The first desirable premise when reading a biography would be the reader’s interest in the subject’s life and times. Even better if said life and times were interesting per se. (You’ll have to admit, one can achieve greatness while being fairly boring.) In that regard, Ivo Andric was born into colossal circumstances, into a context which really was larger than life, in every sense of that so worn-out phrase. He was both young enough and old enough to actively live through and participate in events that would shape the course of the twentieth century. He had a front-row ticket and special backstage pass to what would tip Europe into its greatest blood-shed until then. Bigger destruction still was yet to come. He would shake the hand of the puppeteer of the most gruesome system there was. He would go from political prisoner to one of the highest ranking state officials. He would spend months on end locked up in his apartment, with bombs and missiles howling around him, writing his nights away. He would own hundreds of books and materials in half a dozen languages, he would become disliked yet untouchable even by those who could and would touch anything and anyone. He would write magnificent, breath-taking volumes and create a stage for his towering and crumbling characters. But also write some rather affected, Weltschmerz tear-jerkers, making his true masterpieces all the more worthwhile and his writer’s career all the more human. He would go on to win a Nobel Prize, become the epitome of the unchallenged classic in all of former Yugoslavia, and like any deity be in equal parts uncritically worshipped and have mud thrown at him blindly. If for whatever reasons biographies are not your first reading choice, like they’re not mine, and there is only a handful of people in whose lives you’d be genuinely interested, then Ivo Andric deserves to be one of them – not only for his own sake, but rather because of the big picture in which he figures. And if there is one single book you’ll ever read about him, then it should be this one.
With biographies, the golden rule is what Star Trek has been teaching us all along: Trust Data, not Lore. In “Im Brand der Welten” everything is meticulously founded in research and scrutinised sources. If you need an absolutely reliable volume to cover it all, then this is the book for you. If you wanted to, you could easily reconstruct Andric’s life, solely based on this biography, down to his favourite dish. Or, what is even more probable, down to the fact that Andric was hardly one to care for banalities like a favourite dish at all. Martens has the rare superpower of being immune to the pleasure of hearing himself speak. He is able and willing to engage all his knowledge and erudition, then to step back and let Andric take the stage, behind him a panorama of people, places, connections, a web of events. Thanks to one part Andric, one part European history in the twentieth century and three parts Martens, this reads not like a citation of facts but like an electrifying story of war, peace, schemes, interest and self-interest, gossip and art if there ever was one. Maybe that is just it: Maybe the key to a truly comprehensive biography is making it sound and feel like an epic narrative.
But there is another thing about lore: This book proves that you can be immersed in a person’s work and life without idolising them. Fascination should never be put in the same realm as adoration. Andric doesn’t need a hagiography. Moreover, he doesn’t deserve one. But he does deserve a thorough examination of his life and times. Andric appears brilliantly smart, painstakingly meticulous, diligent, precise, composed, thorough, reliable. He seems like one to never break ranks and to do everything strictly by the book, and then some. Down to his own, most personal issues. Andric also feels rather cold, distant and calculated. He is constantly concerned, afraid even, solely for his own well-being, failing to grasp that others might be worse off than him. His reasons for lamentation are not always easy to comprehend. More often than not, he is one to resolutely step away and not get involved, as to not compromise his personal position, while still observing, thinking, analysing. He seems to have always known what he wanted and how to obtain it. And the question was never what he did to get where he wanted to be, but what he didn’t do. You can foster a holier-than-thou attitude towards him, or you can try to honestly answer the question what you would have done in the line of fire, and whether you’d have had the courage to put your money where your mouth is. With his demeanour, his fears, his thoughts, he could very well be one of the grand dramatis personae in his own opus. In a time and place where everything is out of the ordinary, there was little heroic about Andric. And everything human.
But here’s the thing: If Andric were a contemporary, and I were to meet him right here, right now, it wouldn’t be beneath me to want him to sign one of his novels for me (my pick would always be “Prokleta avlija”), and he would surely do it in all his otherworldly, gentlemanly composure, probably screaming and kicking inwardly at all that unwarranted human contact. But then, I would be dying to get my hands on his phone (though I’m certain that he would despise the concept of smartphones), only to change his ringtone to “Fat Bottomed Girls”. That does say a lot about me, but it is also the direct result of my notion of him as a person who takes himself, his every breath and every hangnail on his fingers, so incredibly seriously. And if all that doesn’t deliver a picture of a palpable, living, breathing, flawed and fascinating human being, then I really don’t know what does.