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Clouds over Paris: The Wartime Notebooks of Felix Hartlaub
A unique testament to the persistence of ordinary life through the disaster of modern war, perfect for fans of books like Suite Française
Sharply immediate, evocative diaries from the heart of Occupied Paris in World War II by a classic German writer, in English for the first time
The writer Felix Hartlaub died in obscurity at just 31, vanishing from Berlin in 1945. He left behind a small oeuvre of private writings from the Second World fragments and observations of life from the midst of catastrophe that, with their evocative power and precision, would make a permanent place for him in German letters.
Posted to Paris in 1940 to conduct archival research, Hartlaub recorded his impressions of the unfamiliar city in notebooks that document with unparalleled immediacy the daily realities of occupation.
With a painter's eye for detail, Hartlaub writes of the bustle of civilians and soldiers in cafés, of half-seen trysts during blackout hours and the sublime light of Paris in spring.
Sharply immediate, evocative diaries from the heart of Occupied Paris in World War II by a classic German writer, in English for the first time
The writer Felix Hartlaub died in obscurity at just 31, vanishing from Berlin in 1945. He left behind a small oeuvre of private writings from the Second World fragments and observations of life from the midst of catastrophe that, with their evocative power and precision, would make a permanent place for him in German letters.
Posted to Paris in 1940 to conduct archival research, Hartlaub recorded his impressions of the unfamiliar city in notebooks that document with unparalleled immediacy the daily realities of occupation.
With a painter's eye for detail, Hartlaub writes of the bustle of civilians and soldiers in cafés, of half-seen trysts during blackout hours and the sublime light of Paris in spring.
- GenresNonfictionHistoryFrance
176 pages, Paperback
Published October 10, 2023
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Displaying 1 - 10 of 10 reviews
December 1, 2022
When I was casting around for something suitable to read for Lizzy’s German Lit Month, Clouds Over Paris (The Wartime Notebooks of Felix Hartlaub) caught my eye. It’s a series of vignettes and observations penned by the German-born historian and fledgling writer Felix Hartlaub, who was posted to Paris in 1940 as a researcher for the German Ministry of Foreign Affairs. During his time in the French capital, Hartlaub recorded his impressions of a city under occupation, frequently finding beauty amid the harsh realities of war. As such, Clouds Over Paris offers readers the opportunity to see the city through the eyes of an outsider, a man who felt somewhat uncomfortable about his presence as a German national.
Hartlaub’s style is wonderfully impressionistic (almost stream-of-consciousness in style), and the notebooks are full of evocative imagery, capturing the feel of a city under siege. With an artist’s eye for detail, he writes vividly of soldiers hanging out in cafés and bars, Parisians queuing for food at a butcher’s shop, and anglers fishing in the Seine, their wives desperately waiting to bag any catches. The night-time scenes are particularly atmospheric, with the eerie silence accentuating the sound of soldiers’ movements through the streets.
Blackout. There is an eleven o’clock curfew for Parisians. Only occupying forces are left on the streets, which are deathly quiet. Military boots, solitary or in groups, the odd civilian scooting past, the brim of his hat pulled down low. A breezy night, some big marauding clouds float past at a reasonable height, a burnt-brownish colour. In a patchy bank of cloud, scattered spots of moonlight. Further south, in the rough direction of the Dôme des Invalides, a searchlight shoots up, fixing on a low, ragged cloud, which appears to stop, stretching out paws anew. The searchlight, cut off from the ground, dies away in a fraction of a second. (p. 59)
Something that comes across very strongly here is the sense of discomfort Hartlaub feels about his presence in the city. Unsurprisingly, he is met with suspicion by the French – as an outsider and an occupier, there is an air of isolation surrounding him as he goes about his day.
The icy ring of alienation and mistrust he has cast about him. He is firmly pinned down within it, his gestures winning no space, his words lacking the air to carry. […]
A couple in the neighbouring séparé, back-to-back with him. Muffled words into each other’s shoulders, the silence of long kisses. The couple leave, eyeing him as they go past, in his empty red mirrored compartment. He returns their gaze: benign, full of admiration, and at the same time veiled, not quite there. (pp. 36–37)
Journeys on the Métro only heighten this sense of unease, especially when Hartlaub is required to show his travel pass, the distinctive colouring of which clearly reveals his nationality. Interestingly though, he is equally uneasy in the company of German soldiers with whom he feels ‘no connection whatsoever’ as his eyes land on their epaulettes.
To read the rest of my review, please visit:
https://jacquiwine.wordpress.com/2022...
Hartlaub’s style is wonderfully impressionistic (almost stream-of-consciousness in style), and the notebooks are full of evocative imagery, capturing the feel of a city under siege. With an artist’s eye for detail, he writes vividly of soldiers hanging out in cafés and bars, Parisians queuing for food at a butcher’s shop, and anglers fishing in the Seine, their wives desperately waiting to bag any catches. The night-time scenes are particularly atmospheric, with the eerie silence accentuating the sound of soldiers’ movements through the streets.
Blackout. There is an eleven o’clock curfew for Parisians. Only occupying forces are left on the streets, which are deathly quiet. Military boots, solitary or in groups, the odd civilian scooting past, the brim of his hat pulled down low. A breezy night, some big marauding clouds float past at a reasonable height, a burnt-brownish colour. In a patchy bank of cloud, scattered spots of moonlight. Further south, in the rough direction of the Dôme des Invalides, a searchlight shoots up, fixing on a low, ragged cloud, which appears to stop, stretching out paws anew. The searchlight, cut off from the ground, dies away in a fraction of a second. (p. 59)
Something that comes across very strongly here is the sense of discomfort Hartlaub feels about his presence in the city. Unsurprisingly, he is met with suspicion by the French – as an outsider and an occupier, there is an air of isolation surrounding him as he goes about his day.
The icy ring of alienation and mistrust he has cast about him. He is firmly pinned down within it, his gestures winning no space, his words lacking the air to carry. […]
A couple in the neighbouring séparé, back-to-back with him. Muffled words into each other’s shoulders, the silence of long kisses. The couple leave, eyeing him as they go past, in his empty red mirrored compartment. He returns their gaze: benign, full of admiration, and at the same time veiled, not quite there. (pp. 36–37)
Journeys on the Métro only heighten this sense of unease, especially when Hartlaub is required to show his travel pass, the distinctive colouring of which clearly reveals his nationality. Interestingly though, he is equally uneasy in the company of German soldiers with whom he feels ‘no connection whatsoever’ as his eyes land on their epaulettes.
To read the rest of my review, please visit:
https://jacquiwine.wordpress.com/2022...
October 26, 2024
So, first of all, let's be clear about what we're reading here.
I found this title among fiction ones of the re-publisher (Pushkin Press Classics) and was surprised to see a non-fiction book among them. Oh, some kind of journal or memoirs! Then I got it when I wanted to read about the daily reality of people in Paris under occupation. Very early on, even skipping the introduction, I understood what this is. Not a reality, but sketches for a novel, gathering of material, ideas.
While in essence those literally painterly sketches are probably his daily observations, how can we tell what was real, i.e. history, and what is made up? Which details did he add and which details were actually there? Which important ones did he maybe remove? The reality/history dissolves and is replaced by mere fiction.
If you read it like that and are okay with it, then it becomes a very interesting read/experience. Because when do you get to read someone's field notes, not a novel, not a history?
But I've never felt as deceived by publishers as in this case. To me it really matters if a book falls into the bucket that says "reality" or the one that says "fiction". Yes, things are never 100% this or that, one can object, but that's the outcome of the process and limitations of being human, but what matters, maybe the most, is the initial intention. And that, in the case of Clouds over Paris, was clearly mislabeled.
(One more observation: it's a very dense and rather difficult read; lines and lines of equal descriptions without a clear key for the choice, for what to focus on; just as writers tend to do, piling up lines and lines of material to choose useful bits from later on, and maybe to practice.)
I found this title among fiction ones of the re-publisher (Pushkin Press Classics) and was surprised to see a non-fiction book among them. Oh, some kind of journal or memoirs! Then I got it when I wanted to read about the daily reality of people in Paris under occupation. Very early on, even skipping the introduction, I understood what this is. Not a reality, but sketches for a novel, gathering of material, ideas.
While in essence those literally painterly sketches are probably his daily observations, how can we tell what was real, i.e. history, and what is made up? Which details did he add and which details were actually there? Which important ones did he maybe remove? The reality/history dissolves and is replaced by mere fiction.
If you read it like that and are okay with it, then it becomes a very interesting read/experience. Because when do you get to read someone's field notes, not a novel, not a history?
But I've never felt as deceived by publishers as in this case. To me it really matters if a book falls into the bucket that says "reality" or the one that says "fiction". Yes, things are never 100% this or that, one can object, but that's the outcome of the process and limitations of being human, but what matters, maybe the most, is the initial intention. And that, in the case of Clouds over Paris, was clearly mislabeled.
(One more observation: it's a very dense and rather difficult read; lines and lines of equal descriptions without a clear key for the choice, for what to focus on; just as writers tend to do, piling up lines and lines of material to choose useful bits from later on, and maybe to practice.)
December 9, 2023
Come here only for the most impressionistic view of what it was like to be a German soldier in the semi-emptied Paris of wartime Europe. Taking us through the spring and summer of 1941, we see visits to cafes in areas rife with knocking shops and iffy liaisons – this is a place where half the girls would have been due a hair-shaving at the end of the war, by this reckoning, with much of the male population showing errant dislike of the Nazi uniform and the Germanic face. And their great military coats. And their soldier's ration cards, and… We see the odd fact the antiques shops were still up and running, but for me there was too much impressionism – bursts of dramatically OTT weather talk, fragmentary sentences, whole pieces running into incompletion. Even less friendly is the way this breaks out into stumbled French, showing the awkwardness of any German trying to be polite or sociable but very much alienating the monoglot English generic reader such as me.
This comes across as a radio play at times – fragments of stolen conversation and overheard French leaking into their place between the street names, architectural notes and those weather observations. But it also comes across as clearly not being polished enough for publication – the introduction here speaks of this being a young writer practising, generating note-like material for later fictions. Obviously the war is the reason some of his sketches, included, were drawn out on mathematical paper, but this too had a for-personal-use only kind of feel I didn't take to. The scope is there for many to like this a lot more than I did, but I didn't get on terribly well with the stylised contents.
This comes across as a radio play at times – fragments of stolen conversation and overheard French leaking into their place between the street names, architectural notes and those weather observations. But it also comes across as clearly not being polished enough for publication – the introduction here speaks of this being a young writer practising, generating note-like material for later fictions. Obviously the war is the reason some of his sketches, included, were drawn out on mathematical paper, but this too had a for-personal-use only kind of feel I didn't take to. The scope is there for many to like this a lot more than I did, but I didn't get on terribly well with the stylised contents.
May 9, 2023
Clouds Over Paris is not a narrative nor a day-by-day memoir, but it is a set of observations and notes about what Hartlaub witnessed, talked about and understood from his time in the city under the occupation.
The language of his writings is lyrical and brings to life the city’s colour, sights and sounds in its darkest period in modern history. There’s an initial naivety about his role and presence in the city that comes across clearly, and I was left wondering to what extent – if any at all – he openly questioned the occupation. What is abundantly obvious is that the naivety soon dissipated. Towards the end of the 1939/45 war, his notes become darker and more heavily tainted with despair and disbelief.
He published little within his short lifetime, but the scraps of notes and observations that still exist are a testament to a writer who might have achieved much had he survived. His keen insights and eye for detail might have given us, here in the 21st century, a compellingly different story of the 1939/45 conflict.
The language of his writings is lyrical and brings to life the city’s colour, sights and sounds in its darkest period in modern history. There’s an initial naivety about his role and presence in the city that comes across clearly, and I was left wondering to what extent – if any at all – he openly questioned the occupation. What is abundantly obvious is that the naivety soon dissipated. Towards the end of the 1939/45 war, his notes become darker and more heavily tainted with despair and disbelief.
He published little within his short lifetime, but the scraps of notes and observations that still exist are a testament to a writer who might have achieved much had he survived. His keen insights and eye for detail might have given us, here in the 21st century, a compellingly different story of the 1939/45 conflict.
February 25, 2024
I was inspired to read this by Patrick Modiano's endorsement of Hartlaub in his book Dora Bruder but I was disappointed. These are extracts from Hartlaub's notebooks covering his time as a German soldier in Paris in 1941. Most of the notes consist of fragmentary descriptions of cityscapes, buildings, countryside and the weather –the very stuff I often skip in novels so I can get to the human psychology and interactions. The final third is more interesting with its focus on the motley collection of amateur and professional prostitutes, hungry Parisians avoiding eye-contact with the German occupiers, and rich Parisians hobnobbing with German officers in exclusive restaurants. The translation by Simon Beattie, however, is godawful—he has the German soldiers speaking cockney (Cor Blimey!) and insists on calling the lower ranks "squaddies" which completely destroys the atmosphere of Germans in Paris. I don't want to give up on Hartlaub though so I will just have to brush up on my high school German and see if I can read the good bits of Von Unter Gesehen in the original.
July 18, 2024
I've not read Junger's diary, but you get the feeling that this might be of a different direction. A large portion is literally descriptions of clouds floating over architectural details of Paris. Occasionally dipping into the lives of people he encounters, the removal of a self referencing 'I' changed to 'he' you can loose track in places of our narrator. At times an unconvinced occupier of the city, whether he should be speaking French or German, the comparison of his bowel and the song seems to be a revelatory moment.
An interesting read, from an enigmatic author who disappeared in 1945, these notebooks as the introduction by Rudigor Gorner suggests show a glimpse of promising prose. Also includes sketches.
An interesting read, from an enigmatic author who disappeared in 1945, these notebooks as the introduction by Rudigor Gorner suggests show a glimpse of promising prose. Also includes sketches.
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March 18, 2024I’m choosing not to rate this book, which contains observations the writer compiled, most likely for his own use in future writings, while a member of the German occupying forces in Paris 1941. The author didn’t survive the war (he disappeared during the defense of Berlin in 1945), so he never had a chance to follow up on whatever his original intentions for these notes might have been. While most of the writing is quite neutral, of the “what I noticed on my walk today” variety, I found myself wondering if these jottings were meant to help him remember certain experiences later, when it might have been safe to share his feelings about the war and his part in it.
December 30, 2022
Honestly not sure why this was published. Just because a Nazi can write (painfully) descriptive prose doesn’t mean it’s noteworthy.
There’s only about 10 pages of content that actually deals with the author’s involvement (direct and indirect) in occupation of Paris. The rest is just descriptions of clouds and streets.
There is one good story where he gets owned at a brothel. That’s about it.
There’s only about 10 pages of content that actually deals with the author’s involvement (direct and indirect) in occupation of Paris. The rest is just descriptions of clouds and streets.
There is one good story where he gets owned at a brothel. That’s about it.
April 10, 2023
Properly supported, appreciated for what it is, Hartlaub’s text would merit a higher rating. It offers vivid glimpses of a particular place and time from an unexpected perspective.
But the publisher chose to see their target audience in a very narrow way: the educated Brit who reads French and knows the geography of Paris. French is not translated, and one misses, at least, a map.
But the publisher chose to see their target audience in a very narrow way: the educated Brit who reads French and knows the geography of Paris. French is not translated, and one misses, at least, a map.
March 25, 2023
Jottings of a German soldier in occupied Paris during the Second World War. Shows total disregard for the obvious plight of the civilians living under german command.
Displaying 1 - 10 of 10 reviews