Decadent Austro-Hungarian kids torture and sodomize a classmate as a rehearsal of the upper-class adulthood awaiting them out of the military academy.
Physical and psychological harassment!
A crumbling empire!
Pre-nazi post-sadism galore!
Depravity!
Pseudo-Freudian expressionism!
The chance to hear the bookshop assistant's ooohs and aaahs as you put a book by Robert Musil on the counter!
No need to say I licked my lips as soon as I read the blurb. Boy, I must have looked like Wile E. Coyote drooling after the Road Runner.
Ahem.
Mährisch Weisskirschen, Moravia, around 1900.
Three teen cadets of a military school spend their time hiding in attics and cellars turned into impromptu boudoirs, eating pastries and paying weekly visits to a Slavic pockmarked whore in the nearby village. Spoiled brats get easily bored though, especially when they also happen to be mad as they come, as the author tells us from the very beginning.
We know little more about them: no first names, no information about their origins and age, the fewest possible descriptions of their looks. All the author really wants us to keep in mind is that these kids are utterly insane, each of them in his own way.
Törless, the protagonist, is obsessed with sex and quite keen on introspection and self-abasement. His mind is haunted by fantasies of blasphemy and incest (more precisely, he gets off imagining her mother's sexual life). Hence his morbid attraction to the scum, seen as a means to fill an existential void made of the feeling of not belonging in either his own social class nor in the dirty populace, both of which fascinate and disgust him at the same time.
Beineberg is even more disquieting in his potentially murderous ennui: a Mitteleuropean dandy, between Des Esseintes and De Sade's beastly aristocrats, fond of cheap esotericism and weird Hindu philosophy, a hodgepodge of exotic bullshit that allows him to escape his frightening lack of any morals whatsoever.
Last but not least, Reiting - whose violent nature is cunningly sublimated in a destructive, asocial behaviour. This sadistic sociopath, born in a controversial (half ruined?) family and brimming with frustrated dreams of juvenile grandeur, is the basic asshole whose only aim is the objectification of his victim, devoid of any sort of intellectual subtlety.
Quite different natures indeed; unfortunately enough, they all share a penchant for (homo)sexually charged violence that finds the perfect victim - perhaps a scapegoat - in a fourth boy, Basini (clearly Italian origins), a creepy weakling bound to be mercilessly exploited by the depraved trio.
To be honest, nobody would ever shed a tear for him: Basini is so disgustingly opportunist that he hardly stirs up any feeling of sympathy in the reader. What follows is quite predictable: in the eyes of the perpetrators, Basini is the nameless, faceless, voiceless and soulless Untermensch: the less-than-human creature made to be enslaved, thus enduring all its masters' whimsical fantasies. When a farcical series of petty thefts puts the kid in their hands, the boys lose control once and for all.
Although Musil's clever writing never indulges in detailed descriptions of sex and brutality, he basically tells us about a homosexual gang-rape that takes place in a dusty backroom, with plenty of sadistic acts as foreplay - including the use of whips and needles. From this moment on, each of the three buddies gets increasingly involved in experimenting his peculiar version of abusive lust, desires that go beyond mere sex and manifest themselves in the forms of psychological torments (Törless), parodies of tantric spirituality (Beineberg) and sheer old-school sadism (Reiting).
According to Musil, a former student of Weisskirchen college himself, this short novel is full of autobiographical hints and true memories. Although slightly altered for the author's fictional purposes, both the events and the setting are thus supposed to be painfully real; after all, R. M. Rilke gave a similar description of Weisskirchen, which he had also attended a few years before Musil.
Even if the writing style is far from being perfect (in my opinion, that is) this debut novel is amazingly interesting and complex. I dare say it provides the reader with an unexpected insight in the years that shaped last century's collective and individual psyche. No doubt the passages of Törless' musings and ramblings are way too long and often repetitive; they're nonetheless a great example of how deeply the newborn science of psychoanalysis was influencing European literature and arts.
Bildungsroman? Yes, but also a surprisingly good depiction of an era we hardly know and fathom in all its momentous importance.
Forget about the stereotypical idea of a repressive, heavy-handed education in which the students' vulnerable minds are violated with huge doses of ossified culture, religiosity and militarism. On the contrary, what truly scares here is the educational void of the institutions, the total lack of direction and meaning of a whole culture.
Teachers are hardly ever mentioned, let aside a few passages in which they are actually caricatures of themselves. Families are equally non-existent or toxic: mothers seen as ghosts awakening Œdipal pulsions, fathers dismissed as entities floating in a limbo of oblivion. Religion is nothing more than a school lesson nobody cares about. All in all, in such a desert of boredom and hopelessness the claustrophobic atmosphere of the college, so drenched in lust and violence, is the only conceivable way out.
No wonder some of these brats joined the highest ranks of the Nazi party when the real fun began, a couple of decades later, overjoyed to take part in the orgy of blood and lust they probably had been craving since their teens.
Hard to believe this book was written in 1906, huh? But then one must bear in mind these were the years of Freud, Viennese Secession, Die Brücke, Fauvism... Musil's little psychos were indeed the first product of a world that was ridding itself of the burden of the past without daring to take a closer look to the present: a present of moral exhaustion and irrationality in which all the pillars of the old world - State, Family, Church, Army - were walking dead, eaten from within by the worms of their terrifying emptiness.
Musil's characters are certainly the embodiment of his times. However, the reader of nowadays is able to look at them from an even darker perspective: that of the future. We know what was going to happen a few years later to most of these youngsters, a whole generation who would be butchered in the blood-soaked, shitty ratholes of WW1; well-groomed pretty junkers merrily sent to be machine-gunned, eviscerated by hand grenades, killed by typhus in the name of their sacred Country and respectable Families.
Because,
"La bourgeoisie n'a jamais hésité même à tuer ses fils."
Suggested soundtrack: Dum Dum Girls, "Lost Boys And Girls Club".