن أكثر دقّة، لماذا هذا الشعور بالذّات ؟
لازالت هناك صورة عالقة بذهني .. صورة رجل يجري في زقاق مظلم، ويتصبّب العرق منه، قد يظنّ البعض أنّ هذا العرق ناتج عن المجهود البدني المتمثّل في الجري، ولكن الأمر غير صحيح، أو لنقل أنّه صحيح من زاوية ما .. فالعرق هنا نتاج مجهود ذهني خارق مضاف إليه المجهود البدني .. رجل يجري و يفكّر ويعصر ذهنه عصرا.. إنّها الحرب.. إنّه الموت.. الموت.. الموت.. إنّه الحب .
هذه الصورة بعيدة كلّ البعد عن أحداث الرواية، لكن أنا من أخترتها لتكون نهاية لأحداث الرواية . ومن قرأ الرواية سيعرف أنّ النهاية ستحطمك .. لهذا قد تكون صورة هذا الرجل هي تمهيد لأحداث ما بعد النهاية، أو صورة للقارئ المجهد المصدوم .
أثناء القراءة :
توقفت .. وتأمّلت العنوان قليلا .. " حذار من الشفقة " .. إنّه يحذرنا من الشفقة ؟ كيف؟ وهل الشفقة خلق ذميم حتى نحذّر منها؟ ومتى كانت الشفقة مصدرا للتحذير؟
طبعا لحد الآن و أنا أقرأ سطور هذه الرواية - الأحداث لازالت ميتة إن صحّ هذا التعبير - لا يوجد أو لم أجد أو لأنّني أحب الدقة لم أكتشف سرّ هذا العنوان .. العنوان الجذّاب جدا .. وخاصة لمن يحبّ التأمل في العناوين .
بعد مرور عدّة أيام عن قراءة الرواية :
هذا عمل عبقري !!! نعم .. نعم .. هذا رأيي والذي احترمه طبعا .. هههه .. و أنا لا أريد أن أحاجج من لم يعجبه العمل .. فأنا لست ستفان زفايج !! .. وأنا لا أريد أن أضع أسبابا معينة لتصنيفه ضمن قائمة الأعمال العبقرية، ولكن فكرة الصراع بين قيمتين أخلاقيتين محمودتين الحبّ/ الشفقة عبقرية بكلّ ما تحمل هذه الكلمة من معنى .
مباشرة بعد الإنتهاء من القراءة :
لماذا هذه النهاية ؟
طبعا هناك شعور بالإضطراب يعرفه جميع القراء بدون إستثناء، لا ادري إن كانت " اضطراب " هي الكلمة التوصيفية المناسبة .. ولكن سأعوّل على ذكاء القارئ في فهمها، أو في إسترجاع ذلك الإحساس . ذلك الإحساس الذي يتولّد عند الإنتهاء من قراءة عمل عبقري .. وطبعا كل منّا صادف عملا روائيا اعتبره عبقريا بكل ما تحمل الكلمة من معنى .. و بالتّالي خبر هذا الشعور .. الشعور المزيج بين أمنية .. لماذا لم يكتب الكاتب صفحات أخرى و مرجع هذا الشعور الرّغبة في عدم إنهاء هذا العمل وبين الإحساس الناتج الذي ولّده الفضول لمعرفة النهاية والإلحاح الشّديد المستمر الذي صاحبنا أثناء القراءة لمعرفة نهاية هذه الملحمة .
قبل بداية قراءة هذه الرواية :
اتمنى أن يكون هذا الإختيار جميلا، وألاّ أضيع وقتي لأنّ القائمة طويلة جدا والوقت قصير جدا .
الآن :
أنا مشوش قليلا لهذا جاءت المراجعة مشوشة كثيرا، هناك الكثير من الأشياء في ذهني ولكن ما إن أريد إخراجها حتى تتبعثر و تصطدم بالواقع .. فتتناثر الإحساسات وتغيب التعبيرات المناسبة .
September 22, 2025
حذار من الشفقة..تاني رواية طويلة أقرأها لزفايغ بعد روايته الرائعة ماري أنطوانيت..
قصة الرواية بتدور حول فتاة كسيحة أحبت رجلاً بكل جوراحها وهو لم يستطع أن يبادلها نفس الشعور ولكن في نفس الوقت كان يحاول أن يكون بجانبها ليدخل السعادة إلي قلبها وطبعا ليس حباً فيها ولكن شفقة عليها!
إستطاع زفايغ إنه يوصف مشاعر الرجل والفتاة بطريقة عبقرية ..قدر ببراعة يوضح الفرق الكبير بين الحب والشفقة و إن إزاي ساعات بنكون من الضعف و لا نستطيع أن نواجه الواقع لدرجة إن ممكن ندوس علي نفسنا 'بس'عشان نرضي الآخرين..و دة في الآخر بينعكس علي جميع الأطراف بطريقة كارثية...
يُقال إن حذار من الشفقة تُعتبر من أجمل ما كتب ستيفان زفايغ �� الصراحة بعد قراءة ٨ كتب لهذا الكاتب المبدع أقدر أقول إني لا أتفق مع هذا الرأي..
يعيب الرواية إن كان فيها تطويل بزيادة وكان ممكن إختصارها كتير و لأول مرة أحس ببعض الملل و أنا بقرأ لزفايغ بجانب إني لم أتعاطف أوي مع شخصيات الرواية..
ما يميز زفايغ عموماً إنه بيغوص في أعماق النفس البشرية وبيوصف مشاعر كتير في عدد قليل من الصفحات اللي غيره ممكن يوصفها في ٦٠٠ صفحة...لكن عبقرية زفايغ-زي ما بنقول كدة-إنه بيعرف يجيب من الأخر ودة اللي محسيتش إنه حصل في الكتاب هنا...
ولكن علي الرغم من كدة إلا إنها رواية جميلة..ممتعة جداً ..الترجمة كمان كانت رائعة..وأكيد يعني ينصح بها:)
قصة الرواية بتدور حول فتاة كسيحة أحبت رجلاً بكل جوراحها وهو لم يستطع أن يبادلها نفس الشعور ولكن في نفس الوقت كان يحاول أن يكون بجانبها ليدخل السعادة إلي قلبها وطبعا ليس حباً فيها ولكن شفقة عليها!
إستطاع زفايغ إنه يوصف مشاعر الرجل والفتاة بطريقة عبقرية ..قدر ببراعة يوضح الفرق الكبير بين الحب والشفقة و إن إزاي ساعات بنكون من الضعف و لا نستطيع أن نواجه الواقع لدرجة إن ممكن ندوس علي نفسنا 'بس'عشان نرضي الآخرين..و دة في الآخر بينعكس علي جميع الأطراف بطريقة كارثية...
يُقال إن حذار من الشفقة تُعتبر من أجمل ما كتب ستيفان زفايغ �� الصراحة بعد قراءة ٨ كتب لهذا الكاتب المبدع أقدر أقول إني لا أتفق مع هذا الرأي..
يعيب الرواية إن كان فيها تطويل بزيادة وكان ممكن إختصارها كتير و لأول مرة أحس ببعض الملل و أنا بقرأ لزفايغ بجانب إني لم أتعاطف أوي مع شخصيات الرواية..
ما يميز زفايغ عموماً إنه بيغوص في أعماق النفس البشرية وبيوصف مشاعر كتير في عدد قليل من الصفحات اللي غيره ممكن يوصفها في ٦٠٠ صفحة...لكن عبقرية زفايغ-زي ما بنقول كدة-إنه بيعرف يجيب من الأخر ودة اللي محسيتش إنه حصل في الكتاب هنا...
ولكن علي الرغم من كدة إلا إنها رواية جميلة..ممتعة جداً ..الترجمة كمان كانت رائعة..وأكيد يعني ينصح بها:)
October 30, 2019
Zweig is a master of the novella, and his mastery shows in BEWARE OF PITY, which unfortunately is a novel.
Were this 130 pages long, it would have been salvageable (not CHESS STORY level, but what is?), but the excitement of the Zweigian opening (an author, a stranger, a story within-a-story) began to diminish when it became clear that this wasn't a novel with multiple parts. Here is the spoiler-free plot, in full: a poor cavalry officer sees a beautiful woman in town, finagles an invitation to a dinner party she'll be attending at the richest mansion in the area, asks the daughter of the house to dance, is confused when she screams in horror, finds out she is paralyzed, keeps going back to the house because he feels bad for her while conveniently ignoring about 3 salient plot-points for which Zwieg maddeningly delays the reveal; is begged on all sides to continue to be nice to her while he is trapped in an escalating series of lies; completely ignores his initial infatuation with the beautiful woman, the girl's cousin (written off in a parenthetical about this long); keeps sneaking away in shame only to be convinced to return by various people about town; hears versions of the expression "beware of pity" approx. 100 times. It's a bit like a filler Curb Your Enthusiasm episode, now that I see it written out.
Zweig's central question is: do the disabled deserve love? This reminds me a bit of The Captive in Proust, which is another melodrama that revolves around an author's misconception of the world, but here the misconception is, yes, offensive, and Zweig isn't a good enough writer to find his way out of it. This is decidedly NOT a love story. Every time the protagonist cringes in horror at the sound of tapping crutches or the sight of the girl being wheeled around, we cringe too: for Zweig. I have seen this character defended as an aspect of the time in other reviews, but we turn to writers to be ahead of their time in one thing and one thing only: psychological insight.
The best parts of B.O.P. are the stories within it - the origin of the girl's father; a traveling sequence that is great until a "gypsy prophecy" sets in; that stunning opening. It has a preoccupation with suicide that is, of course, upsetting in retrospect. And I never put it down, because as with all Zweig, the world is pleasing to be in. But the false promise of the opening is never answered (this is a novel about a war hero that will never show us war), and it's all something of a trudge.
2.51, and I only rounded up for an excellent 5 page essay in the last third about what it's like when someone has a crush on you. Tempted to knock it down for the stranger on the subway who praised the "gripping action" and "brilliant characters" for 5 straight stops when he saw what I was reading even though my headphones were in, but I suppose we'll leave him out of it.
Were this 130 pages long, it would have been salvageable (not CHESS STORY level, but what is?), but the excitement of the Zweigian opening (an author, a stranger, a story within-a-story) began to diminish when it became clear that this wasn't a novel with multiple parts. Here is the spoiler-free plot, in full: a poor cavalry officer sees a beautiful woman in town, finagles an invitation to a dinner party she'll be attending at the richest mansion in the area, asks the daughter of the house to dance, is confused when she screams in horror, finds out she is paralyzed, keeps going back to the house because he feels bad for her while conveniently ignoring about 3 salient plot-points for which Zwieg maddeningly delays the reveal; is begged on all sides to continue to be nice to her while he is trapped in an escalating series of lies; completely ignores his initial infatuation with the beautiful woman, the girl's cousin (written off in a parenthetical about this long); keeps sneaking away in shame only to be convinced to return by various people about town; hears versions of the expression "beware of pity" approx. 100 times. It's a bit like a filler Curb Your Enthusiasm episode, now that I see it written out.
Zweig's central question is: do the disabled deserve love? This reminds me a bit of The Captive in Proust, which is another melodrama that revolves around an author's misconception of the world, but here the misconception is, yes, offensive, and Zweig isn't a good enough writer to find his way out of it. This is decidedly NOT a love story. Every time the protagonist cringes in horror at the sound of tapping crutches or the sight of the girl being wheeled around, we cringe too: for Zweig. I have seen this character defended as an aspect of the time in other reviews, but we turn to writers to be ahead of their time in one thing and one thing only: psychological insight.
The best parts of B.O.P. are the stories within it - the origin of the girl's father; a traveling sequence that is great until a "gypsy prophecy" sets in; that stunning opening. It has a preoccupation with suicide that is, of course, upsetting in retrospect. And I never put it down, because as with all Zweig, the world is pleasing to be in. But the false promise of the opening is never answered (this is a novel about a war hero that will never show us war), and it's all something of a trudge.
2.51, and I only rounded up for an excellent 5 page essay in the last third about what it's like when someone has a crush on you. Tempted to knock it down for the stranger on the subway who praised the "gripping action" and "brilliant characters" for 5 straight stops when he saw what I was reading even though my headphones were in, but I suppose we'll leave him out of it.
December 31, 2018
Beware of Pity, Zweig's one and only novel, was a book that had eluded me for quite some time, but learning of a new translation by Oxford Academic Dr Jonathan Katz (who has worked on writings by Goethe and Joseph Roth), I followed through and got hold of a copy whilst on a trip back to my home City of Bath, and as things would have it, I also learned Zweig actually stayed in Bath for a time after fleeing mainland Europe during the war. Reading 'Impatience of the Heart' was well worth the wait, I would put it up there with one of the best novels I have ever read, It captivated me from first page to the last, with moments that had me wanting to look the other way, through it's depiction of pity.
This is a story of painful and almost unbearable disillusionment swept along with a saddening nostalgia, composed by Zweig over a period of years and completed by 1938, in which a young Austrian cavalry officer, Hofmiller, befriends a local millionaire, Kekesfalva, and his family, but in particular the old man's crippled daughter, Edith (a character I will simply never forget) and the terrible consequences that follow a moment of sheer horror for the officer at a dance, thus a chain of events are triggered that Hofmiller due to his weak minded pity can not escape from. I don't want to link Zweig with Hitchcock, but there were moments of utter tension that had me peeping through my fingers in trepidation at what might or might not happen. There is also an interior psychological precision that shows just how sharply Zweig could pay attention to his characters inner workings, and this he pulls off as good as anything else I have come across, here is a man 'Hofmiller the hero', on whom everything is lost, in more than one sense of the phrase.
When first introduced to a decorated Hofmiller many years later in a cafe he spills his history to a novelist (the framing narrator) whom we may as well assume to be Zweig himself, he treats his decoration, the greatest military order Austria can bestow, with disdain bordering on contempt, and only speaks to the narrator when they meet accidentally at a dinner party later on. After this point, we should realise that the message of the book is not only the ostensible one, that pity is an emotion that can cause great ruin, but also that we must not judge things by appearances. Hofmiller, in his case, what others might regard as courage is actually the result of a monumental act of cowardice which will burden his soul for eternity.
Others have viewed this work as actually two novellas of unequal length stitched together, there is an entire back story as to how Kekesfalva obtained his wealth, but this only adds depth, it doesn't read as though it could benefit from any trimming, and something I did notice was the fact this contained no chapters, or breaks in writing, keeping a continually flowing narrative. From front to back it's a novel, pure and simple. It's length for some may be an issue. Me, I would have gladly read another 200 pages of this, and this coming from someone who is normally put off reading huge novels.
Kekesfalva, along with daughters Ilona and Edith played such a despairing role in the narrative, I spend the whole time just praying their outcome would be a good one, I felt everything they were going through, down to the finest details. Crippled Edith, I can't think of any other literary character that has had such an impact on me, my own pity for her was tenfold. Albeit in a complex and ambiguous fashion, when Hofmiller discovers, to his horror, that Edith has sexual desires for him, his existence spirals into chaos, in fact, if it didn't sound so off-putting, "Disillusionment" could be a perfectly plausible title for the novel (to go with Zweig's other one-word titles for some of his novellas: "Amok", "Confusion" or "Angst"). Beware of Pity has passages of high melodrama that had an immense power to make me put a hand over my gasping mouth, something that I can't think I have ever done before whilst reading a novel. A masterpiece.
This is a story of painful and almost unbearable disillusionment swept along with a saddening nostalgia, composed by Zweig over a period of years and completed by 1938, in which a young Austrian cavalry officer, Hofmiller, befriends a local millionaire, Kekesfalva, and his family, but in particular the old man's crippled daughter, Edith (a character I will simply never forget) and the terrible consequences that follow a moment of sheer horror for the officer at a dance, thus a chain of events are triggered that Hofmiller due to his weak minded pity can not escape from. I don't want to link Zweig with Hitchcock, but there were moments of utter tension that had me peeping through my fingers in trepidation at what might or might not happen. There is also an interior psychological precision that shows just how sharply Zweig could pay attention to his characters inner workings, and this he pulls off as good as anything else I have come across, here is a man 'Hofmiller the hero', on whom everything is lost, in more than one sense of the phrase.
When first introduced to a decorated Hofmiller many years later in a cafe he spills his history to a novelist (the framing narrator) whom we may as well assume to be Zweig himself, he treats his decoration, the greatest military order Austria can bestow, with disdain bordering on contempt, and only speaks to the narrator when they meet accidentally at a dinner party later on. After this point, we should realise that the message of the book is not only the ostensible one, that pity is an emotion that can cause great ruin, but also that we must not judge things by appearances. Hofmiller, in his case, what others might regard as courage is actually the result of a monumental act of cowardice which will burden his soul for eternity.
Others have viewed this work as actually two novellas of unequal length stitched together, there is an entire back story as to how Kekesfalva obtained his wealth, but this only adds depth, it doesn't read as though it could benefit from any trimming, and something I did notice was the fact this contained no chapters, or breaks in writing, keeping a continually flowing narrative. From front to back it's a novel, pure and simple. It's length for some may be an issue. Me, I would have gladly read another 200 pages of this, and this coming from someone who is normally put off reading huge novels.
Kekesfalva, along with daughters Ilona and Edith played such a despairing role in the narrative, I spend the whole time just praying their outcome would be a good one, I felt everything they were going through, down to the finest details. Crippled Edith, I can't think of any other literary character that has had such an impact on me, my own pity for her was tenfold. Albeit in a complex and ambiguous fashion, when Hofmiller discovers, to his horror, that Edith has sexual desires for him, his existence spirals into chaos, in fact, if it didn't sound so off-putting, "Disillusionment" could be a perfectly plausible title for the novel (to go with Zweig's other one-word titles for some of his novellas: "Amok", "Confusion" or "Angst"). Beware of Pity has passages of high melodrama that had an immense power to make me put a hand over my gasping mouth, something that I can't think I have ever done before whilst reading a novel. A masterpiece.
September 28, 2011
Disclaimer: Despite whatever I say in the following review, and no matter how much I mock Beware of Pity, I did actually enjoy it. To a limited extent.
Stefan Zweig is an enormous drama queen. Every emotion in his novel Beware of Pity is hyperbolic, neon-lit, hammy. His narrator doesn't feel anything as prosaic as mere mere joy. No way. He's more apt to be 'blithe as a twittering bird.' People aren't only surprised; their faces turn white as a specter, their legs threaten to give way, and their whole being roils with inner turbulence. And these reactions aren't even for big surprises—like, I don't know, World War I—but rather for banal things like the mail being late and the improper buttoning of one's dinner jacket. (I'm slightly exaggerating. But only very slightly.)
This book was written in the 1930s. If you didn't know that, however, you'd be just as likely to think it was written in the 1830s. Stylistically speaking, Zweig completely missed the memo on literary modernism. It's as if it never happened. He embraces the hopelessly stodgy language [at this in translated form] and hyperdescription of the (worst of the) 19th century. There is no emotion or thought or physical appearance which manifests an emotion or thought that he will not describe into the fucking ground. He bombards you with loooong paragraphs seeking to explain the most obvious and commonplace emotional responses to you (again, in hyperbolic form) as if you are a cyborg who is newly assimilating human experience. In other words, Zweig thinks you're a moron. He doesn't trust you to know what embarrassment, hand-holding, intoxication, guilt, or hearing strange noises feels like. But he'll try his damndest to explain 'em all to ya, ya inexperienced rube. Have you been living in your bubble boy bubble all these years? Zweig's got your ass covered.
If you trimmed all the fat, this novel probably would have been one hundred pages instead of 350. And that's a conservative estimate of the editorial purges required. But the story at the center of all this prissy, rococo language is... yes, interesting. The narrator recounts (at length) how as a twenty-five-year-old lieutenant in the Austro-Hungarian Imperial Army, he met this young crippled woman and accidentally asked her to dance at a party. Oops! (Can you imagine the descriptions of his profound embarrassment? He actually FLEES the party. Total elbows and ass goin' on here.) This minor incident sets off a chain of melodramatic events in which his pity for the absurd little cripple ruins him. His pity takes over his whole life. He actually makes a career of it. He just spends all his time kissing the ass of this incredibly bitchy crippled girl.
The melodrama is—I can't lie—occasionally nauseating. You just want to smack the living shit out of the narrator, the cripple, and everyone else because they're all so emotionally volatile all the time. They're either sweating and shaking or glowing with joy like a nuclear holocaust or trying to kill themselves. (Interesting side note: Zweig and his wife killed themselves together while living in South America just a few years after this novel was published.)
The single most galling thing about this whole novel—and there are quite a few things to be galled about—is that four pages before the end, the narrator has the audacity to say: 'Melodramatic phrases revolt me.'
Hahahahahahahahahaha! <--That's the laughter which accompanies madness, by the way.
Stefan Zweig is an enormous drama queen. Every emotion in his novel Beware of Pity is hyperbolic, neon-lit, hammy. His narrator doesn't feel anything as prosaic as mere mere joy. No way. He's more apt to be 'blithe as a twittering bird.' People aren't only surprised; their faces turn white as a specter, their legs threaten to give way, and their whole being roils with inner turbulence. And these reactions aren't even for big surprises—like, I don't know, World War I—but rather for banal things like the mail being late and the improper buttoning of one's dinner jacket. (I'm slightly exaggerating. But only very slightly.)
This book was written in the 1930s. If you didn't know that, however, you'd be just as likely to think it was written in the 1830s. Stylistically speaking, Zweig completely missed the memo on literary modernism. It's as if it never happened. He embraces the hopelessly stodgy language [at this in translated form] and hyperdescription of the (worst of the) 19th century. There is no emotion or thought or physical appearance which manifests an emotion or thought that he will not describe into the fucking ground. He bombards you with loooong paragraphs seeking to explain the most obvious and commonplace emotional responses to you (again, in hyperbolic form) as if you are a cyborg who is newly assimilating human experience. In other words, Zweig thinks you're a moron. He doesn't trust you to know what embarrassment, hand-holding, intoxication, guilt, or hearing strange noises feels like. But he'll try his damndest to explain 'em all to ya, ya inexperienced rube. Have you been living in your bubble boy bubble all these years? Zweig's got your ass covered.
If you trimmed all the fat, this novel probably would have been one hundred pages instead of 350. And that's a conservative estimate of the editorial purges required. But the story at the center of all this prissy, rococo language is... yes, interesting. The narrator recounts (at length) how as a twenty-five-year-old lieutenant in the Austro-Hungarian Imperial Army, he met this young crippled woman and accidentally asked her to dance at a party. Oops! (Can you imagine the descriptions of his profound embarrassment? He actually FLEES the party. Total elbows and ass goin' on here.) This minor incident sets off a chain of melodramatic events in which his pity for the absurd little cripple ruins him. His pity takes over his whole life. He actually makes a career of it. He just spends all his time kissing the ass of this incredibly bitchy crippled girl.
The melodrama is—I can't lie—occasionally nauseating. You just want to smack the living shit out of the narrator, the cripple, and everyone else because they're all so emotionally volatile all the time. They're either sweating and shaking or glowing with joy like a nuclear holocaust or trying to kill themselves. (Interesting side note: Zweig and his wife killed themselves together while living in South America just a few years after this novel was published.)
The single most galling thing about this whole novel—and there are quite a few things to be galled about—is that four pages before the end, the narrator has the audacity to say: 'Melodramatic phrases revolt me.'
Hahahahahahahahahaha! <--That's the laughter which accompanies madness, by the way.
October 22, 2017
Pity. It had never dawned upon me what a double-edged feeling pity is. Neither had I dwelled for long on the ramifying consequences of actions triggered by that feeling. Compassion, generosity and benignity are considered virtues promoted by years of religious heritage and have therefore been imprinted on mankind’s consciousness from the beginning of times, but the mental processes and the tapestry of neuronal connections that generate good deeds are as inscrutable as the mosaic of celestial bodies that spray-paint the canvas of galaxies, which in turn might be invisible to fallible human eyesight but as real as the sunbeams that warm both the blind and clairvoyant countenances staring back at them.
“Only those with whom life had dealt hardly, the wretched, the slighted, the uncertain, the unlovely, the humiliated, could really be helped by love.” (348)
Zweig provokes the reader and makes him ponder.
Doesn’t pity entail a touch of vain condescension disguised as unselfishness?
Isn’t there some addictive self-indulgence irretrievably intertwined with the instinctive wish to please others in order to prove our worthiness to ourselves?
Human minds work in bewildering ways and Zweig combines the sharp scalpel of his precise words with the sumptuousness of his transfixing prose to probe strenuously into the nooks and crannies of the psyche of his Freudian protagonists, unfolding the serpentine passages that give shape to the sentiment of pity.
Like the dexterous magician who masters his tricks, Zweig uses the first person narrative impersonating an impressionable Lieutenant during the convoluted months previous to World War I to unravel a chain of intricate relationships that will invite the reader to contemplate the fragile boundary that separates charitableness from weakness of character.
Lieutenant Anton Hofmiller finds himself entangled in a compromising situation after asking Edith Kekesfalva, the daughter of a distinguished nobleman and sole heir of his vast property, for a dance without realizing the girl is paralyzed from waist down. Plagued by guilt and moved by a disciplined sense of honor typical of the military, Anton obliges himself to visit the girl evening after evening and basking in his own righteousness to play good Samaritan he obviates the blossoming truth of a capricious and over pampered woman falling in unhinged love for the first time.
Doctor Condor is known for treating all the “incurable” cases in Vienna with almost obstinate perseverance. After meeting pliant Hofmiller at the Kekesfalva’s, he discloses the decisive role that a combination of self-reproach and decency had on the widowed Mr. Kekesfalva into marrying Edith’s mother and the ensuing consequences of such an unpredictable union as an example of the power of goodwill to the gullible lieutenant.
Mr. Kekesfalva’s veneration of Dr. Condor, whose godlike skills are expected to perform a scientific miracle to save Edith from her underserved impairment, is boundless. Inspired by the honorable conduct of the doctor when he married one of his blind patients after failing to fulfill his promise to heal her, Mr. Kekesfalva embraces the young officer his daughter dotes on, hoping for another unlikely miracle to happen.
Credulous Hofmiller absorbs the conflicting emotions arising in him, allowing to be whirled around by the currents of gratification that flow from self-pity and remorse. Trying to edge his way around these feelings, he can’t avoid being caught up in a definite, concerted and yet seemingly aimless conspiracy run by fate. But history has a humbling lesson to teach him when collective atrocity strikes with WWI and petty individual turmoil is implacably buried under the weight of mass killing and cosmic destruction, making Hofmiller aware of his own insignificance and erasing all notions of grandiosity and masked integrity.
How much can be inferred from Hofmiller’s lack of resolution to face his failures in relation to Zweig’s despairing surrender over the overpowering sadness that took hold of him after being banished from his home, robbed of his golden memories and even estranged from his own identity?
Behind the gloss of Zweig’s flawless writing, there is the deafening roaring of a mourning waterfall that soaks the reader and yet somehow leaves him dry as a bone. A dense silence of parching deluge preys upon the reader with torrential questions and a drought of answers.
Pity or vanity? Need for validation or hedonistic egocentrism? Honest sympathy or hollow pretence?
You can enter the revolving door of Zweig’s mind and run the risk of finding your own answer, but you’d better be ready to face the turned mirror of conscience and swallow the bitter fear of being found out. It's all so very simple in the end, you only need to brace yourself, take a deep breath and Beware of Pity.
“Only those with whom life had dealt hardly, the wretched, the slighted, the uncertain, the unlovely, the humiliated, could really be helped by love.” (348)
Zweig provokes the reader and makes him ponder.
Doesn’t pity entail a touch of vain condescension disguised as unselfishness?
Isn’t there some addictive self-indulgence irretrievably intertwined with the instinctive wish to please others in order to prove our worthiness to ourselves?
Human minds work in bewildering ways and Zweig combines the sharp scalpel of his precise words with the sumptuousness of his transfixing prose to probe strenuously into the nooks and crannies of the psyche of his Freudian protagonists, unfolding the serpentine passages that give shape to the sentiment of pity.
Like the dexterous magician who masters his tricks, Zweig uses the first person narrative impersonating an impressionable Lieutenant during the convoluted months previous to World War I to unravel a chain of intricate relationships that will invite the reader to contemplate the fragile boundary that separates charitableness from weakness of character.
Lieutenant Anton Hofmiller finds himself entangled in a compromising situation after asking Edith Kekesfalva, the daughter of a distinguished nobleman and sole heir of his vast property, for a dance without realizing the girl is paralyzed from waist down. Plagued by guilt and moved by a disciplined sense of honor typical of the military, Anton obliges himself to visit the girl evening after evening and basking in his own righteousness to play good Samaritan he obviates the blossoming truth of a capricious and over pampered woman falling in unhinged love for the first time.
Doctor Condor is known for treating all the “incurable” cases in Vienna with almost obstinate perseverance. After meeting pliant Hofmiller at the Kekesfalva’s, he discloses the decisive role that a combination of self-reproach and decency had on the widowed Mr. Kekesfalva into marrying Edith’s mother and the ensuing consequences of such an unpredictable union as an example of the power of goodwill to the gullible lieutenant.
Mr. Kekesfalva’s veneration of Dr. Condor, whose godlike skills are expected to perform a scientific miracle to save Edith from her underserved impairment, is boundless. Inspired by the honorable conduct of the doctor when he married one of his blind patients after failing to fulfill his promise to heal her, Mr. Kekesfalva embraces the young officer his daughter dotes on, hoping for another unlikely miracle to happen.
Credulous Hofmiller absorbs the conflicting emotions arising in him, allowing to be whirled around by the currents of gratification that flow from self-pity and remorse. Trying to edge his way around these feelings, he can’t avoid being caught up in a definite, concerted and yet seemingly aimless conspiracy run by fate. But history has a humbling lesson to teach him when collective atrocity strikes with WWI and petty individual turmoil is implacably buried under the weight of mass killing and cosmic destruction, making Hofmiller aware of his own insignificance and erasing all notions of grandiosity and masked integrity.
How much can be inferred from Hofmiller’s lack of resolution to face his failures in relation to Zweig’s despairing surrender over the overpowering sadness that took hold of him after being banished from his home, robbed of his golden memories and even estranged from his own identity?
Behind the gloss of Zweig’s flawless writing, there is the deafening roaring of a mourning waterfall that soaks the reader and yet somehow leaves him dry as a bone. A dense silence of parching deluge preys upon the reader with torrential questions and a drought of answers.
Pity or vanity? Need for validation or hedonistic egocentrism? Honest sympathy or hollow pretence?
You can enter the revolving door of Zweig’s mind and run the risk of finding your own answer, but you’d better be ready to face the turned mirror of conscience and swallow the bitter fear of being found out. It's all so very simple in the end, you only need to brace yourself, take a deep breath and Beware of Pity.
April 11, 2026
I am not here to review this book but to free myself from its iron hold. Being touched by a story is one thing. That makes me glow. What this one does is different. It is robbing me of sleep. Not to finish it. That part was done in a well lit room and favorite armchair. What I'm talking about happens in bed. It rouses me from dreams and stirs the nightmare that Zweig put in print.
This couple - even writing that makes me wince - are doomed from their first meeting. So, were Romeo and Juliet, you say? At least they got to dance.
There is a party with music here, too. But the music that I couldn't get out of my head came from Zweig's thoughts on love. They are beautiful, painful, and true. They pound and will not take no for an answer. One look in the mirror and I see the strain. I need a good night's rest. Over to you, now. Your turn to read and live with it.
This couple - even writing that makes me wince - are doomed from their first meeting. So, were Romeo and Juliet, you say? At least they got to dance.
There is a party with music here, too. But the music that I couldn't get out of my head came from Zweig's thoughts on love. They are beautiful, painful, and true. They pound and will not take no for an answer. One look in the mirror and I see the strain. I need a good night's rest. Over to you, now. Your turn to read and live with it.
June 16, 2019
Stefan Zweig writes in a very beautiful language and describes the thoughts and feelings of the protagonist so aptly and comprehensibly. The book shows a touch of psychoanalysis, but also for the sake of the human soul and the effects of different types of compassion. In his subtle, imaginative language, the author creates his own world of unparalleled atmospheric density. His creatures, with the knowing maturity of the experienced human connoisseur and the compassion of the passionate philanthropist, enter into their basic features. His narrative style is full of tension and full of drama. For me, this book is a perfect work of art.
Overall this book should have been read by anyone interested in literature and it is definitely recommendable.
"Keine Schuld ist vergessen, solange noch das Gewissen um sie weiß." S. 456
Overall this book should have been read by anyone interested in literature and it is definitely recommendable.
"Keine Schuld ist vergessen, solange noch das Gewissen um sie weiß." S. 456
January 13, 2024
- "حذار من الشفقة" في معرض الحب فقط.. فالشفقة في الحب هي كالكره تماماً بل اشد وقعاً وفتكاً بالنفس البشرية...
- حينما يحب الإنسان (رجل كان او امرأة)، فإنه يحب بكل جوارحه، حتى ليتبدل الدم في عروقه حباً ويسكب هذا الشعور العنيف الغزير على الشخص الآخر... فإذا "صدمه" الآخر وكان حباً من جانب واحد، فإن غزارة هذا الحب تصير نيراناً تلظى في داخل المحب... الأسوء اذا احس هذا العاشق بأن الآخر لا يحبه بل يشفق عليه لسبب ما، فالشفقة هنا هي الخداع بذاته حتى لو كانت النية صادقة، وهذا بالتحديد ما طرقه ستيفان زافيج في هذه الرواية...
- الترجمة والسرد القصصي كانا رائعين، انتقاء التعابير جاء موفقاً...
- في ختام القصة احس الضابط ان شفقته هي حباً، لكن هذا اوهام في اوهام، فلا يمكن ان تصبح الشفقة حباً على الإطلاق...
- في هذا المضمون لا بد لي ان اشير الى مقطع صغير، من رواية عربية صغيرة، قد جسّد كل ما كان ستيفان يحاول ايصاله لنا في المئة صفحة الأولى والمئة الأخيرة، وأقتبس:
" اقتربت من وجهها، أقبلت على رحيق شفتيها الناعسة، طبعت جمرة عشق نبيذي ابيض، بصفاء قد تخمر، بطعٍم وجه نوراني يتبسم لملاك، بهدوء الماء في راحة الحجارة، بشغف العاشق الولهان.. وابتعدت ببطء، بدأ الهواء البارد يداخل أنفاسي! سافرت في عينيها وشردت، ردني ترقرق دمعتين وشفاهٌ مبتسمة.. ثار الفرح في جسدها المتعب، ضمتني إليها وهمست:"لو أحسست بشفقة في ريقك لكرهتك مدى العمر المتبقي!".
وهنا كان بطل القصة يعود ليجد حبيبته قد اصبحت كسيحة!!
- قراءة ممتعة للجميع...
- حينما يحب الإنسان (رجل كان او امرأة)، فإنه يحب بكل جوارحه، حتى ليتبدل الدم في عروقه حباً ويسكب هذا الشعور العنيف الغزير على الشخص الآخر... فإذا "صدمه" الآخر وكان حباً من جانب واحد، فإن غزارة هذا الحب تصير نيراناً تلظى في داخل المحب... الأسوء اذا احس هذا العاشق بأن الآخر لا يحبه بل يشفق عليه لسبب ما، فالشفقة هنا هي الخداع بذاته حتى لو كانت النية صادقة، وهذا بالتحديد ما طرقه ستيفان زافيج في هذه الرواية...
- الترجمة والسرد القصصي كانا رائعين، انتقاء التعابير جاء موفقاً...
- في ختام القصة احس الضابط ان شفقته هي حباً، لكن هذا اوهام في اوهام، فلا يمكن ان تصبح الشفقة حباً على الإطلاق...
- في هذا المضمون لا بد لي ان اشير الى مقطع صغير، من رواية عربية صغيرة، قد جسّد كل ما كان ستيفان يحاول ايصاله لنا في المئة صفحة الأولى والمئة الأخيرة، وأقتبس:
" اقتربت من وجهها، أقبلت على رحيق شفتيها الناعسة، طبعت جمرة عشق نبيذي ابيض، بصفاء قد تخمر، بطعٍم وجه نوراني يتبسم لملاك، بهدوء الماء في راحة الحجارة، بشغف العاشق الولهان.. وابتعدت ببطء، بدأ الهواء البارد يداخل أنفاسي! سافرت في عينيها وشردت، ردني ترقرق دمعتين وشفاهٌ مبتسمة.. ثار الفرح في جسدها المتعب، ضمتني إليها وهمست:"لو أحسست بشفقة في ريقك لكرهتك مدى العمر المتبقي!".
وهنا كان بطل القصة يعود ليجد حبيبته قد اصبحت كسيحة!!
- قراءة ممتعة للجميع...
January 29, 2019
It is a daunting task to come late to the party and attempt to write a review of a book that already has 766 reviews. What more can I add to the story? Anyone doing even a cursory read of past reviews can quickly surmise what this book is about. It is the first fiction I've ever read by Stefan Zweig, but certainly not the last. I have read about half of his biography of Magellan, which I intend to finish some day and found quite good. I was reading it in Thailand and moved on to the Philippines, and there is something about the Philippines that causes me to lose all interest in reading books. Like many other works, this had been vegetating on one of my bookshelves for five or six years. My reading habits, which I thought were peculiar to me, turn out to be commonplace based on what I've read on Goodreads. That is, I tend to choose the next book I want to read based on no systematic way, but as my inclinations lead me.
I enjoyed 'Beware of Pity' and appreciated the fine writing of Stefan Zweig. As a much earlier reviewer said, his writing is clear and to-the-point and I tend to agree that the digressions in this book were not padding. They helped shaped the novel and give it more clarity.
The forward indicated that Zweig was a friend of Freud's and also noted that Stephen Spender, among others, had accused Zweig of writing 'Beware of Pity' as a sort of "case study,' rather than as an actual novel telling a story. With all due respect to Stephen Spender, whose intellect far surpasses mine, I do not concur with this assessment at all. I can well imagine Zweig discussing psychological issues with Freud because his novel is certainly filled with some deep psychology.
I disagree that this is a "case study," however, because anyone familiar with Freud's case studies knows that he always traces the person's trauma to some occurrence in childhood, or some unfulfilled childhood wish. There is none of this in 'Beware of Pity' and we are told little by the narrator about his childhood other than he grew up in a family without much means and the military was a good choice for making a career given his family's straitened circumstances. There is no mention of any trauma and not even a hint or suggestion of such. A person writing a "case study" would tie the narrator's obsessive, uncontrollable pity for the girl to some incident in his past. Since Zweig does not do this, I don't think this novel deserves to be called a "case study."
Rather, it is a work that demonstrates how a seemingly insignificant event can result in someone winding up in a situation fraught with psychological turmoil, particularly if that individual has a weak character and is easily manipulated. The novel's psychological richness, in my opinion, lies in the conflicting feelings the narrator has; where on one hand he exults that he is doing a noble thing by visiting the girl and her family and lifting their spirits, while on the other he despises the fix he is in and is constantly scheming how to extricate himself from the commitment he has foolishly entered into. Thus we have a fellow who is just a commonplace military officer, not given to self-reflection, suddenly having to face this psychological Sturm und Drang which he is ill-equipped to handle exactly because he is not a person accustomed to self-reflection and deep psychological pondering.
It is in this conflict, especially as the book nears the end, that Zweig's talks with Freud must have borne fruit. The tension the narrator feels as he tries to find a way out of the maelstrom mounts to the point where he is in a frenzy to escape. Reading it left me on edge and I was nearly as discommoded as the narrator. I could easily imagine Hitchcock working this story into a compelling film.
I regret that Stefan Zweig wrote no more novels, but am glad there is still a body of his work for me to savor.
I enjoyed 'Beware of Pity' and appreciated the fine writing of Stefan Zweig. As a much earlier reviewer said, his writing is clear and to-the-point and I tend to agree that the digressions in this book were not padding. They helped shaped the novel and give it more clarity.
The forward indicated that Zweig was a friend of Freud's and also noted that Stephen Spender, among others, had accused Zweig of writing 'Beware of Pity' as a sort of "case study,' rather than as an actual novel telling a story. With all due respect to Stephen Spender, whose intellect far surpasses mine, I do not concur with this assessment at all. I can well imagine Zweig discussing psychological issues with Freud because his novel is certainly filled with some deep psychology.
I disagree that this is a "case study," however, because anyone familiar with Freud's case studies knows that he always traces the person's trauma to some occurrence in childhood, or some unfulfilled childhood wish. There is none of this in 'Beware of Pity' and we are told little by the narrator about his childhood other than he grew up in a family without much means and the military was a good choice for making a career given his family's straitened circumstances. There is no mention of any trauma and not even a hint or suggestion of such. A person writing a "case study" would tie the narrator's obsessive, uncontrollable pity for the girl to some incident in his past. Since Zweig does not do this, I don't think this novel deserves to be called a "case study."
Rather, it is a work that demonstrates how a seemingly insignificant event can result in someone winding up in a situation fraught with psychological turmoil, particularly if that individual has a weak character and is easily manipulated. The novel's psychological richness, in my opinion, lies in the conflicting feelings the narrator has; where on one hand he exults that he is doing a noble thing by visiting the girl and her family and lifting their spirits, while on the other he despises the fix he is in and is constantly scheming how to extricate himself from the commitment he has foolishly entered into. Thus we have a fellow who is just a commonplace military officer, not given to self-reflection, suddenly having to face this psychological Sturm und Drang which he is ill-equipped to handle exactly because he is not a person accustomed to self-reflection and deep psychological pondering.
It is in this conflict, especially as the book nears the end, that Zweig's talks with Freud must have borne fruit. The tension the narrator feels as he tries to find a way out of the maelstrom mounts to the point where he is in a frenzy to escape. Reading it left me on edge and I was nearly as discommoded as the narrator. I could easily imagine Hitchcock working this story into a compelling film.
I regret that Stefan Zweig wrote no more novels, but am glad there is still a body of his work for me to savor.
May 1, 2022
This is the only novel that Stefan Zweig wrote. Highly prolific, he concentrated on the novella and the short story, but it was not until 1939 that he finally wrote a full-length novel. We are to regret that he put an end to his life just three years later; he was already 60 but he could have written more extraordinarily sensitive novels like this one.
The novel has a sort of matryoshka structure, in that the initial narrator (Zweig?), around 1937, tells us the story that another person, a Lieutenant in the Uhlans, has confessed to him – an experience he endured back in 1914. In this second story we are introduced into a further narrative level as the Lieutenant also transmits a story told to him. By resorting to this narrative ploy, we are presented with the claim that this is not fiction, but a truthful testimony. For example, the initial Narrator comments that the Lieutenant did not really belong to the Uhlans but the Hussars, but that he has been forced to disguise some facts out of a concern of confidentiality.
The narration is a mixture between a Bildungsroman and an admonitory moral treatise. We follow how a young man falls prey to the toxic feeling of Pity and how a young woman with an affliction will use this hindrance precisely to exert power over others. The plot is very simple, but the highly refined way in which Zweig traces the development of human emotions, from the naïve to the manipulative, from the innocent to the shrewd, from altruism to despotic egotism, is magnificent.
Apart from Zweig’s superbly flowing style, I also enjoyed the refined way in which he enriches his tales. There are references to Schopenhauer and to his theory of representation, to Nietzsche, to Modernity in the new way in which Speed is affecting human perception (which for me recalled the Futurists), to art with Rubens and Guardi, and to the very structured society of the Austro-Hungarian Empire.
October 11, 2018
و هتفضل رواية "حذار من الشفقة" لستيفن زفايج للأبد مرتبطة في ذهني بسبتمبر، رقيقة خفيفة الظل مليئة بالشجن و المفاجئات مثله.
فاكره قصة كنا بندرسها في ال short stories في ثانوي اسمها "I never forget a face"
لو هعمل قايمة اسمها "I never forget a book" فيها عشر كتب هتكون من ضمنهم، لو خمس كتب هتكون من ضمنهم، لو تلاتة هتكون من ضمنهم.
الرواية قصيرة، 200 و شويه صفحة من القطع الصغير، يعني 100 صفحة لو ��لكتاب مطبوع علي ورق كبير..متقدمة في سلسلة كتابي من المؤسسة العربية الحديثة ترجمة حلمي مراد بتلاتة جنيه او أربعة تقريبًا.
pdf:
http://www.book-juice.com/download/8042
أجمل ما قرأت في 2015
و من أجمل ما قرأت في حياتي.
اقروها يا جماعة..و لا تغفلوا النصيحة :
حذار من الشفقة :)
فاكره قصة كنا بندرسها في ال short stories في ثانوي اسمها "I never forget a face"
لو هعمل قايمة اسمها "I never forget a book" فيها عشر كتب هتكون من ضمنهم، لو خمس كتب هتكون من ضمنهم، لو تلاتة هتكون من ضمنهم.
الرواية قصيرة، 200 و شويه صفحة من القطع الصغير، يعني 100 صفحة لو ��لكتاب مطبوع علي ورق كبير..متقدمة في سلسلة كتابي من المؤسسة العربية الحديثة ترجمة حلمي مراد بتلاتة جنيه او أربعة تقريبًا.
pdf:
http://www.book-juice.com/download/8042
أجمل ما قرأت في 2015
و من أجمل ما قرأت في حياتي.
اقروها يا جماعة..و لا تغفلوا النصيحة :
حذار من الشفقة :)
April 20, 2024
«Нетерпение сердца», имеющий огромное наглядное значение для разграничения и понимания двух видов сострадания (жалости и истинного сострадания), любим многими с ранней юности, ибо читают этот роман обычно в этом возрасте. Но, видимо, в юности все тяжёлое легко забывается, и, несмотря на все могущество психологического разбора Цвейга, в этом мире очень много жалости и совсем немного истинного сострадания.
Доктор Кондор, образец истинного сострадания, доктор по призванию, дает определение этим двум видам сострадания
«… есть два-рода сострадания. Одно — малодушное и сентиментальное, оно, в сущности, не что иное, как нетерпение сердца, спешащего поскорее избавиться от тягостного ощущения при виде чужого несчастья; это не сострадание, а лишь инстинктивное желание оградить свой покой от страданий ближнего. Но есть и другое сострадание — истинное, которое требует действий, а не сантиментов, оно знает, чего хочет, и полно решимости, страдая и сострадая, сделать все, что в человеческих силах и даже свыше их. Если ты готов идти до конца, до самого горького конца, если запасешься великим терпением, — лишь тогда ты сумеешь действительно помочь людям. Только тогда, когда принесешь в жертву самого себя, только тогда.»
Почему жалости, малодушного и сентиментального чувства сострадания, так много в разнообразной благотворительности? Потому что, это - огражденное сострадание: вот ты страждущий, а вот я благополучный, навещающий/подающий материальную помощь (милостыню) в любой форме от денег, пищи, крова до услуг, в том числе похорон. Твое несчастье четко ограничено твоей жизнью, милосердный с какой-то регулярностью снисходит до страждущего. Вот пример: на улице часто можно увидеть бездомных животных. Есть много добрых людей, подкармливающих их, а истинно сострадающих им, тех, кто берет их домой в качестве домашних питомцев, совсем немного – намного легче взять здорового щенка или котенка, чем возиться с беспородной, часто больной собакой или кошкой, а покормить животное – так приятно для самолюбия: «Я сделал хорошее дело». К счастью, с животными легче, чем с людьми, но суть этих двух видов сострадания применима и к ним. По большому счету, похожая ситуация и со всеми другими формами благотворительности. Такая благотворительность, даже если она не афишируется, есть не что иное, как самолюбование собой, либо какие-то другие чувства, такие как желание добрым делом «отработать» чувство вины, грех и тому подобное, ибо милосердный не готов и не собирается принять в свою жизнь того, кого он жалеет. Я не против милосердия, а сама эта мысль пришла именно из определения истинного сострадания, данного доктором Кондором и той смысловой путаницы, которая имеется между понятиями жалость и истинное сострадание.
Антон Гофмиллер своей жалостью к богатой покалеченной болезнью девушке Эдит убил ее, причем доктор Кондор неоднократно предупреждал его о катастрофических последствиях любого малодушия с его стороны. Могут возразить, не его вина, что она полюбила его со всей страстностью души, не видевшей дружеского участия, а одну лишь жалость. На первый взгляд так. Но если внимательно читать роман, Эдит тоже не задумывалась о любви, и воспринимала чувственность, как нечто невозможное для калеки, ровно до тех пор, пока у нее не появилась совершенно необоснованная, абсолютно ложная надежда на скорое выздоровление, безосновательно посеянная из самых благих намерений самим Антоном. Именно надежда стать такой как все, породило это экзальтированное нетерпение и коренным образом изменило восприятие себя, как в очень скором времени достойной быть любимой. Поэтому ответственность Антона в том, что она вдруг его полюбила, – самая непосредственная. Ему не стоило даже пересказывать разговор с доктором, а тем более добавлять от себя вычитанные в газете и вселяющие надежду неподтверждённые данные о новых способах лечения. Даже когда Кондор ему пеняет за эти посеянные иллюзии, Антон убеждает самого доктора продолжать их питать для того, чтобы продолжить прежний курс лечения. Но доктор немедленно его предупредил: « Но уж, коль вы берете такое обязательство, господин лейтенант, вам нельзя идти на попятный. Мой долг — серьезно предостеречь вас... Нужно затратить очень много сил, чтобы вернуть веру человеку, однажды обманутому. Я не люблю неясностей. Прежде чем я откажусь от своего намерения — сегодня же честно объяснить Кекешфальве, что метод профессора Вьенно нельзя рекомендовать Эдит и что, к сожалению, они должны запастись терпением, — я хочу знать, могу ли я на вас положиться. Могу ли я быть уверенным, что вы меня потом не подведете?» Антон несколько раз пошел на попятный, он не просто пошел на попятный, он стремился трусливо бежать и в последний раз действительно убежал. Так как же ему следовало поступить? Кондор, женатый на слепой и в браке нежно заботившийся о ней, своим примером показывает Антону истинное сострадание, ту модель поведения, которое может исправить все те ошибки, которые тот наделал своим нетерпением сердца. Кондор, правда, говорит о какой-то своей «выгоде» такой женитьбы, что мол он доктор, не всегда может помочь человеку, и чтобы успокоить свою совесть, он всегда может сказать, что хотя бы одного человека он спас. Антон оказался слишком зависим от людского мнения, слишком эгоистичен, слишком жесток. До конца жизни его мучали угрызения совести, которые не могла успокоить даже безудержная отвага в бессмысленных битвах кровавой Первой мировой войны. «… никакая вина не может быть предана забвению, пока о ней помнит совесть.»
Цвейг – мудрый учитель. Эдит не была неприятна физически Антону, но больше всего его страшила реакция его сослуживцев, офицеров-зубоскалов, находивших смешное в трагическом. Кондор помогает Антону осознать именно страх перед реакцией общества, перед тупым зубоскальством, нежели другие препятствия, но он не может его преодолеть. Но что читатель может вынести из этой трагедии? Убивает не только такой, как Антон, проявивший доброту к покалеченной девушке, но своими неумелыми милосердными намерениями и постоянным дрейфом на попятный доведший ее до самоубийства. Убивает, прежде всего, общество, смеющееся над человеком, решившим жениться на калеке, принять ее в свою жизнь или человеком, гуляющим с дворняжкой, а не породистым псом модной породы. Поэтому нужно, в первую очередь, обществу быть добрее, и людям нужно четко различать два вида сострадания, различия которых так гениально показал Цвейг, и поощрять не сентиментальное, самоограждающее чувство жалости, спешащее избавиться от своего тягостного ощущения, а деятельное включение страждущего в свою жизнь, страдание вместе с ним, самопожертвование, или хотя бы не мешать этим истинно милосердным это делать.
Доктор Кондор, образец истинного сострадания, доктор по призванию, дает определение этим двум видам сострадания
«… есть два-рода сострадания. Одно — малодушное и сентиментальное, оно, в сущности, не что иное, как нетерпение сердца, спешащего поскорее избавиться от тягостного ощущения при виде чужого несчастья; это не сострадание, а лишь инстинктивное желание оградить свой покой от страданий ближнего. Но есть и другое сострадание — истинное, которое требует действий, а не сантиментов, оно знает, чего хочет, и полно решимости, страдая и сострадая, сделать все, что в человеческих силах и даже свыше их. Если ты готов идти до конца, до самого горького конца, если запасешься великим терпением, — лишь тогда ты сумеешь действительно помочь людям. Только тогда, когда принесешь в жертву самого себя, только тогда.»
Почему жалости, малодушного и сентиментального чувства сострадания, так много в разнообразной благотворительности? Потому что, это - огражденное сострадание: вот ты страждущий, а вот я благополучный, навещающий/подающий материальную помощь (милостыню) в любой форме от денег, пищи, крова до услуг, в том числе похорон. Твое несчастье четко ограничено твоей жизнью, милосердный с какой-то регулярностью снисходит до страждущего. Вот пример: на улице часто можно увидеть бездомных животных. Есть много добрых людей, подкармливающих их, а истинно сострадающих им, тех, кто берет их домой в качестве домашних питомцев, совсем немного – намного легче взять здорового щенка или котенка, чем возиться с беспородной, часто больной собакой или кошкой, а покормить животное – так приятно для самолюбия: «Я сделал хорошее дело». К счастью, с животными легче, чем с людьми, но суть этих двух видов сострадания применима и к ним. По большому счету, похожая ситуация и со всеми другими формами благотворительности. Такая благотворительность, даже если она не афишируется, есть не что иное, как самолюбование собой, либо какие-то другие чувства, такие как желание добрым делом «отработать» чувство вины, грех и тому подобное, ибо милосердный не готов и не собирается принять в свою жизнь того, кого он жалеет. Я не против милосердия, а сама эта мысль пришла именно из определения истинного сострадания, данного доктором Кондором и той смысловой путаницы, которая имеется между понятиями жалость и истинное сострадание.
Антон Гофмиллер своей жалостью к богатой покалеченной болезнью девушке Эдит убил ее, причем доктор Кондор неоднократно предупреждал его о катастрофических последствиях любого малодушия с его стороны. Могут возразить, не его вина, что она полюбила его со всей страстностью души, не видевшей дружеского участия, а одну лишь жалость. На первый взгляд так. Но если внимательно читать роман, Эдит тоже не задумывалась о любви, и воспринимала чувственность, как нечто невозможное для калеки, ровно до тех пор, пока у нее не появилась совершенно необоснованная, абсолютно ложная надежда на скорое выздоровление, безосновательно посеянная из самых благих намерений самим Антоном. Именно надежда стать такой как все, породило это экзальтированное нетерпение и коренным образом изменило восприятие себя, как в очень скором времени достойной быть любимой. Поэтому ответственность Антона в том, что она вдруг его полюбила, – самая непосредственная. Ему не стоило даже пересказывать разговор с доктором, а тем более добавлять от себя вычитанные в газете и вселяющие надежду неподтверждённые данные о новых способах лечения. Даже когда Кондор ему пеняет за эти посеянные иллюзии, Антон убеждает самого доктора продолжать их питать для того, чтобы продолжить прежний курс лечения. Но доктор немедленно его предупредил: « Но уж, коль вы берете такое обязательство, господин лейтенант, вам нельзя идти на попятный. Мой долг — серьезно предостеречь вас... Нужно затратить очень много сил, чтобы вернуть веру человеку, однажды обманутому. Я не люблю неясностей. Прежде чем я откажусь от своего намерения — сегодня же честно объяснить Кекешфальве, что метод профессора Вьенно нельзя рекомендовать Эдит и что, к сожалению, они должны запастись терпением, — я хочу знать, могу ли я на вас положиться. Могу ли я быть уверенным, что вы меня потом не подведете?» Антон несколько раз пошел на попятный, он не просто пошел на попятный, он стремился трусливо бежать и в последний раз действительно убежал. Так как же ему следовало поступить? Кондор, женатый на слепой и в браке нежно заботившийся о ней, своим примером показывает Антону истинное сострадание, ту модель поведения, которое может исправить все те ошибки, которые тот наделал своим нетерпением сердца. Кондор, правда, говорит о какой-то своей «выгоде» такой женитьбы, что мол он доктор, не всегда может помочь человеку, и чтобы успокоить свою совесть, он всегда может сказать, что хотя бы одного человека он спас. Антон оказался слишком зависим от людского мнения, слишком эгоистичен, слишком жесток. До конца жизни его мучали угрызения совести, которые не могла успокоить даже безудержная отвага в бессмысленных битвах кровавой Первой мировой войны. «… никакая вина не может быть предана забвению, пока о ней помнит совесть.»
Цвейг – мудрый учитель. Эдит не была неприятна физически Антону, но больше всего его страшила реакция его сослуживцев, офицеров-зубоскалов, находивших смешное в трагическом. Кондор помогает Антону осознать именно страх перед реакцией общества, перед тупым зубоскальством, нежели другие препятствия, но он не может его преодолеть. Но что читатель может вынести из этой трагедии? Убивает не только такой, как Антон, проявивший доброту к покалеченной девушке, но своими неумелыми милосердными намерениями и постоянным дрейфом на попятный доведший ее до самоубийства. Убивает, прежде всего, общество, смеющееся над человеком, решившим жениться на калеке, принять ее в свою жизнь или человеком, гуляющим с дворняжкой, а не породистым псом модной породы. Поэтому нужно, в первую очередь, обществу быть добрее, и людям нужно четко различать два вида сострадания, различия которых так гениально показал Цвейг, и поощрять не сентиментальное, самоограждающее чувство жалости, спешащее избавиться от своего тягостного ощущения, а деятельное включение страждущего в свою жизнь, страдание вместе с ним, самопожертвование, или хотя бы не мешать этим истинно милосердным это делать.
July 16, 2019
My love affair with Stefan Zweig’s work continues! With his elegant prose and sharp insight, he conjured up the most vivid characters and insane - yet completely believable stories, and “Beware of Pity” (alternately translated as “Impatience of the Heart”) is his writing at top form; funny, sour, moving, tragic and wistful. It was also his only full-length novel, finished in 1939, when he lived in exile in England. So expect his trademark nostalgia for a Europe now disfigured by totalitarianism.
Told in a framed narrative – by a novelist who might as well be Zweig himself – this novel is the story of a young cavalry office, Lieutenant Anton Hofmiller, and of how one innocent faux pas derailed his life. In a small garrison town of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, a few months before the Great War, Hofmiller is introduced to the wealthy and influential Kekesfalva family. While attending a charming soirée in their manor, he decides to courteously ask the master of the house’s daughter to dance… without having noticed that the young woman is crippled and can hardly walk, let alone waltz. Mortified, he sends her an enormous bouquet of roses as an apology, and begins to pay regular friendly visits to the family, in an attempt to atone for the embarrassment he caused the poor girl to suffer. Of course, the young girl interprets his actions and attention in a very different way, and soon, Hofmiller finds himself inextricably bound to this family…
In many ways, poor Anton’s stumbling through this story is like a car crash one can’t look away from: he means well, and tries to keep up with the social standards of the class and era, and to not hurt the feelings of Edith – whom he feels has suffered enough as a consequence of her injury. But there is also an element of self-congratulation and shame there that sometimes feels very uneasy. Sure, he pays the Kekesfalvas visits because he feels awful for young Edith, but when he’s there, he is served delicious food, rare wines and given cigars, horses and opportunities galore. And while he feels bad about this bounty, he keeps going back… It’s also remarkable that despite the story’s seeming simplicity, Zweig manages to ramp up the dramatic tension to the point where the book is very hard to put down, as you never know what fresh awkwardness and its consequences he will catch you with on the next page.
There is a lot to be chewed on in this book, notably regarding the meaning of the word “pity” and the effect it has in the lives of all involved. Because a line must be drawn between pity and compassion, between pity and sympathy: the nuance might be lost on some, but it is there, and it can be hard sometimes to see which shade of feeling is fuelling Hofmiller’s actions. While some of the things he does clearly come from a good place, he also ends up falling victim to emotional blackmail, conscious or not on part of the perpetrator. The young man’s ultimate conclusion, that what becomes known as his act of bravery was in fact nothing more than cowardice with unintended consequences, is also fascinating. How differently other people perceive our lives and actions when they have only a partial portrait of our motivations and context! The complexity of human beings is not something to be underestimated, and Zweig not only knew that, but also knew exactly how to put that intricateness on the page.
Edith is a remarkable creation: despite her sheltered life and her physical handicap, she has a strong will and personality, and refuses to let her disability define her life. She won’t be lied to and she refuses to be mollycoddled. Of course, this is far from easy in the particular time and place she lives in, where young women of society dance and ride, and are expected to be mobile to be considered eligible. We never really get an inside view of how Hofmiller’s consideration feels to her, but I think it's safe to assume that before him, no man had paid her the slightest bit of attention, let alone extended friendship and companionship the way he has. For a young girl of eighteen, that must have been like giving water to a person tortured by thirst, both a relief and a pleasure she is not equipped to deal with rationally. That her feelings for him shock Anton made me yell at the book: how can this be a surprise, you dweeb?!
I must say that Anthea Bell’s translation is gorgeous, fluid and a pleasure to read. I’ve read her translation of “The World of Yesterday” (https://www.goodreads.com/review/show...) which was just as affecting, and the way she captures tone and wit is a delight.
If you liked “The Grand Budapest Hotel” (which used the introduction of this book as a template from which to launch the zany adventure of one gangly lobby boy and a foppish concierge), or any of Zweig’s other work, do yourself a favour and read this amazing novel. This is quite simply a masterpiece.
Told in a framed narrative – by a novelist who might as well be Zweig himself – this novel is the story of a young cavalry office, Lieutenant Anton Hofmiller, and of how one innocent faux pas derailed his life. In a small garrison town of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, a few months before the Great War, Hofmiller is introduced to the wealthy and influential Kekesfalva family. While attending a charming soirée in their manor, he decides to courteously ask the master of the house’s daughter to dance… without having noticed that the young woman is crippled and can hardly walk, let alone waltz. Mortified, he sends her an enormous bouquet of roses as an apology, and begins to pay regular friendly visits to the family, in an attempt to atone for the embarrassment he caused the poor girl to suffer. Of course, the young girl interprets his actions and attention in a very different way, and soon, Hofmiller finds himself inextricably bound to this family…
In many ways, poor Anton’s stumbling through this story is like a car crash one can’t look away from: he means well, and tries to keep up with the social standards of the class and era, and to not hurt the feelings of Edith – whom he feels has suffered enough as a consequence of her injury. But there is also an element of self-congratulation and shame there that sometimes feels very uneasy. Sure, he pays the Kekesfalvas visits because he feels awful for young Edith, but when he’s there, he is served delicious food, rare wines and given cigars, horses and opportunities galore. And while he feels bad about this bounty, he keeps going back… It’s also remarkable that despite the story’s seeming simplicity, Zweig manages to ramp up the dramatic tension to the point where the book is very hard to put down, as you never know what fresh awkwardness and its consequences he will catch you with on the next page.
There is a lot to be chewed on in this book, notably regarding the meaning of the word “pity” and the effect it has in the lives of all involved. Because a line must be drawn between pity and compassion, between pity and sympathy: the nuance might be lost on some, but it is there, and it can be hard sometimes to see which shade of feeling is fuelling Hofmiller’s actions. While some of the things he does clearly come from a good place, he also ends up falling victim to emotional blackmail, conscious or not on part of the perpetrator. The young man’s ultimate conclusion, that what becomes known as his act of bravery was in fact nothing more than cowardice with unintended consequences, is also fascinating. How differently other people perceive our lives and actions when they have only a partial portrait of our motivations and context! The complexity of human beings is not something to be underestimated, and Zweig not only knew that, but also knew exactly how to put that intricateness on the page.
Edith is a remarkable creation: despite her sheltered life and her physical handicap, she has a strong will and personality, and refuses to let her disability define her life. She won’t be lied to and she refuses to be mollycoddled. Of course, this is far from easy in the particular time and place she lives in, where young women of society dance and ride, and are expected to be mobile to be considered eligible. We never really get an inside view of how Hofmiller’s consideration feels to her, but I think it's safe to assume that before him, no man had paid her the slightest bit of attention, let alone extended friendship and companionship the way he has. For a young girl of eighteen, that must have been like giving water to a person tortured by thirst, both a relief and a pleasure she is not equipped to deal with rationally. That her feelings for him shock Anton made me yell at the book: how can this be a surprise, you dweeb?!
I must say that Anthea Bell’s translation is gorgeous, fluid and a pleasure to read. I’ve read her translation of “The World of Yesterday” (https://www.goodreads.com/review/show...) which was just as affecting, and the way she captures tone and wit is a delight.
If you liked “The Grand Budapest Hotel” (which used the introduction of this book as a template from which to launch the zany adventure of one gangly lobby boy and a foppish concierge), or any of Zweig’s other work, do yourself a favour and read this amazing novel. This is quite simply a masterpiece.
September 19, 2018
The word ‘Pity’ is quite a powerful word. It is charged with the evocation of that emotion which surfaces when one witnesses human suffering in any form; an emotion which leads to feeling of compassion and sympathy. So to feel pity over someone’s misfortune or suffering is essentially human. But what does the feeling of pity really employs? Is it only a positive emotion which paves the way for better understanding of humans and their sufferings? Or can it be an emotion which arises solely from the awareness of one’s good fortune when compared with the misfortunes of many others? Can it be an emotion which may let us sympathize with those suffering but may make us indifferent when presented with uncomfortable situations while dealing with them? Can someone, who acts only out of ‘pity’ for someone, be held responsible if he fails to meet unseen expectations arising from his acts of pity? Can there be a limit as to what extent a person may engage due to pity? Can a person really only act out of pity for someone over a longer period?
Alternatively, does a person who has suffered much over a long period of time take kindly to such acts of pity? Can such acts invoke anger on the part of sufferer? Who is to judge then when a person, in the heat of much compassion, engages in actions which may prove further fatal for the sufferer.
These are the questions that this work raises in mind. For me, it is a hugely loaded word and which I really view with some skepticism. A genuine concern and empathy are held much higher in regard than merely pity.
As always, Zweig’s writing is brilliant and captivating. There is never a dull moment in the work. You are constantly engaged and on the edge. I didn’t find a single character in the work likable, for each of them lived in their own worlds, intoxicated with ideas that best suited them. It was like a ride through a kindergarten where all the kids were engaged in their own make belief world and resorted to whining when disagreed with or brought to reality. But Zweig’s masterful hand has rendered their portrayal a lifelike quality which lets you marvel at the complexity of human nature and compels you to look within and question your ideas.
April 25, 2022
I pity those who have not read this masterpiece.
July 19, 2016
My friend and I both pity the homeless, but I prefer to do it from a distance. My friend isn't like that. He likes to put money in cup. Through the years, his insistence on an actual physical exchange has grown exponentially. It was one thing to raise the gift from $1 to $2 to $5 and then $10. But then even that changed. We drifted apart and then slowly saw each other again. Walking back to our jobs after lunch after renewing our friendship we passed a homeless man that we had passed many times in the past. He provoked genuine sympathy, standing on one leg only and a crutch. It was no longer enough now for my friend to drop bills in cup. He made a point of standing ceremoniously, extending his hand for a shake and addressing the man by name. The man said nothing in return, not even smiling at the crisp new bill.
Beware of pity. It is an exchange. Readers of novels, do not linger on the man consumed with Liberal guilt. Instead think of our one-legged man. Make him smart. Or devious. Or rebellious, kindly, heroic. Make him barely functional if you want. What does he make of the pin-striped man, bowing like Hirohito on that ship? Perhaps, like me, he appreciates the gesture. But probably it means nothing. Although......
What if he feels the pity behind the gesture, like a knife? Any one of us, homeless or not, has felt that. But what if he was just smart enough to be fooled and thought he was going to the suburbs for dinner? or would be offered a job? would be asked to be a Godfather? could date a daughter?
_____ _____ _____ _____ _____
Oh, the book?
Well, it's about Pity, from both sides of the exchange. I won't tell you the plot. You can find it everywhere, in the description of the book and in almost every review. I liked the storytelling but not the story. If that makes sense. I was warned that it might be too drawing-room for me. I didn't know exactly what that meant until I read this and realized it was too drawing-room for me.
It made me think of Pity. Not made-for-TV movies Pity with Lieutenants and noblemen's daughters, good-looking horses and, well, I think you have to fit Kiera Knightley in there somewhere. Not perfumed, inchoate love. No, it made me think of Pity on a city street, in a job, in a friendship. It made me think of Pity in a room by myself. Even then, maybe especially then, it's always an exchange.
Beware of pity. It is an exchange. Readers of novels, do not linger on the man consumed with Liberal guilt. Instead think of our one-legged man. Make him smart. Or devious. Or rebellious, kindly, heroic. Make him barely functional if you want. What does he make of the pin-striped man, bowing like Hirohito on that ship? Perhaps, like me, he appreciates the gesture. But probably it means nothing. Although......
What if he feels the pity behind the gesture, like a knife? Any one of us, homeless or not, has felt that. But what if he was just smart enough to be fooled and thought he was going to the suburbs for dinner? or would be offered a job? would be asked to be a Godfather? could date a daughter?
_____ _____ _____ _____ _____
Oh, the book?
Well, it's about Pity, from both sides of the exchange. I won't tell you the plot. You can find it everywhere, in the description of the book and in almost every review. I liked the storytelling but not the story. If that makes sense. I was warned that it might be too drawing-room for me. I didn't know exactly what that meant until I read this and realized it was too drawing-room for me.
It made me think of Pity. Not made-for-TV movies Pity with Lieutenants and noblemen's daughters, good-looking horses and, well, I think you have to fit Kiera Knightley in there somewhere. Not perfumed, inchoate love. No, it made me think of Pity on a city street, in a job, in a friendship. It made me think of Pity in a room by myself. Even then, maybe especially then, it's always an exchange.
December 18, 2020
Un oficial del ejército austro-húngaro, Viena, una joven paralítica hija de un importante magnate, un enamoramiento fulminante, un castillo… y la prosa y la mirada sensible de Stefan Zweig. ¿Qué puede salir mal? Para mí, nada, he disfrutado muchísimo con esta bella historia en que la compasión y el amor luchan sin tregua en los corazones.
Ciertamente, a pesar de su título, no es ésta una obra para lectores impacientes, ya que las descripciones son morosas y el análisis de sentimientos reemplaza a la acción la mayor parte del tiempo, pero si te dejas envolver por la belleza de las palabras, te transporta a un pasado lleno de encanto y de dolor.
Es más larga - casi 500 páginas - que otras novellas del mismo autor como Miedo o Mendel el de los libros, pero me ha gustado mucho. Creo que con estas historias Stefan Zweig busca conmover al lector apelando a nuestra humanidad y esos sentimientos son hoy tan importantes y vigentes como cuando las escribió en la primera mitad del siglo XX.
Ciertamente, a pesar de su título, no es ésta una obra para lectores impacientes, ya que las descripciones son morosas y el análisis de sentimientos reemplaza a la acción la mayor parte del tiempo, pero si te dejas envolver por la belleza de las palabras, te transporta a un pasado lleno de encanto y de dolor.
Es más larga - casi 500 páginas - que otras novellas del mismo autor como Miedo o Mendel el de los libros, pero me ha gustado mucho. Creo que con estas historias Stefan Zweig busca conmover al lector apelando a nuestra humanidad y esos sentimientos son hoy tan importantes y vigentes como cuando las escribió en la primera mitad del siglo XX.
September 18, 2021
Το βιβλιο αυτο με συγκλονισε (δυναμικο ξεκινημα βιβλιοκριτικης). Δεν ειναι τοσο το θεμα, ή η πλοκη που εκανε τη διαφορα, μιας και αυτα δεν παρουσιαζαν κατι φοβερά ξεχωριστο : ενας υπιλαρχος ζει την απλοϊκή ζωη του μεχρι που σε αυτη εισβάλλει μια οικογενεια με τροπο τυχαιο, σαν μια συμπτωση που η μια ακολουθει την αλλη, μεχρι που μεσα σε αυτη την οικογενεια γνωριζει τη νεαρη Εντιθ, την κορη της οικογενειας και υστερα απο ενα τρομερα αβολο λαθος, ανακαλυπτει πως η κοπελα ειναι αναπηρη. Απο εκεινη ακριβως τη στιγμη ξυπνα μεσα στην ψυχη του πρωταγωνιστή μας, του Αντον, το συναισθημα του οικτου, αλλα και απο αυτο το σημειο ο Τσβαιχ ξεκινα να "κενταει" τοσο λογοτεχνικα, οσο και - ακριβως εδω για μενα κερδιζει το 5αρι και ολα τα 5αρια του κοσμου- ψυχαναλυτικα /φιλοσοφικα. Ο Τσβαιχ λοιπον υπεραναλυει αυτο το συναισθημα που αποτελει ενα δικοπο μαχαιρι :απο τη μια το νοιαξιμο, η εμπαθεια και η λυπη για τα δεινα του συνανθρωπου μας και η προσπαθεια να απαλυνουμε τον πονο του με οποιο τροπο, ακομη και με καποιο αθωο ψεμα. Και απο την αλλη μερια, τι γινεται οταν αυτο το συναισθημα οδηγει τον πλησιον μας στο να μας θεωρησει την απολυτη αφορμη για ζωη, οταν η Εντιθ βλεπει στον οικτο του Αντον το μονο ισως λογο για να προσπαθησει να νικησει την αναπηρια της και να συνεχισει να ζει, αλλα παρ'ολα αυτα ο Αντον δεν ανταποκρινεται σε αυτα τα συναισθηματα γιατι την αντιμετωπιζει μονο με οικτο? Μπορει να ειναι ειλικρινης και να δηλωσει κατι τετοιο με κινδυνο να καταδικασει στη χειροτερη μοιρα μια κοπελα που εναποθετει πανω του τις ελπιδες για μια φυσιολογικη ζωη?
Οπως ανεφερα, δεν εχω λογια για τη συγγραφικη δεινότητα του Τσβαιχ, αλλα κυριως θαυμαζω το ποσο φαινεται οτι ηταν ενας ανθρωπος που ειχε διεισδυσει στη μελετη της ψυχολογιας και των συναισθηματων, παιρνωντας ενα μονο απο αυτα και κανοντας το ενα πολυτιμο βιβλιο. Δεν ειναι τυχαιο αλλωστε οτι τον ιδιο συνεδεε στενη φιλια με τον Φροϊντ, για τον οποιο ειχε πει πως "ο,τι γραφω ειναι σημαδεμενο απο την επιρροη σου και εσυ κατανοεις, πιθανον, πως το κουραγιο να λεω την αληθεια, ισως το σημαντικοτερο πραγμα στα βιβλια μου, προερχεται απο εσενα. Εχεις αποτελεσει προτυπο μιας ολοκληρης γενιας" .
Οπως ανεφερα στην αρχη, υπηρχαν σημεια στο βιβλιο που ισως να μη με ενδιεφεραν τοσο, οσον αφορα στην πλοκη, ωστοσο δε θα μπορουσα να βαλω κατι λιγοτερο απο 5 σε μια τοσο εξυπνη ιδεα και σε ενα τετοιο ιδιοφυες, μελετημενο μυαλο, που στα δικα μου ματια αποτελει αυτο του Τσβαιχ
🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟/5 αστερια
Οπως ανεφερα, δεν εχω λογια για τη συγγραφικη δεινότητα του Τσβαιχ, αλλα κυριως θαυμαζω το ποσο φαινεται οτι ηταν ενας ανθρωπος που ειχε διεισδυσει στη μελετη της ψυχολογιας και των συναισθηματων, παιρνωντας ενα μονο απο αυτα και κανοντας το ενα πολυτιμο βιβλιο. Δεν ειναι τυχαιο αλλωστε οτι τον ιδιο συνεδεε στενη φιλια με τον Φροϊντ, για τον οποιο ειχε πει πως "ο,τι γραφω ειναι σημαδεμενο απο την επιρροη σου και εσυ κατανοεις, πιθανον, πως το κουραγιο να λεω την αληθεια, ισως το σημαντικοτερο πραγμα στα βιβλια μου, προερχεται απο εσενα. Εχεις αποτελεσει προτυπο μιας ολοκληρης γενιας" .
Οπως ανεφερα στην αρχη, υπηρχαν σημεια στο βιβλιο που ισως να μη με ενδιεφεραν τοσο, οσον αφορα στην πλοκη, ωστοσο δε θα μπορουσα να βαλω κατι λιγοτερο απο 5 σε μια τοσο εξυπνη ιδεα και σε ενα τετοιο ιδιοφυες, μελετημενο μυαλο, που στα δικα μου ματια αποτελει αυτο του Τσβαιχ
🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟/5 αστερια
July 6, 2016
Este libro es un catálogo maestro de las emociones y la psicología humanas. En literatura solemos encontrarnos con los grandes temas (el amor, el destino, la muerte…) a menudo tratados de manera muy genérica, sostenidos por numerosos clichés, lo que crea un cosmos que percibimos como factible pero que se aleja en gran medida de nuestro propio mundo interior. Como excepción a esta tendencia, a veces encontramos una obra maestra en la que la forma de sentir de los personajes no es lineal ni absoluta sino que está plagada de errores en los que vemos reflejados nuestras propias contradicciones. Es el caso de este libro de Stefan Zweig.
Reseña completa y mi versión de la portada en https://sidumbledorefueralibrero.com/...
Reseña completa y mi versión de la portada en https://sidumbledorefueralibrero.com/...
October 21, 2017
BEWARE OF PITY (Ungeduld des Herzens, orig. title in German)
[revised 10/21/17]
Pick up a bee from kindness, and learn the limitations of kindness.
Sufi Proverb
Upon finishing this, Stefan Zweig's only completed novel, after reading his memoir, The World of Yesterday, I've found that the Austrian Zweig was one of those singularly gifted observers of the human condition, that come along maybe only once a generation, able to regularly discern the profound in the mundane as if such a talent came like riding a bicycle.
Beware of Pity sated my love for an exploration of human emotions I've not yet encountered in a story but have experienced in the real world. First was pity, and the negative that can flow therefrom. Second is the feeling of having someone in love with you at a time in youth when you want nothing to do with her/him.
Though I'd of course encountered the emotion of pity in other novels, none had made it a central theme and covered it like this novel did.
As for the second--see Zweig's brilliant quote below--I look back with deep regret at how mean and callous I was to the girl, and think how I'd have handled it differently. I'd not seen this fleshed out in a story from the viewpoint of the *unloving beloved* before this one.
The surface moral of this novel is laid out by its title: pity, as an emotion, can result in disaster. The deeper message seems the old maxim, you cannot judge a book by its cover. Hofmiller may wear the medal of the Military Order of Maria Theresa--the highest military decoration Austria could offer, equivalent to the Victoria Cross in Great Britain and the U.S.'s Medal of Honor--but he is plagued by his knowledge that his badge of "courage" actually came from a colossal act of cowardice.
The Austrian writer Stefan Zweig's popularity seems to be making a bit of a comeback, with the new publication of a number of his novellas and his memoir The World of Yesterday in which his writing shines. According to a number of sources, when this novel was published in 1939, Zweig was likely the most popular author in the world, for his short stories, novellas and biographies of famous people.
"Beware of Pity" is the only novel he completed. He wrote it in the United States (where he arrived in 1935) and then England (1938), as a Jewish refugee from Nazi persecution. He and his wife moved to Brazil in 1942 and shortly thereafter committed suicide together.
The story is set in Austria, mostly as it was on the brink of World War I. The tale is told though through a framing narrator (presumably Zweig) who meets the famously decorated cavalry lieutenant Anton Hofmiller at a social function. The narrator asks about the lieutenant's decoration as a hero of WW I, the Military Order of Maria Theresa, which Hofmiller disdains.
To explain why, he must take the narrator (and readers) back to the time he was invited to the castle of an immensely wealthy Hungarian named Lajos Kekesfalva. There, he asked the old man's crippled daughter to dance. A spoiled girl in her late teens, she throws a fit. Feeling pity for the girl, Hofmiller makes trips to see the Kekesfalvas nearly every day for an extended period. He is a man who gets nearly everything wrong: his gaffe that ultimately leads to awful consequences, believing Kekesfalva was a nobleman, and thinking the girl's doctor was incompetent, and leading the girl to believe she and he were engaged to be married only to deny it later in the evening, fearful of what his peers may think of him.
The "Torment" of Being "Loved Against Your Will
[revised 10/21/17]
Pick up a bee from kindness, and learn the limitations of kindness.
Sufi Proverb
Upon finishing this, Stefan Zweig's only completed novel, after reading his memoir, The World of Yesterday, I've found that the Austrian Zweig was one of those singularly gifted observers of the human condition, that come along maybe only once a generation, able to regularly discern the profound in the mundane as if such a talent came like riding a bicycle.
Beware of Pity sated my love for an exploration of human emotions I've not yet encountered in a story but have experienced in the real world. First was pity, and the negative that can flow therefrom. Second is the feeling of having someone in love with you at a time in youth when you want nothing to do with her/him.
Though I'd of course encountered the emotion of pity in other novels, none had made it a central theme and covered it like this novel did.
As for the second--see Zweig's brilliant quote below--I look back with deep regret at how mean and callous I was to the girl, and think how I'd have handled it differently. I'd not seen this fleshed out in a story from the viewpoint of the *unloving beloved* before this one.
The surface moral of this novel is laid out by its title: pity, as an emotion, can result in disaster. The deeper message seems the old maxim, you cannot judge a book by its cover. Hofmiller may wear the medal of the Military Order of Maria Theresa--the highest military decoration Austria could offer, equivalent to the Victoria Cross in Great Britain and the U.S.'s Medal of Honor--but he is plagued by his knowledge that his badge of "courage" actually came from a colossal act of cowardice.
The Austrian writer Stefan Zweig's popularity seems to be making a bit of a comeback, with the new publication of a number of his novellas and his memoir The World of Yesterday in which his writing shines. According to a number of sources, when this novel was published in 1939, Zweig was likely the most popular author in the world, for his short stories, novellas and biographies of famous people.
"Beware of Pity" is the only novel he completed. He wrote it in the United States (where he arrived in 1935) and then England (1938), as a Jewish refugee from Nazi persecution. He and his wife moved to Brazil in 1942 and shortly thereafter committed suicide together.
The story is set in Austria, mostly as it was on the brink of World War I. The tale is told though through a framing narrator (presumably Zweig) who meets the famously decorated cavalry lieutenant Anton Hofmiller at a social function. The narrator asks about the lieutenant's decoration as a hero of WW I, the Military Order of Maria Theresa, which Hofmiller disdains.
To explain why, he must take the narrator (and readers) back to the time he was invited to the castle of an immensely wealthy Hungarian named Lajos Kekesfalva. There, he asked the old man's crippled daughter to dance. A spoiled girl in her late teens, she throws a fit. Feeling pity for the girl, Hofmiller makes trips to see the Kekesfalvas nearly every day for an extended period. He is a man who gets nearly everything wrong: his gaffe that ultimately leads to awful consequences, believing Kekesfalva was a nobleman, and thinking the girl's doctor was incompetent, and leading the girl to believe she and he were engaged to be married only to deny it later in the evening, fearful of what his peers may think of him.
The "Torment" of Being "Loved Against Your Will
"a worse torment, perhaps, than feeling love and desire...is to be loved against your will, when you cannot defend yourself against the passion thrust upon you. It is worse to see someone beside herself, burning with the flames of desire, and stand by powerless, unable to find the strength to snatch her from the fire.
If you are unhappily in love yourself, you may sometimes be able to tame your passion because you are the author of your own unhappiness, not just its creature. If a lover can't control his passion then at least his suffering is his own fault. But there is nothing someone who is loved and does not love in return can do about it since it is beyond his own power to determine the extent and limits of that love and no willpower of his own can keep someone else from loving him." Beware of Pity, Stefan Zweig
June 6, 2022
În mod bizar, este, în același timp, un roman și foarte previzibil, și foarte greu de lăsat din mână. Eu numesc tehnica asta măiestrie.
December 23, 2011
This is one of the best books I've ever read. It does everything that really great books should do. It takes the idea of pity and really explores it as a human emotion. It left me feeling as if I might be a bit wiser about how to be a decent human being. On top of that, it is readable and I found it a bit of a page-turner due to the brilliant characters.
It is so cleverly constructed too; a layering of narrative on narrative so that as each person tells a story or relates a rumour they all begin to echo and resonate with each other. Even the word pity itself builds up in subtle shades of meaning so that everytime it is used it becomes like an ominous bell sounding.
If the writing is criticised as being melodramatic, I took it to be a characterisation of the first person narrator. He is constantly vacillating between over-zealous despondency and naive joy. I just couldn't find a fault with this and I'm stunned that it has taken me 27 years to find Stefan Zweig.
Just my type of novel: detailed, psychologically nuanced, and deep.
It is so cleverly constructed too; a layering of narrative on narrative so that as each person tells a story or relates a rumour they all begin to echo and resonate with each other. Even the word pity itself builds up in subtle shades of meaning so that everytime it is used it becomes like an ominous bell sounding.
If the writing is criticised as being melodramatic, I took it to be a characterisation of the first person narrator. He is constantly vacillating between over-zealous despondency and naive joy. I just couldn't find a fault with this and I'm stunned that it has taken me 27 years to find Stefan Zweig.
Just my type of novel: detailed, psychologically nuanced, and deep.
Want to Read
July 24, 2025About fifteen years ago, one of my best friends told me to read this book with almost no explanation given.
She and I have very different reading tastes, we are complete opposites in our respective approaches to certain genres and topics in fiction (see, you can be besties with people who hate your book babies!), and it's rare that we coincide in liking the same book. When we do coincide in liking a book, one of us always likes it more or likes it less than the other. And you can imagine what happens when we hate the same book.
So, that she'd drop this book on me with a short "read this" was her way of 5-starring and highly recommending it. Why? She didn't tell me at the time.
But tell me she did, eventually. In a book discussion, she brought this book up, and I finally understood. Perhaps more than anyone else in the audience because I knew her. There's a lot of her personal experience in this story, with the differences in time and culture and specific circumstances. She confirmed that to me in person later.
I've never read a book for how someone I know relates to the story within its pages, and I avoided this book. Not deliberately, because I had a copy as soon as it was recced to me but gave it away a little later, and forgot. My sister read it before me, she picks up the books I discard. And this was simply erased from my memory.
How does it feel to find a book that speaks to you as if it were about you? I have no idea. In a lifetime of reading, I have not found such a book for myself. I'm curious now. I got my old copy back, and I'll find out.
She and I have very different reading tastes, we are complete opposites in our respective approaches to certain genres and topics in fiction (see, you can be besties with people who hate your book babies!), and it's rare that we coincide in liking the same book. When we do coincide in liking a book, one of us always likes it more or likes it less than the other. And you can imagine what happens when we hate the same book.
So, that she'd drop this book on me with a short "read this" was her way of 5-starring and highly recommending it. Why? She didn't tell me at the time.
But tell me she did, eventually. In a book discussion, she brought this book up, and I finally understood. Perhaps more than anyone else in the audience because I knew her. There's a lot of her personal experience in this story, with the differences in time and culture and specific circumstances. She confirmed that to me in person later.
I've never read a book for how someone I know relates to the story within its pages, and I avoided this book. Not deliberately, because I had a copy as soon as it was recced to me but gave it away a little later, and forgot. My sister read it before me, she picks up the books I discard. And this was simply erased from my memory.
How does it feel to find a book that speaks to you as if it were about you? I have no idea. In a lifetime of reading, I have not found such a book for myself. I'm curious now. I got my old copy back, and I'll find out.
March 4, 2022
Ο « επικίνδυνος οίκτος» αυτό το επικό ψυχολογικό έργο το οποίο απλώνεται σαν διάφανο πέπλο πάνω απο τις συνειδητές και ασυνείδητες αδυναμίες των συναισθηματικών συγχύσεων με μια ισχυρή και πανανθρώπινη αλήθεια που κόβει την ανάσα και ανατέμνει την απατηλή καρδιά.
Αυτό, είναι το μοναδικό ολοκληρωμένο μυθιστόρημα
του τεράστιου Αυστριακού πεζογράφου Στέφαν Τσβάιχ.
Μια συνηθισμένη ιστορία μονόπλευρης αγάπης, εμμονής, εξαπάτησης και εξάρτησης χωρίς να ξεκαθαρίζεται το θύμα και ο θύτης.
Ως την τελευταία λέξη οι βασικοί μας ήρωες βασανίζονται, χαίρονται, πονούν, ερωτεύονται, οικτίρουν επικίνδυνα σπέρνοντας το μικρόβιο του εγωισμού ακόμη και μέσα στα πιο βαθιά συναισθήματα.
Ο Στέφαν Τσβάιχ είναι μαθητής τριων διαφορετικών ουσιαστικά δασκάλων. Μωπασάν, Τουργκένιεφ και Τσέχοφ, άφησαν τα ανεξίτηλα τατουάζ της ενσυναίσθησης που προκαλούσαν την δημιουργία μιας υπερβολικά συναρπαστικής τέχνης αναφορικά με τα διηγήματα και τις νουβέλες του μαθητή τους.
Τον έκαναν ένα επιτυχημένο ταριχευτή ψυχών.
Κάτι που φυσικά προϋπήρχε μέσα του μα απλώς θέριεψε και άνθισε, πολλαπλασιάστηκε και έγινε το δάσος της απογύμνωσης των ψευδαισθήσεων, σε μια πολιτισμική ζούγκλα ανθρώπινων αξιών, μεθυστικών αισθήσεων, ακυβέρνητων αισθημάτων και ηθικά συγκλονιστικών αναφορών για τη δύναμη της μυθοπλασίας.
Η αγάπη και ο εγωιστικός δεσποτισμός μιας δεκαεπτάχρονης δυστυχισμένης, ανάπηρης γυναίκας( σε μυαλό και επιθυμίες) προς έναν αξιωματικό του ιππικού, αυστροουγγρικής καταγωγής, νέου και όμορφου.
Η ζωή του και τα όνειρα που του επιτρέπουν για να ταξιδεύει με καλπασμό προς την προσωπική του ευτυχία σταθμεύουν στην άκρη της αυτοκρατορίας.
Είναι ένας φτωχός υπίλαρχος, λαϊκής καταγωγής με πολλή προσπάθεια αυτοσυγκράτησης σχετικά με τα έξοδα του και οικονομικό αδιέξοδο στην περίπτωση μη καταταγής του στους στρατιωτικούς κόλπους και τα τιμητικά αξιώματα υπέρ της πατρίδας.
Προσκαλείται σε ένα πάρτι στο σπίτι ενός πλούσιου ντόπιου γαιοκτήμονα, κάπως έτσι μπαίνει σε έναν άλλο κόσμο μακριά από τη θλιβερή ρουτίνα των στρατώνων. Κάπως έτσι γνωρίζει την ανάπηρη κόρη του πλούσιου οικοδεσπότη. Κάπως έτσι, εκείνη τον ερωτεύεται με πάθος και μανία και εκείνος αφήνεται να μολυνθεί ανίατα απο τον επικίνδυνο και τρομακτικά ισχυρό
Οίκτο.
« Υπάρχουν δυο είδη οίκτου. Ο ένας αδύναμος και αισθηματικός, δεν είναι,στην πραγματικότητα, παρά η ανυπομονησία της καρδιάς να διώξει όσο γίνεται γρηγορότερα, τη θλίψη που νιώθει μπρος τη δυστυχία του αλλού : Αυτός δεν είναι αληθινός οίκτος, αλλά μια ενστικτώδης υπεράσπιση της ψυχής απο την ξένη δυστυχία. Ο άλλος, ο μόνος που αξίζει, δεν είναι αισθηματολογία, μα δημιουργικός οίκτος, που ξέρει τι θέλει, κι είναι αποφασισμένος να υποστεί με επιμονή και υπομονή το καθετί, ως τα έσχατα όρια της ανθρώπινης αντοχής κι ακόμα πιο πέρα».
Καλή ανάγνωση.
Πολλούς και σεμνούς ασπασμούς.
Αυτό, είναι το μοναδικό ολοκληρωμένο μυθιστόρημα
του τεράστιου Αυστριακού πεζογράφου Στέφαν Τσβάιχ.
Μια συνηθισμένη ιστορία μονόπλευρης αγάπης, εμμονής, εξαπάτησης και εξάρτησης χωρίς να ξεκαθαρίζεται το θύμα και ο θύτης.
Ως την τελευταία λέξη οι βασικοί μας ήρωες βασανίζονται, χαίρονται, πονούν, ερωτεύονται, οικτίρουν επικίνδυνα σπέρνοντας το μικρόβιο του εγωισμού ακόμη και μέσα στα πιο βαθιά συναισθήματα.
Ο Στέφαν Τσβάιχ είναι μαθητής τριων διαφορετικών ουσιαστικά δασκάλων. Μωπασάν, Τουργκένιεφ και Τσέχοφ, άφησαν τα ανεξίτηλα τατουάζ της ενσυναίσθησης που προκαλούσαν την δημιουργία μιας υπερβολικά συναρπαστικής τέχνης αναφορικά με τα διηγήματα και τις νουβέλες του μαθητή τους.
Τον έκαναν ένα επιτυχημένο ταριχευτή ψυχών.
Κάτι που φυσικά προϋπήρχε μέσα του μα απλώς θέριεψε και άνθισε, πολλαπλασιάστηκε και έγινε το δάσος της απογύμνωσης των ψευδαισθήσεων, σε μια πολιτισμική ζούγκλα ανθρώπινων αξιών, μεθυστικών αισθήσεων, ακυβέρνητων αισθημάτων και ηθικά συγκλονιστικών αναφορών για τη δύναμη της μυθοπλασίας.
Η αγάπη και ο εγωιστικός δεσποτισμός μιας δεκαεπτάχρονης δυστυχισμένης, ανάπηρης γυναίκας( σε μυαλό και επιθυμίες) προς έναν αξιωματικό του ιππικού, αυστροουγγρικής καταγωγής, νέου και όμορφου.
Η ζωή του και τα όνειρα που του επιτρέπουν για να ταξιδεύει με καλπασμό προς την προσωπική του ευτυχία σταθμεύουν στην άκρη της αυτοκρατορίας.
Είναι ένας φτωχός υπίλαρχος, λαϊκής καταγωγής με πολλή προσπάθεια αυτοσυγκράτησης σχετικά με τα έξοδα του και οικονομικό αδιέξοδο στην περίπτωση μη καταταγής του στους στρατιωτικούς κόλπους και τα τιμητικά αξιώματα υπέρ της πατρίδας.
Προσκαλείται σε ένα πάρτι στο σπίτι ενός πλούσιου ντόπιου γαιοκτήμονα, κάπως έτσι μπαίνει σε έναν άλλο κόσμο μακριά από τη θλιβερή ρουτίνα των στρατώνων. Κάπως έτσι γνωρίζει την ανάπηρη κόρη του πλούσιου οικοδεσπότη. Κάπως έτσι, εκείνη τον ερωτεύεται με πάθος και μανία και εκείνος αφήνεται να μολυνθεί ανίατα απο τον επικίνδυνο και τρομακτικά ισχυρό
Οίκτο.
« Υπάρχουν δυο είδη οίκτου. Ο ένας αδύναμος και αισθηματικός, δεν είναι,στην πραγματικότητα, παρά η ανυπομονησία της καρδιάς να διώξει όσο γίνεται γρηγορότερα, τη θλίψη που νιώθει μπρος τη δυστυχία του αλλού : Αυτός δεν είναι αληθινός οίκτος, αλλά μια ενστικτώδης υπεράσπιση της ψυχής απο την ξένη δυστυχία. Ο άλλος, ο μόνος που αξίζει, δεν είναι αισθηματολογία, μα δημιουργικός οίκτος, που ξέρει τι θέλει, κι είναι αποφασισμένος να υποστεί με επιμονή και υπομονή το καθετί, ως τα έσχατα όρια της ανθρώπινης αντοχής κι ακόμα πιο πέρα».
Καλή ανάγνωση.
Πολλούς και σεμνούς ασπασμούς.
April 11, 2017
حذارِ من الشفقة !
حذارِ من الحب !
___
جرفني ستيفان لزوايا النفس بتعقيداتها،
لمن نضحي وكيف ومتى .. ؟؟
لمن باستطاعتنا أن نتنازل عن أغلى ما نملك أو حتى أثمن ما نستطيع .. ؟؟
هل الحذر من الشفقة .. هو الخوف من إظهار أجمل ما تكنه أعماقنا الإنسانية، أم الخوف لأن في ذلك وأد للروح وما تريد ؟
لم يعلق في نفسي شيء من ذلك البطل أكثر من أن كنت حائرة، تائهة .. بين أن يحب بعزيمة شجاعة أو ينسحب ويهرب كجبان ..
وحينما أفكر بعقلة .. أتسائل :
كيف يتخلى المرء عن تلك الذاتية مع مفترق الدربين والتمزق .. ألا يحق له أن يختار ما يشاء ؟!
ألا يحق له أن يتبع ما يملي عليه قلبه وذوقه ؟!
أم أن واجب التضحية يلزمه بأكثر من ذلك ؟!
ويفصّل له اختيارات أكبر من مقاساته ليغطي بها هموم من يعاني بعمق ؟!
في النفس خواء .. لا يملأه إلا الخير. حينما تاهت خطاه تقدم نحوها، أشفق لمصابها، شعر بما لم يشعر به من قبل ..
أن تتعاطف شيء ليس بالغريب.
ولكن أن تعيش على ذلك التعاطف وتجري في بشرتك شمس الحياة بذاتها لأنك منحت نفساً بسمة تحتاجها بل في أمس الحاجة لها.
وبعد أن تُشبع خواك وتمتلأُ بالفرح تقلق على ذلك المسار الغامض والذي يخرج التعاطف عن مساره ويرديك إلى حتفك المحتمل.
أقصد إلى عذابك المستمر .. مع الصراع على تهدأة النيران حولك ثم لا يحترق بها أحداً سواك.
وتُفكر ..
هل خلقت لأنقذ العالم وأضحي لأجل كسيحة متكومة على نفسها ككومة قش .. أم أعيش حريتي بطلاقة واختيار حر ..!
عفواً ..
كيف تأتي الحرية بعد أن كبّلت قلباً بحبك ؟!
كيف تأتي الحرية بعد أن هامت بك دون أن يرف منك لها شعور ..
ثم لا ترى منها إلا النقص ولم تفكر كيف يشعر المريض في عزلته وفقد اتزانة.
وهل الحياة سلسلة من التضحيات حتى أقع من بدايتها إلى نهايتها ؟!
ربما نعم ..
لأنها الآن تفقد مع كل يوم جزءاً من ذاتها ويتضخم في صدرها ذلك الحب الخبيث لمن لا يلتفت لها إلا بدافع الشفقة والحرص على سعادته من خلالها ..
من خلال العطاء الكاذب.
ليست المعاناة في النقص فحسب بل حتى في لوحة الفن والحياة، النقص جزء من الجمال والكمال .. وحتى العيوب ليست كما نظن عيوباً بما تحمله من ثقل .. إنما حتى النقص والعيب يأتي بصورة متناغمة مع وتيرة الكون بأكمله.
متى يبدأ الإنسان بالنكران .. حتى ينقلب الحذر إلى ترقب إلى صراع مرير يمزقه من الداخل ويستولي على عرش روحه ..
كيف أستمر .. -يتسائل- وأنا لا أكن لها الحب ؟!
كيف أبدل مزاج الشفقة وغطاءه إلى صراحة الحب وثقته ..
لا أحبها ..
إنما أشفق عليها ..
صراع مرير مع الذات وفلسفة حلوة .. مرة. قادتني مع قلم ستيفان لعالم مرير بشفافية تطبع على النفس حلاوة المرارة وذكاء الذات مع المعاناة والهم.
شكراً محمد علي على هذا الاقتراح المميز✨
حذارِ من الشفقة !
حذارِ من الحب !
___
جرفني ستيفان لزوايا النفس بتعقيداتها،
لمن نضحي وكيف ومتى .. ؟؟
لمن باستطاعتنا أن نتنازل عن أغلى ما نملك أو حتى أثمن ما نستطيع .. ؟؟
هل الحذر من الشفقة .. هو الخوف من إظهار أجمل ما تكنه أعماقنا الإنسانية، أم الخوف لأن في ذلك وأد للروح وما تريد ؟
لم يعلق في نفسي شيء من ذلك البطل أكثر من أن كنت حائرة، تائهة .. بين أن يحب بعزيمة شجاعة أو ينسحب ويهرب كجبان ..
وحينما أفكر بعقلة .. أتسائل :
كيف يتخلى المرء عن تلك الذاتية مع مفترق الدربين والتمزق .. ألا يحق له أن يختار ما يشاء ؟!
ألا يحق له أن يتبع ما يملي عليه قلبه وذوقه ؟!
أم أن واجب التضحية يلزمه بأكثر من ذلك ؟!
ويفصّل له اختيارات أكبر من مقاساته ليغطي بها هموم من يعاني بعمق ؟!
في النفس خواء .. لا يملأه إلا الخير. حينما تاهت خطاه تقدم نحوها، أشفق لمصابها، شعر بما لم يشعر به من قبل ..
أن تتعاطف شيء ليس بالغريب.
ولكن أن تعيش على ذلك التعاطف وتجري في بشرتك شمس الحياة بذاتها لأنك منحت نفساً بسمة تحتاجها بل في أمس الحاجة لها.
وبعد أن تُشبع خواك وتمتلأُ بالفرح تقلق على ذلك المسار الغامض والذي يخرج التعاطف عن مساره ويرديك إلى حتفك المحتمل.
أقصد إلى عذابك المستمر .. مع الصراع على تهدأة النيران حولك ثم لا يحترق بها أحداً سواك.
وتُفكر ..
هل خلقت لأنقذ العالم وأضحي لأجل كسيحة متكومة على نفسها ككومة قش .. أم أعيش حريتي بطلاقة واختيار حر ..!
عفواً ..
كيف تأتي الحرية بعد أن كبّلت قلباً بحبك ؟!
كيف تأتي الحرية بعد أن هامت بك دون أن يرف منك لها شعور ..
ثم لا ترى منها إلا النقص ولم تفكر كيف يشعر المريض في عزلته وفقد اتزانة.
وهل الحياة سلسلة من التضحيات حتى أقع من بدايتها إلى نهايتها ؟!
ربما نعم ..
لأنها الآن تفقد مع كل يوم جزءاً من ذاتها ويتضخم في صدرها ذلك الحب الخبيث لمن لا يلتفت لها إلا بدافع الشفقة والحرص على سعادته من خلالها ..
من خلال العطاء الكاذب.
ليست المعاناة في النقص فحسب بل حتى في لوحة الفن والحياة، النقص جزء من الجمال والكمال .. وحتى العيوب ليست كما نظن عيوباً بما تحمله من ثقل .. إنما حتى النقص والعيب يأتي بصورة متناغمة مع وتيرة الكون بأكمله.
متى يبدأ الإنسان بالنكران .. حتى ينقلب الحذر إلى ترقب إلى صراع مرير يمزقه من الداخل ويستولي على عرش روحه ..
كيف أستمر .. -يتسائل- وأنا لا أكن لها الحب ؟!
كيف أبدل مزاج الشفقة وغطاءه إلى صراحة الحب وثقته ..
لا أحبها ..
إنما أشفق عليها ..
صراع مرير مع الذات وفلسفة حلوة .. مرة. قادتني مع قلم ستيفان لعالم مرير بشفافية تطبع على النفس حلاوة المرارة وذكاء الذات مع المعاناة والهم.
شكراً محمد علي على هذا الاقتراح المميز✨
June 12, 2022
إن الذين امتحنتهم الأقدار بضربات قاسية
يعيشون طيلة حياتهم
مرهفي الإحساس ، سريعي التأثر.
يعيشون طيلة حياتهم
مرهفي الإحساس ، سريعي التأثر.
March 6, 2018
I'd heard good things about Zweig but gosh, this book is unconvincing melodrama. There's the germ of a taut novella here but dragging the whole thing out to 450 pages wore me down. There's just so much of everything: some relevant, a whole load just waffle.
Although written in 1938, this has the turgid feel of something far older. We might not know, from the book, that Hitler has annexed Austria and that WW2 is close to starting - instead the assassination of Archduke Ferdinand, one of the causes of WW1, is used to interrupt the tiresome 'affair' of the paralysed Edith and her reluctant fiance, Hofmiller.
The latter, supposedly a hero of WW1, shows himself to be a fool and a moral coward, passively allowing himself to be dragged into situations merely, it seems, to artificially ramp up the angst. Faced with a difficult occasion what does he do? Flee. Not once, but repeatedly.
To fill out the story further, we have various tale-within-a-tale episodes as minor characters step forward to tell their own stories.
There's an interesting premise here which might have made a piquant and telling novella - stretched to this overlong length, it loses direction rapidly. It was a relief to finish this.
Although written in 1938, this has the turgid feel of something far older. We might not know, from the book, that Hitler has annexed Austria and that WW2 is close to starting - instead the assassination of Archduke Ferdinand, one of the causes of WW1, is used to interrupt the tiresome 'affair' of the paralysed Edith and her reluctant fiance, Hofmiller.
The latter, supposedly a hero of WW1, shows himself to be a fool and a moral coward, passively allowing himself to be dragged into situations merely, it seems, to artificially ramp up the angst. Faced with a difficult occasion what does he do? Flee. Not once, but repeatedly.
To fill out the story further, we have various tale-within-a-tale episodes as minor characters step forward to tell their own stories.
There's an interesting premise here which might have made a piquant and telling novella - stretched to this overlong length, it loses direction rapidly. It was a relief to finish this.
Displaying 1 - 30 of 2,851 reviews