A Schoolboy's Diary and Other Stories

by Robert Walser, Damion Searls (Translation), Ben Lerner (Introduction)

A Schoolboy’s Diary brings together more than seventy of Robert Walser’s strange and wonderful stories, most never before available in English. Opening with a sequence from Walser’s first book, “Fritz Kocher’s Essays,” the complete classroom assignments of a fictional boy who has met a tragically early death, this selection ranges from sketches of uncomprehending editors, overly passionate readers, and dreamy artists to tales of devilish adultery, sexual encounters on a train, and Walser’s service in World War I. Throughout, Walser’s careening, confounding, delicious voice holds the reader transfixed.

Genres: Short Stories, Fiction, German Literature, Classics, Germany, Literature, 20th Century

209 pages, Kindle Edition

First published January 1, 1903

About the author

Robert Walser, a German-Swiss prose writer and novelist, enjoyed high repute among a select group of authors and critics in Berlin early in his career, only to become nearly forgotten by the time he committed himself to the Waldau mental clinic in Bern in January 1929. Since his death in 1956, however, Walser has been recognized as German Switzerland’s leading author of the first half of the twentieth century, perhaps Switzerland’s single significant modernist. In his homeland he has served as an emboldening exemplar and a national classic during the unparalleled expansion of German-Swiss literature of the last two generations.

Walser’s writing is characterized by its linguistic sophistication and animation. His work exhibits several sets of tensions or contrasts: between a classic modernist devotion to art and a ceaseless questioning of the moral legitimacy and practical utility of art; between a spirited exuberance in style and texture and recurrent reflective melancholy; between the disparate claims of nature and culture; and between democratic respect for divergence in individuals and elitist reaction to the values of the mass culture and standardization of the industrial age.

Reviews

[Kris · Rating 5 out of 5]

Reading Robert Walser can be a dizzying experience. The Swiss writer, who was born in 1878 in Bern and died on Christmas day, 1956 in Herisau, Switzerland, lived through a period of intense social, cultural, and political change, during which traditional ways of life in Europe began to give way to modernism, provincialism was increasingly at odds with the development of urban cultures, and respect for authority and obedience gained a sinister aspect. In a series of brilliant novels and short prose pieces, Walser leaves behind a body of work formed in the crucible of these changes. His voice is singular, his style immediately identifiable to anyone who has read even one of his works.

Although Walser lived for decades at the end of his life in asylums, withdrawn from the world, in his earlier life he lived right at the fault lines of these changes. He served as an apprentice in a bank and later left that safe existence to live as a wandering writer. He experienced life as a successful writer in Berlin, but later left the flurry of urban life behind him, secluding himself and writing a string of novels, one of which, Jakob von Gunten, remains the best starting point to explore his work. In 1913, Walser left Berlin to return to a quiet provincial life in Switzerland. He continued to write briefly, but he had difficulty adjusting to cultural and social changes which were accelerating after World War I. Although he continued to write sporadically, his transient lifestyle and inability to find the equilibrium to carve out a life for himself led him to be committed to a sanatorium in Waldau. He was transferred from Waldau to another asylum in Herisau in 1933, where he lived until his death. (See the wonderful review by J.M. Coetzee, "The Genius of Robert Walser" in the New York Review of Books for more details about his life and work: http://www.nybooks.com/articles/archi...)

NYRB has played an instrumental role in the Walser renaissance, which continues in their upcoming release of this collection, A Schoolboy's Diary and Other Stories (release date September 3, 2013). In it, editor and translator Damion Searls brings together short prose pieces and stories that cover most of Walser's writing career. Some pieces are short sketches. Others are stories. And some are written in the form of brief essays by schoolboys. The selections are well-chosen, and provide an extraordinary perspective on some of the elements that make Walser a unique, important, and beloved writer.

Some of the elements of Walser's style and approach that I appreciate the most are visible in this collection. One of his favorite themes is that of unquestioning obedience by schoolboys and apprentices. In a pure, simple style Walser shows through sudden mood swings and contradictory assertions the irrationality of an authoritarian social and educational system. In the schoolboy essays of Fritz Kocher, Walser gives full, and often humorous, voice to a cultural system that celebrates obedience and punishment. In the essay "Poverty," Kochler writes: "Someone is poor when he comes to school in a torn jacket. Who would deny that? We have several poor boys in our class. They wear tattered clothes, their hands freeze, they have unbeautiful dirty faces and unclean behavior. The teacher treats them more roughly than us, and he is right to. Teachers know what they're doing." In the essay "Man," Kocher follows a stream of consciousness trail that leads him to ask to be punished: "Secretly, I love art. But it's not a secret anymore, not since right now, because now I've been careless and blabbed it. Let me be punished for that and made an example of." In the essay "School," Kochler abrogates all responsibility for certain topics to authority figures:

"In fact I'm surprised we were even given this topic at all. Schoolboys cannot actually talk about the value of school and need for school when they're still stuck in it themselves. Older people should write about things like that. The teacher himself, for instance, or my father, who I think is a wise man. The present time, surrounding you, singling and making noise, cannot be put down in writing in any satisfactory way. You can blabber all kinds of nonsense, but it's a real question whether the mishmash you write (I allow myself the bad manners of describing my work in this way) actually says and means anything. I like school. Anything forced on me, whose necessity has been mutely insisted upon by every side, I try to approach obligingly, and like it. School is the unavoidable choker around the neck of youth, and I confess that it is a valuable piece of jewelry indeed!"

In addition to his focus on obedience, Walser also writes beautiful prose describing country scenes, some of which seem to relate to a fairy tale past that is more and more difficult to see with the onset of modernity and urbanization. In "Ascent by Night" (1914), Walser writes: "I was taking the train through the mountains. It was twilight and the sun was so beautiful. The mountains seemed so big and so powerful to me, and they were too. Hills and valleys make a country rich and great, they win it space. The mountainous nature struck me as extravagant, with its towering rock formations and beautiful dark forests soaring upward. I saw the narrow paths snaking around the mountains, so graceful, so rich in poetry. The sky was clear and high, and men and women were walking along the paths. The houses sat so still, so lovely, on the hillsides. The whole thing seemed to me like a poem, a majestic old poem, passed down to posterity eternally new." As he continues on foot, the narrator keeps banging his head on trees in the dark forest, but he laughs at the pain.

In the story "Hans" (1919), Walser conveys the clash between the freedom of a wandering life, and the looming call of Duty in the form of military service. Hans has lived the free life of a wanderer, rambling through the countryside, in his view living just as well as a baron because he can swim, he can walk where he chooses, he has the freedom to enjoy the beauty of nature and the goodness of others. Hans' response to a military mobilization represents, in a few short paragraphs, the profound ways that world War I transformed life in Central Europe. The story is beautifully written, with a jarring ending that brings home the irreversible changes of life in Europe after WWI.

For the quality of the writing, the temporal scope of the pieces, and the themes it presents, this collection is highly recommended to fans of Robert Walser, new and old alike.

[julieta · Rating 5 out of 5]

Me vuelve loca que el primer libro de Walser sea esta joya. No es una historia, sino que dentro de esos cuadernos, escritos por un personaje, está la ficción misma. Un personaje que no existe. De esta manera original se presenta un autor que es siempre inolvidable, tierno y exacto. Son trabajos de redacción, en donde habla sobre escribir, sobre poetas, la naturaleza, el arte, el amor, la redacción, todo con una maestría y sencillez que no puedes más que disfrutar. Amo a Walser, si no lo han leído, este su primer libro, es un lugar maravilloso para empezar.

[Seemita · Rating 3 out of 5]

That is the most useful thing about school: It tires you out, upsets you, gets you going, it nourishes the imagination, it is the anteroom, the waiting room as it were, of life.

Neat Poster. And a far neater mind who put this right at the entrance of this school. Alright then, let’s get in.

Morning Session:

A gentleman walked into the class and took the teacher’s chair. He introduced himself as Robert Walser. Not bad for a name. He was impeccably suited, with sober, black buttons wrapping his moderate build but the creases at the wrist were conspicuous. Perhaps he writes a little more than everything else he does; he writes without care.

He didn’t ask for opening of text-books or jotting notes. Nor did he ask any questions that would have sent me home. Instead, he asked us to look out. Yeah, like out of the window. Funny fella. But anything that keeps me away from textbooks, yay! to that! So, I looked out with a glint in my eyes and saw hundreds of juxtaposing images. The sky, the trees, the playground, the sand, the tar roads, the buildings, the cars, the gardens, the chatter, the boys, the girls, the flirting, the peeking; they all dancing in my eyes like a man-made fume blazing down a theatre stage. But what was I to make of them? I wanted to ask Mr. Walser but he looked content in sending us into our imagination trail. Perhaps he wanted us to come back and initiate a discussion? Who knows.

Lunch-Break:

I was glad it was time to gorge on my tomato-lettuce-cucumber sandwiches. Having not found any singularly concrete piece of mind-boggling or sense-sweeping substance throughout the last session, I was determined to draw strength from the food for tummy if not the food for soul. Ha! Watch out Mr. Walser. I ain’t listening to your tricks anymore.

Afternoon Session:

And Mr. Walser was back! I wondered if he stepped into our class by mistake. I quickly checked my time-table and it appeared to be allocated to a different subject. But the teacher was the same! What? How can that be? But… well, ok; perhaps I had underestimated his degrees. But the same teacher meant our gazing continued. I was sort of getting used to that activity when all at once he quipped: "What do you hear?" I am sorry but did you say hear? "Listen carefully and you will hear voices." "Voices? Yeah, the banter of school kids" "No, voices that are not as easily audible; voices that aren’t exactly there but yet, they seethe in invisible pockets.” What? Am I in a school or a cemetery? Anyway… I threw my earlobes into the air, opening them full to detect voices. I heard some rustling at the best. The voices (that of my fellow students) were a useless cacophony. But Mr. Walser insisted that voices of wondrous textures lurked in the air and only those with the heart of a musician can catch the notes. I wanted to be first one to raise my hand and announce my musical bent. But I heard only fleeting sound. Was I hearing it wrong? Wouldn’t Mr. Walser consider telling just how am I supposed to position myself, calm my hyperactive mind, tame my fickle heart and focus? To aim for that one point where music was spurting out in fountains? But he remained in the background, saying not another word.

Short-Break:

I jumped out of my seat and set on a short stroll across the school corridor. When I reached the next turn, I ran into our bulky notice board. A new notice was up: Mr. Robert Walser invites application from students to undertake a day tour on Friday, the 15th. Interested students may collect the form from office and drop them into the box placed near Hall R. Whaaaaa..? That’s it? What is the day trip about? Not a word on that?

”School is the unavoidable choker around the neck of youth, and I confess that it is a valuable piece of jewelry indeed.”

Evening Session:

Lo and Behold! Mr. Walser! For taking this session too! I sprung my hand minutes after he entered and asked him about the day trip. ‘My dear girl, how did you fare in the first two sessions?” “I don’t know” I said. “I liked your approach but I am afraid I couldn’t detect any motivating lessons. You refreshed my vision by pointing me to a world vivid with activities and perhaps, learnings. You were not the other teachers I am used to and I was excited at the prospect of being taught in a foreign albeit promising tongue. But you never prodded, never interrupted, never pushed tantalizing comments or arguments that might have set my mind into action. I don’t know if I am reading it proper or pushing my judgment prematurely but with a full 208 minutes dedicated to a world of visible beauty, I wasn’t quite sure how different you made it out to be. I mean in this class, all of us read and all of us are taught. But every student learns things differently not just because he/ she is different but also because the teachers are different. You, Sir, presented to me a picture which was gorgeous when you began revealing it but regretfully, turned routine by the time the whole was disclosed. I am afraid I might not be ready to go on any elaborate day trip that you might organize in near future. But believe me, I would like to sit in another of your class and attempt to understand exactly what you intended to showcase in the movie whose trailer was worth every minute,” And without waiting for his reply, I walked out of the class.

Remain, dear question, nice and unanswered, I beg of you.

[Samadrita · Rating 4 out of 5]

Faced with the prospect of reviewing a collection of short stories, which is probably my least favorite writing chore ever, I am choosing the easy way out. I am so taken with the tranquil, understated beauty of Walser's writing that I am most unwilling to disassemble his short stories into separate assessing criteria like style, essence, prose, theme, imagery and so on.
So what I'll do is convince you, dear uninitiated reader, to pick up this little gem, flip through its pages and discover for yourself the treasures embedded within without trying your patience by going into excruciating detail. And I'll let Walser speak on my behalf.

The initial few short stories are written from the point of view of a school boy in the format of short essays on various topics ranging from school, poverty, careers to friendship, politeness, nature and so on.
It is astonishing to note that despite the glaringly trite nature of these subjects, Walser manages to bring something new to the stories by adding a distinct touch of his own. His tone fluctuates between mildly sardonic and wistful to complacent and observant but unassuming.

Sample what he has to say about "School" -

"School is the unavoidable choker around the neck of youth, and I confess that it is a valuable piece of jewelery indeed. What a burden we would be to our parents, workers, passersby, shop owners, if we didn't have to go to school!"

And this is what he says about "Politeness"-

"The more big and important a polite person is, the more benevolence his civility has."

His astute observations on anger and conflict -

"Not only boys can bear grudges against other boys in such a way, so too just as well can grownups against grownups, mature adults against mature adults, and I would venture to say, nations against nations. A vengeance or revenge can collect in the heart of a nation due to self-regard that has been injured in various ways, and it grows and grows, without end, becomes more and more pressing, more and more painful rises up like a high mountain no longer to be cleared away, obstructs any mutual understanding, inhibits warm, healthy, reasonable reciprocal communication, turns into twitching nervous fury, and is so tyrannical and degrading that it can one day no longer be reined in and cries out wildly for bloody conflict."

There are references to nature, changing seasons and vivid descriptions of lush, green landscapes in the Swiss countryside aplenty.

"Autumn was beautiful, with its brownish melancholy that seemed attractive and happily right to me, while in May the blossoming trees and all the singing and wonderful smells plunged into sadness."

The short stories included in the latter half of the book seem to be written from different perspectives like that of modest young men about to enlist in the army or confused, lost writers trying to seek validation in a life fraught with failures and rejections. (This is vaguely autobiographical I believe.)

"Restlessness, uncertainty, and a premonition of a singular fate may have been what led me, in my sequestered isolation, to pick up my quill and attempt to create a reflection of myself."

Here are a few of his excellent ruminations on reading -

"A book bewitches and dominates us, it holds us spellbound, in other words it exerts a power over us, and we are happy to let such tyranny occur, for it is a blessing. Anyone captivated and gripped by a book for a given time does not use that time to initiate gossip about his dear fellow man, which is always a great and crude mistake."

And ahem, book snobs please do take note of the following-

"I have sometimes heard people talk about so-called harmful reading, e.g., infamous Gothic novels. That's another story we shall avoid getting into but we can say this much: the worst book in the world is not as bad as the complete indifference of never picking up a book at all. A trashy book is not nearly as dangerous as people sometimes think, and the so-called really good books are under certain conditions by no means as free of danger as people generally like to believe. Intellectual things are never as harmless as eating chocolate or enjoying an apple tart or the like. In principle, the reader just has to know how to cleanly separate reading from life."

Walser's short sentences gave me the impression of beads of morning dew collecting on blades of grass, the evanescent beauty of which evaporates away before we even have time enough to bask in its resplendence. But for as long as the novelty lasts, it is the most exquisite thing in the world.
He is not overly pedantic yet his writing reflects his keen understanding of nearly every topic under the sun and exudes immense charm and clarity.

"But soon enough he was cheerful again. Love of humanity and the sorrows thereof, a lust for life and the pain therefrom, rose exquisitely up like tall ghostly shapes in the pale, golden air of the summer evening. Softly the figures seemed to wave to him."

To conclude, this is a thoroughly delightful collection but I'll hold out on that 5-star rating until I read a full-fledged novel of his.

**A big thank you to netgalley for the digital ARC**

[Kansas · Rating 4 out of 5]

https://kansasbooks.blogspot.com/2025...

“El muchacho que ha escrito estas composiciones murió poco tiempo después de regresar de la escuela. Me costó un considerable esfuerzo inducir a su madre, una dama venerable y afectuosa, a confiármelas para su publicación. Solo la promesa de mi parte de que haría imprimir las composiciones sin modificación alguna, tal como su Fritz las había escrito, hizo que finalmente llegaran a mis manos."


Llego a este texto a través de Matteo Terzaghi que se apoyó en él para escribir su “La Tierra y su satélite” y que me hizo recordar de alguna forma lo mucho que siempre me había gustado Walser y que sin embargo en los últimos años había tenido algo abandonado. Las composiciones y/o los cuadernos de Fritz Kocher es el primer libro publicado por Robert Walser (1904) y resulta especialmente interesante por ese análisis que hace sobre la propia naturaleza de lo que es ficción y escritura. Hay un narrador ficticio dentro del texto, un narrador que acaba de fallecer llamado Fritz Kocher, un alumno que ha dejado una serie de cuadernos escolares y que un supuesto tutor o a maestro, rescata y publica. El autor real que es Walser y el autor fictico que es Fritz Kocher consiguen crear una simbiosis en la que llegado un momento no sabremos distinguir quién es quién. Metaficción de la buena que le sale a Robert Walser apenas con 26 años, un texto que funcionará como una experimentación en torno a la escritura.


“A muchos podrían parecer, en muchos lugares, nada pueriles, en muchos otros pueriles en demasía. Pero ruego considerar que mi mano no ha cambiado nada de ellas. Un muchacho puede hablar muy sabia y muy neciamente casi al mismo tiempo; así también las composiciones.”


Este texto está compuesto de una serie de redacciones escolares que funcionan como ensayos íntimos, inocentes, humorísticos, transparentes, en torno a la observación de Fritz sobre la vida: un Fritz Kocher que sabemos/intuimos que será el mismo Robert Walser camuflado bajo este joven alumno. Este artilugio literario en el que Walser usará la voz narrativa de un niño, le permitirá explorar cuestiones en torno a la poesía, la naturaleza, la pintura, el amor, sin perder un ápice de un tono siempre fluido y lúdico porque la visión del mundo de Fritz parece inocente pero realmente es un recurso narrativo que usará Walser para cuestionar su propia visión del mundo: la autoridad, la disciplina desde el punto de vista de un niño que va a revelar la hipocresía circundante. Temas que ya Walser abordaría más extensamente en sus tres novelas, y esta inocencia infantil funcionará como un cuestionamiento continuo al mundo adulto. La ironía encubierta de Walser es una delicia porque en un principio no lo parece, no hay autor que tenga esa capacidad de ser tan sutil hablando de cuestiones vitales.


"No, me importa reproducir la naturaleza tal como la ve mi alma (asentada adelante, en mis ojos), verla como ella es. Ninguna otra cosa. Y esto es muchísimo. También se le puede llamar fantasear. Dejo pintar a mi emoción, a mí instinto, a mí gusto, a mis sentidos."


Fritz Kocher es tan joven que todavía no sabe quién es realmente, todavía está en formación, así que su observación del mundo va cambiando a medida que escribe. A veces se presenta como poeta, como pintor, otras como músico, fantaseando con esto y aquello, soñando y criticando lo que ve mientras lo plasma en el papel. Estos cuadernos no dejan de ser otra cosa más que un diario íntimo y personal, de una persona formándose, intentando encontrar su lugar en el mundo. Las redacciones son ese intento por conocerse a sí mismo con la excusa de conocer el mundo. “El entendimiento artístico es bueno para estudiar, para aprender las leyes del arte: con él trabaja el discípulo. Pero esto lo saben los demás tan bien como yo”. Ya el prólogo en el que un narrador (no sabemos si el propio Walser o un maestro inventado) está explicando que el texto que se desvelará a continuación es la obra de otro, es lo que marcará lo que viene a continuación, un texto sin estructura definida en el que Fritz narra, pero será una ficción dentro de otra ficción. Una construcción literaria en la que desde el primer momento hay consciencia de un artificio: se finge que es una colección de redacciones escolares, nos hace enfrentarnos como lectores a la autoría del texto (Walser o Fritz) y reflexiona sobre cómo se construye ficción. El texto está salteado por once ilustraciones de su hermano, Karl Walser. Una delicia.


“Me duele la música. No sé si realmente la amo. Me toca, precisamente donde me encuentra. No la busco. Me dejó acariciar por ella. Pero esta caricia hiere. ¿Cómo decirlo? Música es un llano en melodías, un recuerdo en notas, una pintura en sones. Me falta algo cuando no escucho música, y si escucho música, entonces empieza realmente a faltarme algo. Esto es lo mejor que sé decir acerca de la música."

♫♫♫ Catch the breeze - Slowdive ♫♫♫

[Ben Winch · Rating 3 out of 5]

Not essential. Not nearly. Maybe moreso than Berlin Stories, but we’re on the tail-end of the Walser thing now, and this is no place to start. I wouldn’t have bought it (I’ve got seven Walser books already, three of them story – or ‘prose piece’ – collections, and by the time I got to the fifth – Speaking to the Rose – I was aware that my obsession had passed), but somehow I’d conceived a yearning for the complete Fritz Kocher’s Essays, Walser’s first published book, presented here with illustrations by brother Karl Walser. Sad to say, I’m no longer sure why I cared so much about Fritz in the first place, but I am sure that the version translated by Susan Bernofsky in Masquerade and Other Stories (Johns Hopkins, 1990, probably the most beautiful edition of his work I’ve seen in English – up there with New Directions’ The Assistant and The Tanners, in any case), though incomplete, is superior.

When autumn comes, the leaves fall from the trees to the ground. Actually I should have said: When the leaves fall, it is autumn. I need to improve my style. My last paper was marked: style wretched.
(Susan Bernofsky, Masquerade...)

When Autumn comes, the leaves fall off of the trees onto the ground. Actually I should say it like this: When the leaves fall, Autumn is here. I have to work on improving my style. Last time the teacher wrote: Style, wretched.
(Damion Searls, A Schoolboy’s Diary.)

Does anyone out there like the second version better? You ask me, no way does Walser need to be more convoluted. It gets worse:

This is likely to be my last prose piece. All sorts of considerations make me believe it’s high time this shepherd boy stopped writing and sending off prose pieces and retired from a pursuit apparently beyond his abilities. I’ll gladly look about for another line of work that will let me break my bread in peace.
(‘The Last Prose Piece’, Bernofsky.)

This is probably my last prose piece. There are all sorts of considerations that lead me to conclude that it is high time for a goatheard boy like myself to be done with the composing and submitting of prose pieces and abandon this clearly too difficult occupation. I am happy to look around for another line of work that might make it possible for me to eat my bread in peace.
(‘The Last Prose Piece’, Searls.)

Now, I don’t speak or read German, and I’m also halfway through Searls’s translation of Nescio and loving it, so I don’t mean to criticise either Searls’s fidelity to the text or his overall skill as a translator, but Jeez, he’s racked up 25 percent more words than Bernofsky here, most of them plain irritating and unmusical (‘There are,’ ‘that’, ‘that’ again, ‘like myself’, ‘to be done with the’, ‘of’, ‘this clearly too difficult’, ‘that might make it possible for me’). And while I’ve read enough Walser to be familiar with this clearly Walseresque (or Walser-inspired) tone, and it may even be possible that Bernofsky has ‘cheated’ and improved on Walser somehow, I just didn’t enjoy Searls’s style. Some of it was good, it’s true, and I can always dip into Walser when I’m in the mountains or the forest in the sunshine and enjoy it, but I couldn’t help mentally scrubbing out or underlining words or phrases throughout. The first sentence of the long story ‘Hans’ is a kicker! I can’t bring myself to copy out the whole thing so I’ll start from halfway:

… he went out to the nearby lake where he sat down on a bench provided for such restful sojourns under the finely forking, delicate branches of a willow tree, so that, while in conformity to the gloomy weather it was raining out of the gray summer evening sky into the lake as though crying as if out of tear-filled eyes, he could sit for an hour there and dream.

I mean, please, someone tell me that’s a typo: ‘as though crying as if out of tear-filled eyes’! Surely Searls has accidentally left the remnants of two drafts in there at once! But then surely there’s something wrong with that whole ‘while in conformity to the gloomy weather it was raining’ bit too, isn’t there? I gave up on this story.

And that’s the other thing: even if Bernofsky (or the also excellent Christopher Middleton) had translated these pieces, I’m not convinced they’re among Walser’s best work. I, anyway, could live without them. Get Middleton’s Selected Stories (AKA The Walk and Other Stories). Get Masquerade. Or if you really want to hear Walser twist his tongue in knots, get Speaking to the Rose or The Robber. Me, I’ll be re-reading the great stuff for years (I read Middleton’s ‘Kleist in Thun’ to my girlfriend the other day, and couldn’t enunciate for crying), but I can’t see myself ever loving this edition, despite my soft spot for Fritz Kocher.

A great deed cannot obliterate the laborious succession of days. Life doesn’t stand still on the day of a battle, far from it; history alone makes a momentary pause, and then it, too, impelled by imperious life, must rush on.
(‘The Battle of Sempach,’ from Masquerade...)

That’s what I love about Walser, that right there. Not self-mockery, not experimentalism, not packing the maximum possible about-turns into a sentence. Just insight, humble regard for reality and love of the beauty in words. ‘Impelled by imperious life’! Now that’s writing! Rush on!

[Georgina Koutrouditsou · Rating 4 out of 5]

Εξαιρετικό!Ό,τι πρέπει για μαθητές Β/μιας καθώς θίγει πάρα πολλά ζητήματα & η πένα του είναι μοναδική!

[M. Sarki · Rating 4 out of 5]

Each morning as a part of my meditation before getting on to a brisk walk with my dog and then attempting some sort of composition I read at least four pages of this fine little book. After having read already much of Robert Walser and preferring his novels to his short stories I found this book to be charming in a most surprising way. Perhaps it was this new translation, but the spirit behind the writing seemed to come through in ways I have never experienced before. I can never quite figure out why Walser moves me the way he does as his writing is so simple and straight forward as to suggest a young child is speaking to me. A very smart young child. I continually shake my head at Robert Walser and wonder how he did it. Not sure if I will ever find the time again to read this book, but it was one of the most worthwhile events of my study this year. The following three reading updates says it all for me:

"Everyone under thirty years of age shall be required to read at least the beginning of this book."

"Very lovely book here. Nobody quite like Walser."

"Sometimes I wonder what all the fuss is about with Walser's short prose, but then I keep coming back."

[J · Rating 4 out of 5]

How quiet you are, you dear, delicate flowers. You don't move from place to place, you have neither eyes nor ears, and you never take a walk, which is so nice. Now and then you look like you can talk, but in any case you certainly have feelings and a sensitivity of your own. I often feel like you are pondering, with all kinds of thoughts. I'm doubtless deluding myself. But still, I think about you a lot and I would love to live with you, as one of you, I would happily be like you, let the sunshine caress me, rock and sway in the wind.



*

[Nicholas During · Rating 5 out of 5]

I was kind of over the whole Walser thing, sometimes it seems like every single written bone has been picked over with some of these writers, like Bolano. But instead I immediately fell comfortable back into Walser's unique charm. "Fritz Kocher's Diary," which starts off the collection and is a very early piece I think, is Walser at his best. The young Fritz Kocher—young, innocent, rebellious, eager, sensitive, clever and outgoing—is the the typical Walser hero, seen in Jakob von Junten. And his little schoolwork essays are similar to the character, their naïveté is suspect but honest at the same time, the perceptions astute with all the hallmarks of the innocent speaker, the writing funny and digressive. It's always hard to tell how much we are meant to fall into the Walser mindset, and that is half the fun and no doubt why is so popular. All the essays are directed at the grading teacher, who is both learning what happens in his classroom from a different angle, witnessing an affront on his authority, and receiving a tribute from a talented and admiring friend. This relationship, I think, is meant to bring us to question the usual relationship that a reader has with both an author and protagonist. And of course Fritz's wisdom is perceptive, hilarious, creative and original.

The rest of the stories in the collection play often play on the same theme. But there is also the wonderful Wasler descriptive vignettes of city life, country life, student life, young artist struggling in the world, and the basic motions of daily life. Walser does this as well as anyone. His enthusiasm over nature transports to the read (at least this one). His observations of the difficulties, joys, and strangeness of living in a big city surrounded by nameless people is too. One can't help but smile while reading these stories, and appreciating all around more.

There are also some pretty weird First World War stories, which are similar to The Magic Mountain in a way in their complete (and intentional?) misunderstanding of what is happening. If I have one complaint it's that the collection is a bit too long. Which I think is caused by the fact that each, very often only one page, story or essay is so packed with fun and wonder and wit and cleverness that it can be too much to read so many together. But do read through, because although the first pieces feel stronger, there are some mini-masterpieces all the way through.

[Guttersnipe Das · Rating 5 out of 5]

To pretend that I am a sedate and demure fan of Robert Walser, in hopes of thereby seeming reasonable, would be misleading to the point of dishonesty. Robert Walser is my very favorite writer (indeed, a word like master or guide seems more appropriate) and I should admit up front that my opinions are those of a fanatic. Although Robert Walser remains under-appreciated, there is also a growing group of Walser devotees who seek out everything available. Some of these ardent fans seek, as I do, to create new work informed and inspired by Walser.

Unsurprisingly, I've sought out everything by Walser that is available in translation and I feel strenuously grateful to NYRB for this new series of thematic collections of Walser's short prose. ("Berlin Stories" translated by Susan Bernofsky is another delightful book, and I hope ardently that there are more to come.)

Still, as years pass, and collections appear, I begin to worry that new collections of short pieces from Walser's vast un-translated work will begin to seem "picked over", just gleanings or scraps. Although it is true, as Walser writes, that "Enthusiasts are happy with little, in fact often extremely miniscule things" (163), I came to this book hoping that truly beautiful and first-rate work is yet to appear.

In this hope, I was not disappointed. Above all, what "A Schoolboy's Diary" makes clear is that Walser's trove of un-translated work is nowhere near to being picked over. The stories here are as necessary and enchanting as those to be found in any of the 5 collections of short prose currently available. (Fellow Walserians, please correct me if I have miscounted.)

Although I think readers new to Walser would do well to begin with a "general" collection of the short prose such as "Selected Stories", translated by Christopher Middleton, or "Masquerade", translated by Susan Bernofsky, these thematic collections are a great pleasure and you would not be wrong to start your exploration of Robert Walser right here.

Fanatics tend to disapprove of innovations and new arrivals. I admit that I questioned, as I picked up this book, whether Damion Searls could possibly be as worthy a translator as Middleton and Bernofsky, to whom readers of Walser in English are wholly indebted. ("Some young upstart", I assumed. Totally wrong. Although his appearance is youthful, he has an august list of translation credits a mile long.)

Though I came to this book armed and ready to disapprove, I found myself unable to - these are beautiful and flowing translations, like one of the sparkling lakes or streams that Walser often seems to be ambling alongside.

As usual, I read aloud and copied out passages that enchanted me. How is it possible to resist a writer who announces, "To give you an opportunity to see me would mean introducing you to a person who cuts off half the rim of his felt hat with scissors to give it a wilder, more bohemian appearance. Is that the kind of strange being you really want to have before you?"(51)

At a time when most people seem to consider themselves so terribly important, I think Walser's sauntering humility has a special resonance. How good it is to be reminded, "Tact and discretion are never anything over than attractive. Modestly stepping aside can never be recommended as a continual practice in strong enough terms." (161) Or simply: "Envy is a form of insanity." (53)

Pieces like "From My Youth" made me feel that I could see and understand Walser more directly than I had before. "Early spring was magnificent. All the houses, trees and streets gleamed as though they had come from some higher state of being. It was half dream, half fever. I was never sick, just always strangely and seriously infected with a longing for extraordinary things." (124)

As someone who seeks to emulate Walser, I endlessly compose short pieces, endlessly send them out, and endlessly receive friendly and baffled rejection notes. Admittedly, I often suspect that my uselessness as a human being is unsurpassed. How imperative therefore to read "The Last Prose Piece", in which Walser warns me against his profession in the strongest possible terms. How wrenching to find that Walser felt as discouraged as I feel as he endlessly wrote and submitted work -- indeed he writes, "The extent of my submissions will probably never be matched." (146) May these reminders of work and suffering banish my squirrely self-pity.

Above all, it is painful to read Walser's repeated desire to simply give up - though of course he cannot and will not, not until he enters the last sanatorium in 1933. "At last I have drawn a firm line under the truly astoundingly great column of figures and am done with pursuing that for which I am not sufficiently intelligent" (149).

What I would give for a time machine, so that I might rush back in time and encourage him. I'd also like to buy him a new hat.

Old and new fans of Robert Walser will revel in this book. As Walser reminds us, "When you are faced with a happiness that is not forbidden, you must seize and enjoy it." (177)

[Armin · Rating 1 out of 5]

Zumutung für ein Oberseminar, fand keinerlei Geschmack daran.

[Lobstergirl · Rating 3 out of 5]

I had been waiting for a work that would yield up the phrase mustache eventualities.

[Marika_reads · Rating 4 out of 5]

To moje pierwsze zetknięcie z prozą Walsera. I to raczej mała jej próbka, ale jestem pozytywnie zaskoczona, że teksty napisane w 1904 roku tak gładko mi (kolokwialnie mówiąc) weszły.
Połowa książki to rozprawki szkolne tytułowego Fritza, które autor rzekomo otrzymał od jego matki, kiedy ten zmarł zaraz po skończeniu szkoły. To oczywiście tylko literacka kreacja, a Fritz jest postacią fikcyjną. A są to krótkie wypracowania o otaczającym chłopaka świecie, pełne dygresji, anegdotek, luźnych przemyśleń. Mini próbki pisania, a właściwie Walser imituje te próby pisania młodego pretendującego literata. Pozostała cześć książki to trzy inne teksty o Komisancie, Malarzu i Lesie - zdecydowanie bardziej rozbudowane.
I to niby takie „nic”, bo przecież niewiele wnosi i nie jest to pozycja z tych zmieniających życie czy myślenie. Ale ja jestem z tych, które nie czytają w jakimś jednym określonym celu. To znaczy niekoniecznie czytam dla fabuły czy przeżywanych emocji, czasem czerpię satysfakcję z samej przyjemności czytania dobrego tekstu. I tak jest właśnie z moim pierwszym Walserem, ale zapewniam, że nie bedzie on ostatnim i już się szykuję na „Zbója”.
.
„Muzyka to dla mnie najsłodsza rzecz na świecie. Niewypowiedzianie lubię dźwięki. Żeby usłyszeć jeden dźwięk, gotów jestem leźć kilometr. Często, kiedy latem idę nagrzaną ulicą i z jakiegoś nieznanego domu dobiegnie dźwięk fortepianu, zatrzymuję się i myślę, że powinienem natychmiast umrzeć. Chciałbym umrzeć, słuchając utworu muzycznego. Wydaje mi się, że byłoby to łatwe i naturalne, a przecież jest naturalnie niemoużliwe. (…) Gdy nie słyszę muzyki, brak mi czegoś, a gdy słyszę, wtedy dopiero czuję, że naprawdę czegoś mi brak. Nic lepszego nie umiem o muzyce powiedzieć”.

[Derian · Rating 4 out of 5]

La unidad mínima de escritura de Walser es la oración. Oración por oración, y una y otra pueden llevar a caminos nuevos, raros, graciosos, sorprendentes.

[marta · Rating 3 out of 5]

tytul alternatywny : „diva down”

[michal k-c · Rating 4 out of 5]

Walser is the king of the adjective. Gotta re-read The Tanners soon

[J J J · Rating 4 out of 5]

Same wypracowania trochę przypominają mi mnie samego sprzed paru lat
Całość bardzo ładnie napisana

[Laura · Rating 4 out of 5]

Excellent reading, must read more books written by Robert Walser.

TR Berlin Stories
4* A Schoolboy's Diary and Other Stories

[Francisca · Rating 4 out of 5]

Siempre fantástico.

[Il Pech · Rating 1 out of 5]

Qualche breve considerazione su questo libro:

-Detesto i narratori bambini. Se vuoi scrivere frasi brevi utilizzando una prosa elementare fallo e basta, senza vergognarti.

-Walser ha una sensibilità classica che mi ha ricordato romanzieri russi ottocenteschi.

-I libri senza trama vanno bene. Ma vi devono essere trovate narrative, ortografiche o di altro genere che tengano il lettore attaccato alla pagina.

-In tutto il libro non c'è una sola parola che io abbia trovato interessante, originale o meritevole d'attenzione. Ho passato quasi tutto il tempo a pensare
A: perché qualcuno dovrebbe sentire il bisogno di scrivere un libro del genere?
B: perché qualcuno dovrebbe averlo voluto pubblicare?
C: perché me ne sto qui a leggerlo controvoglia, quando ho altri 40 libri che aspettano?

-C'è la serie possibilità che io sia uno stronzo cinico, ma con Walser proprio non sono andato d'accordo.

Abbandonato a 30 pagine dalla fine

[Madalena · Rating 5 out of 5]

Na introdução deste livro lemos as palavras de um editor ficcional, a pessoa que decide publicar as redações de um rapaz que morreu demasiado cedo, mas que já mostravam o potencial para ser um grande escritor. Este editor classifica os textos do jovem Fritz como “tolos” em parte e “sábios” noutra, o que parece ser uma definição muito correta daquilo que serão os pensamentos de um rapaz ainda em idade de escola. Embora não nos seja dito, podemos presumir que o editor ficcional deste livro é o professor, pois quem mais terá tido acesso a estas redações? O que, após lermos o livro completo não deixa de ser um tanto triste. Este professor talvez esperasse que este aluno se tornasse num grande escritor, vendo que tal nunca poderia acontecer agora, decide ele próprio tentar mostrar ao mundo a escrita deste rapaz promissor. Há, por isso, um certo nível de melancolia que nos acompanha ao lermos o livro.

Tanto em “As Redações de Fritz Kocher” como em alguns dos outros textos que o seguem nesta edição, há o que parece ser uma certa saudade dos tempos de escola e das lições em que eram pedidas redações escritas pelos alunos. Teorizo que talvez Walser tenha descoberto aí o seu amor pela escrita e, em adulto, tenha procurado oportunidades para continuar a escrever este tipo de texto curto, a falar de forma pouco organizada sobre um tema que nos propõem (ou que nos propomos a nós próprios). Talvez devêssemos todos fazer isso de vez em quando.

Walser consegue criar tanta beleza de uma forma tão simples. Não que a sua escrita seja simples necessariamente. Mas às vezes ele diz-nos algo simples, um facto, um pormenor, um comentário, que não deviam ser nada, e ele torna-os excertos deliciosos de ler.

A escrita de Walser é leve, delicada, com um certo humor sempre presente. É fácil perdemo-nos nela e querer viver nessa leveza com que ele encara o mundo.

[Ciaran Monaghan · Rating 2 out of 5]

Even though it was short, this felt like a bit of a slog. The first and last stories were quite good, especially the first one which really captured a smart but slightly sycophantic schoolboy, but the rest just felt like filler. Most were barely over a page or two and really had nothing to engage with. I don't really feel like they were worth publishing but that they were necessary to pad out the rest. There are another couple of Walser's that I have on my radar - Jakob von Gunten and The Assistant - and although this was not so impressive, it has not completely turned me off them. My blame rests more with the editor on this one, I think.

[Christoskpr · Rating 2 out of 5]

«Ω, πόσο λαχταρούσε η καρδιά μου. Να ’ξερα μονάχα τι.»

Δεν κατάφερα να συνδεθώ με αυτό το βιβλίο, ήταν μάλιστα από εκείνα που μου έκοψαν το ρυθμό ανάγνωσης καθότι προσπάθησα να το τελειώσω καταναγκαστικά.
Ορισμένες εκθέσεις είχαν ενδιαφέρον, όπως και το να παρακολουθείς την εξέλιξη του αφηγητή όσο μεγαλώνει στο πώς εμβαθύνει στην ανάλυση του αισθήματος του ωραίου και της ομορφιάς.

[Iza Cupial · Rating 3 out of 5]

3,5

[Nicté Reyes · Rating 5 out of 5]

Que agradable lectura! Es alegre, e inocente y sin embargo profunda.

[Joshua Jones · Rating 2 out of 5]

2.5

[Silvia Amalia · Rating 4 out of 5]

❝ Ma lei cade ai miei piedi come un fiore spezzato, mi bacia le mani, vuole amare solo me, me solo fra tutti gli uomini che ci sono al mondo. — Questo me l’ha raccontato un commesso. ❞ — A partire dall’incipit di questa specie di romanzo, Fritz Kocher ci prende per mano e ci accompagna attraverso una galleria di immagini, di descrizioni e di ritratti fino all’ultima pagina che conclude perfettamente questo viaggio attraverso luoghi quali la scuola, la natura, la patria e la città, tratteggiando la professione del commesso e quella del pittore, per poi incorniciare il tutto con un elogio di un bosco. Quello che però arriva dritto al cuore, nonostante l’anticipazione nell’introduzione, è proprio l’ultimissima pagina che comprende uno degli undici disegni del fratello dell’autore e che rappresenta la tomba di Fritz — a questo punto sembra quasi di aver preso parte ad un corteo funebre insieme al fantasma del giovane studente. Gli dò 4 temi su 5.

///

https://www.instagram.com/p/B4fktDaoGD-/

[Julia · Rating 5 out of 5]

Robert Walser, ladies and gentlemen.

[Katherine · Rating 4 out of 5]

*3.75 stars.
"Drunkenness is as hideous as a picture: Why do people indulge in it? It must be because from time to time they feel the need to drown their reason in the dreams that swim in every kind of alcohol" (4).
"Snow is such a monotonous song" (6).
"What a precious flower friendship is. Without it, even the strongest man could not live long. The heart needs a kindred, familiar heart, like a little clearing in the forest, a place to rest and lay down and chat. We can never value our friend highly enough, if he is a true friend, and can never run away fast enough if he betrays our friendship" (9-10).
"The teacher is very excitable. He often flies into a terrible rage when a schoolboy makes him angry by not being able to do something. That's wrong. Why get excited about something as minor as a schoolboy being lazy? But actually I'm not one to talk. If I had to be in his place, I might have an even shorter temper. You need a very special kind of talent to be a teacher. To keep your dignity faced with rascals like us requires a lot of willpower" (18).
"Oh, the longing I felt in my heart. If only I knew what for" (25).
" (37).
"The lady's hands glide over the keys like swans on dark water" (46).
“Our classroom is a miniature world. After all, can’t all the feelings and passions in the world be found just as well among thirty people as among thirty thousand? Love and hate, ambition and revenge, nobler and also more primitive conceptions all play an important role with us. We have poverty and richness, knowledge and stupidity, success and failure in all their variations and fine distinctions. You often have the opportunity in the classroom to play the hero, the traitor, the victim, the martyr. If a novelist or poet cast his eye into our social world he would find rich material for exciting works. We are short-tempered and affectionate, hotheaded and docile, obedient and fresh, sarcastic and pious, moved and silly, indifferent and enthusiastic. We have every type of virtue and bad behavior among us, every kind of rascalliness and charm. You have to respect us, whether you want to or not” (37).
"...the lake, which was darkly shrouded in I no longer quite recall what type of rainy melancholy" (67).
"Time seemed to stand still because it had to stop and eavesdrop on all the beauty and all the evening magic" (70).
"...their inclinations burst forth like freckles..." (93)."The boy, thrown so lightning-fast out of the comfy armchair of goodwill onto the hard bench of disfavor..." (113)."Reading is as productive as it is enjoyable. When I read, I am a harmless, nice and quiet person and I don't do anything stupid" (129).