Georg, Siegfried Kracauer’s second novel, is a revelation for readers familiar with the German critic’s seminal, if somewhat dour, writings about film and popular culture in the tumultuous Weimar Republic. Georg sardonically chronicles it’s eponymous central character’s search for purpose in a homeland wracked by post-war socio-economic anomie. Devoid of both personal agency and a decisive worldview, Georg seems trapped in a kaleidoscope whose abrupt shifts in outlook deprive him of lasting insight. Paradoxically, however, nearly every aspect of the novel is filtered through Georg’s point of view, which veers from objective to subjective modes of depiction: thus richly detailed descriptions of class struggle precipitously elide into comically surreal transformations of Georg’s surroundings, motivated solely by his isolated perceptual experience.
Driven to “become someone,” a public figure, Georg drifts from the salons of bourgeois faux revolutionaries to a position as a reporter at the Morning Herald, a spurious socialist newspaper whose opportunistic shift to the political right mirrors developments in the society it purports to critique. Ironically, drifting seems to be Georg’s only course of action: his allegiances lurch from Catholicism to communism, from profound homosexual infatuation to casual heterosexual encounters, none of which assuage his inability to connect with anyone or anything as the kaleidoscope's rotation shunts him to another prospect of diminishing returns.
The most surprising aspects of Georg are its modernist narrative devices and bursts of trenchant humor. As a filmgoer, Kracauer clearly developed more than his theory of a national unconscious reflected in its movies. He also absorbed the grammar of silent film, whose precise construction of space and time could be disrupted by editing practices like jump cutting (rapid change of position within a single shot) and crosscutting (alternating depictions of two events occurring simultaneously in different spaces). Kracauer continually creates literary equivalences of cinematic editing in his prose, bestowing an almost cubistic effect on its narrative structure. And who would expect an affiliate of Frankfurt School luminaries like Walter Benjamin and Theodor Adorno to unleash hilarious one liners when least expected? This surprising lightness of touch leavens Georg’s grim realism, where little hope is to be found as the kaleidoscope casts a glimpse on Germany’s fate after the Weimar Republic’s demise.
Mention should be made of Carl Skoggard’s nimble translation of a text filled with dramatic changes in style and emotional register. Skoggard captures wonderfully the nuances of speech among a multitude of characters, never injecting false notes of anachronism or Anglicization. Also, the meticulous research on display in his endnotes is an always welcome enhancement of the reading experience.