Death in Venice

ISBN: 0312120028
ISBN 13: 9780312120023
By: Thomas Mann Naomi Ritter

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About this book

This critical edition of Thomas Mann’s 1912 German modernist novella reprints the widely praised translation by David Luke together with critical essays that approach the work from 5 contemporary critical perspectives and highly praised editorial apparatus that introduces students to the novel and the perspectives.

Reader's Thoughts

Erik Graff

This novella was assigned reading for the freshman humanities class at Grinnell College. Sadly, we were given a day to read the thing and devoted only a bit of time to its discussion. It was likely the first thing I'd ever read by Mann. At the time I was only eighteen, still a virgin, and probably only abstractly sensitive to the plight of age represented in the story. The eroticism of the dream description, however, made an impression. It was both powerfully evocative and scary. Two years later, in 1971, the film version appeared. I only saw the trailer, but it brought back the memory of the novella. The soundtrack, Mahler being my favorite classical composer, effectively intensified the pathos. Then, that night, a couple of us had the real, serious discussion about the story which had not occurred in the classroom. Now, having read a great deal of Mann and grown quite a bit older, the respect I have for the work has only increased. One is accustomed to think that frank treatments of sex, homosexuality and pederasty are modern, but this was first published in 1912!--and, compared to a great deal of modern fiction, it is far less sensationalistic, far more true to common lived experience. Upon finishing the class, I finished the other stories in the book.


Jesam li ja jedina kojoj se čini da je ova knjiga više o umjetnosti i opsesiji nego o nekakvoj pedofiliji? Mislim nekako nisam primijetila nekakav seksualni aspekt u opsesiji protagonista- nekako mi se više čini kako je ta opsesija sama sebi svrhom, nešto kao i umjetnost, možda nekakva metafora za umjetnost. Nije mi se baš činilo da je protagonist zaljubljen u tog dječaka ili da se istražuje neka neprikladna veza između djeteta i odrasle osobe. Nije baš da pokušava uspostaviti nekakav odnos sa dječakom, samo ga prati. No, dobro i to praćenje je izvor mogućeg uznemirenja za dijete. Ako se radi o još nečemu, zašto nam pisac to ne otkrije kad već otkriva sve ostalo o protagonistu? Možda je i to dio djela, nisam sigurna.Čini mi se da se ovdje više radi o nekakvom sukobu razuma i strasti, nekakvog upita može li se to dvoje udružiti. Možda je tu i neka aluzija na stare grke. Čini mi se da je dječak više nekakva metafora za ljepotu, za umjetnost bez intelekta. Sjetim se odmah Doriana Graya. To u protagonistu koji je pisac i čovjek intelekta (da ne kažemo i Nijemac) izaziva nekakvu krizu. O čemu se tu točno radi? Možda čak i sukob između karaktera južne i zapadne Europe? Možda se južni narodi bolje nauče živjeti sa strastima upravo zato jer im se ne opiru, dok jednog intelektualca sjevera pometu jer je nepripremljen na njih? Ne znam što je autor htio reći, nisam baš stručnjak za Thomasa Manna. Ne razumijem ovaj roman sasvim, da budem iskrena, ali znam da nema baš previše zajedničkog sa filmskom verzijom i da nije sada nekakav pokušaj da se opravda nešto što se ne može opravdati, kao što je zlostavljanje djece.

Joselito Honestly and Brilliantly

I address in this review those of you here at goodreads who are young and beautiful. Please pay attention to what I have to say.When you go to the beach, in you bikini or swimming trunks, what do you do? You preen, you display your half-naked body around, hoping to catch the attention of equally-young and good looking vacationers like you. I bet you never pay attention to the old men or women who may throw you a glance or two. That is a big mistake.Here is a semi-autobiographical novel. The principal protagonist is a guy, a famous writer over 50 years old, with greying hair, with a good name and a reputation to protect, but is a closet homosexual during those days when homosexuality was looked upon as an aberration worse than a contagious disease. He goes to Venice to have some R & R and in one resort there he sees a Polish family: the mother, her three daughters and her young son. The boy is handsome with a curly hair. The writer is captivated by this boy whose beauty he compares to that of a young god.So what happens? Will he be able to lure this boy to one isolated part of the resort and have sex with him? No. Nothing happens. The writer just looks at the boy, follows him around, and thinks about him. The action here, if one may call them as such, happen inside the mind, via interior monologues and streams-of-consciousness of an old gay guy loving a beautiful young boy surreptitiously from afar. He won't even be able to talk to the boy or to any of his family members.At this point, while reading this, you may have your own interior monologue query: "Why, then, should I waste my time reading this novel where nothing happens, and why did this old geezer, who shamelessly uses the image of Tarzan as his avatar, give this 5 stars?" The answer to that is this: Thomas Mann was a great writer and we will never be able to write like him so we should at least read him and appreciate what he had left us. In one scene, for a very brief moment, coming back to the resort from somewhere, the boy met the old writer's gaze and smiled at him. If you're writing this novel all you could manage to write about this event, like what your current favorite writers would have, would be something like this: "The boy's smile gave the old writer a stiff erection." But not Thomas Mann! He gushes with two breathless paragraphs about this smile:"He had not been prepared for the beloved encounter, it came unexpectedly, he had not had time to put on an expression of calm and dignity. Joy no doubt, surprise, admiration, were openly displayed on his face when his eyes met those of the returning absentee--and in that instant it happened that Tadzio (the boy) smiled: smiled at him, speakingly, familiarly, enchantingly and quite unabashed, with his lips parting slowly as the smile was formed. It was the smile of Narcissus as he bows his head over the mirroring water, that profound, fascinated, protracted smile with which he reaches out his arms toward the reflection of his own beauty--a very slightly contorted smile, contorted by the hopelessness of his attempt to kiss the sweet lips of his shadow; a smile that was provocative, curious and imperceptibly troubled, bewitched and bewitching."He who had received this smile carried it quickly away with him like a fateful gift. He was so deeply shaken that he was forced to flee the lighted terrace and the front garden and hurry into the darkness of the park at the rear. Words struggled from his lips, strangely indignant and tender reproaches: 'You mustn't smile like that! One mustn't, do you hear, mustn't smile like that at anyone!' He sank down on one of the seats, deliriously breathing the nocturnal fragrance of the flowers and trees. And leaning back, his arms hanging down, overwhelmed, trembling, shuddering all over, he whispered the standing formula of the heart's desire--impossible here, absurd, depraved, ludicrous and sacred nevertheless, still worthy of honor even here: 'I love you!'"The thing is, this was based on actual events. Thomas Mann, though married and had children, was "emotionally gay." He, indeed, had that vacation in Venice and while in a vacation resort saw a Polish family with a young, beautiful boy who caught his fancy. Many years after this novel had become famous and was being made into a movie, its tremendous publicity caught the attention of that boy himself, then already old and ugly and his playmate, and they must have had the thrill of their lives that they were not only in a famous novel but will be in a movie as well.This, then, I say once more to the young beautiful people here: when you are on the beach, in your teeny weeny polka dot bikini (or bulging swimming trunks, as the case may be), DO NOT IGNORE THE OLD PEOPLE LOOKING AT YOU. Smile at them, at least. For who knows if that lecherous-looking Japanese guy eyeing your nubile body isn't Haruki Murakami himself and is already plotting a novel with your character in it? Or if that old, decrepit invalid being tended to by a nurse is not Gabriel Garcia Marquez? Baby, you could be famous!


I bet someone could write a masterpiece by taking this book’s premise and elongating it into a fuller exploration of the child-adult love taboo. Oh, really? Oh.This book really does read like a Lolita written 40 years prior with Lo’s gender switched and a premature ending just before things get really interesting (if you know what I mean). Death in Venice is equally engrossing and sports a protagonist, Aschenbach, who’s as well developed, far more relatable, and nearly as interesting as our dear Humbert Humbert. The novel does feel cut-off though, as if Mann were afraid to explore the tale any further, and it also includes a not-so-faint whiff of moralizing that’s rather absent in Nabokov’s version. Aschenbach’s portrayal as a driven, successful, and now weary late middle-aged writer is so convincing that I was surprised to learn that Mann wrote this in his mid-30s. The characterization’s so good, in fact, that I was sure it had to be mostly autobiographical. Maybe, maybe not. Either way, it’s damn good writing that’s on display for too few pages. I’ll be returning to Mann, and hopefully soon.


What a beautiful yet sad novella! it is a ode to beauty and the end of life, the loss of beauty and the confusion over what is beautiful. It is a story about yearning for something one can no longer obtain. It is a tale about narcissism and a tragic one at that. I'm glad I read this now. I do not believe the young version of me would have got it.


Something like a gay Lolita, though I guess of course this predates Nabokov's work. I hear Mann's novel (novella?) alluded to frequently as a gay classic, and this is naturally a subtext to be read in a story detailing an older man's obsession with a fourteen-year-old Polish boy, but I think more significantly, a very Greek philosophy of beauty fuels the passion at the center of the book. In another sense, the book feels strangely Victorian in the way it understands the world; it doesn't seem to come out of a post-World War mindset, for me. Particularly Mann's descriptive passages, of which there are many, since Aschenbach is profoundly isolated and hardly ever talks with anyone. Venice first reflects his mounting anxieties and insecurities; by the end of the novel, however, there's something like a moralistic parallel between the man and the city - as though his decay is mirrored by the plague ravaging the city's inhabitants. A very short read, though dense. Beautiful prose, engaging storyline. Don't expect to come away having a "favorite" character - the figures of the novel feel more like conduits for ideas, and Aschenbach is hardly someone you'd enjoy having a beer with.

Fatema Hassan , bahrain

الموت في البندقية رواية قصيرة لتوماس مان سردها رشيق و مكثف ، سريع بشكلٍ لا يتنافى مع العذوبة الروائي الشهير الخمسيني الذي يذهب ليروّح عن ذاته في البندقية ينصدم بمشاعر مختلطة جديدة كلية عليه كان في السابق يزدري من يعبر عنها بشكل صريح ، مشاعر قد تتلاشى أمامها القيم لكنه يحاول فصل اعجابه بالفتى البولوني تادزيو كتمثال جميل في شكله الصوري عن أي رغبات فعلية قد تجرفه لما لا يتماشى وسمعته التي كدّ لبنائها ، و يؤذي روحه .كيف يترفع عن الانحطاط و روحه تتناهبها الشيطانية من ملائكيتها ، فتركن تلك الروح تلقائيًا لشيطانها مما يشوهها بشكلٍ حتمي و يزهقها تدريجيا الجدير بالذكر أن الموت هو البندقية القدرية كلية القدرة على الجسد بينما تبقى الروح مترفعة أو منحطة بعيدًا عن أي مرمى يسيطر عليه الموت ، فموت الأرواح يتعلق بنواياها تلك حكاية غوستاف اشنباخ و الفتى البولوني

Ahmed Azimov

توماس مان تقدم للدور القيادي في التعبير عن الجمال عند العدميين الروايه ماده دسمه آمن بها فيسكونتي تماما قبل أن يبدعها في صورة فنية فاقت الوصف ، توماس مان العظيم الفشيخ استفاض في تأملاته على لسان حال عجوزه اشنباخ المهترئ - إن صح التعبير -

Fatema Alammar

أعجبت بقوة نثر توماس مان، لكني أميل لروايات أكثر ثراءا. والمقدمة؟ أعتقد أن هناك مشكلة تتعلّق بمقدمة الكتاب، تطلّبت مني شيئاً من الصبر لأنجذب لسحر الرواية ..يسافر "الفنان الشائخ" إلى البندقية. إننا ندخل إلى ذهنه ونعيش تعقيدات أفكاره، قلق روحه، ارتباكه، انتشاءه برؤية وجه فتى جميل، فلسفته ورؤيته الخاصة للجمال بالتزامن شاهدت فيلم Death in Venice المستوحى من رواية مان، الفيلم جميل جداً وأداء الممثل الذي قام بدور "آشنباخ" رهيب.


I did not love this all. Very weird. The writing is dense & complex, which is not necessarily bad, but Aschenbach is a character that I find rather repulsive. His obsessive nature creeps me out, and it's not just his obsession with Tadzio, but his obsessively dismal outlook, his obsessive need for change, and his obsessive desire to learn what is really happening in Venice. He is such a strange, off-putting individual (and in fact, all the characters are off-putting) that it is difficult to appreciate Mann's nuanced writing as a result.


Does Venice ever get a good rap in fiction? While I was reading this I was thinking mostly of two other novels which I loved: firstly and maybe most obviously Lolita by Nabokov; secondly was Wings of the Dove by Henry James. The parallels with Lolita are obvious: the obsessive attraction to a young person, sexually/physically charged from an older man, and aesthete/writer; the confluence of art and desire. However, the parallels with Wings of the Dove were almost as striking, especially at the end of the novella when Aschenbach really begins to observe the city in its corruption and grotesque duplicity. While in James' novel, Venice is the scene of almost criminal cupidity and corruption of innocence, the death of love between Kate and Merton, and the literal death of Milly, in Mann's novella it is a breeding ground of disease, a metaphor for the moral disease of pederasty and perversion, and ultimately the death of Aschenbach from that cause. Love, language, art: like all things, there are limits, borders, demarcations of what is possible. Aschenbach's "love" for Tadzio is impossible, and so does he find language and art impossible in the face of that infatuation. Though he writes in honor of the boy's beauty he finds it does not compare, quite. He concludes that it is best that no one ever know the inspiration of great art, because no art can capture the original inspiration. Furthermore, inspiration is a wholly personal spark: while Tadzio represents a perfection to Aschenbach, it is a subjective assessment. His love for the boy is a mix of envy of youth, some aesthetic appreciation, and much artistic embellishment. In point of fact, Tadzio's beauty is as much accountable in the lover and as in himself. It is furthermore significant that the two are never united in touch, speech, or any other contact. The "love" which Aschenbach feels for Tadzio is a fiction, a piece of artistry. He has ensconced the boy in a lover's discourse which is separate and sufficient from reality, it is free standing, it sticks to the boy like a perfect gilding. The writer's infatuation for the boy runs a risk whenever he approaches the boy, and should he make real contact he would risk ruining his idol. There is nothing more curious or delicate than a relationship between people who know each other only by sight, who encounter and observe each other daily- nay, hourly- yet are constrained by convention or personal caprice to keep up the pretense of being strangers, indifferent, avoiding a nod or word. There is a feeling of malaise and overwrought curiosity, the hysteria of an unsatisfied, unnaturally stifled need for mutual knowledge and communication, and above all a sort of strained esteem. For a man loves and respects his fellow man only insofar as he is unable to assess him, and longing is a product of insufficient knowledge. The relationship, if it can be called that, between Tadzio and Aschenbach is extremely delicate, and Aschenbach realizes his own inability to act. Aschenbach always follows, but becomes feverish and weak, paralyzed with fear when he risks overcoming the boy. Should he meet him, his love would be impossible, it would be lessened, diminished to the stage of reality from the proscenium of Paradise. To Aschenbach the boy is shrouded in a mythical nimbus: he is compared at turns to Narcissus, to Phaedrus (Plato's ambiguous "favorite"), Ganymede, Hyacinth: the young boys beloved by gods. While Tadzio's narcissism seems apparent in his interactions with the other boys and his family, and through the interpretation of Aschenbach, it is Aschenbach's narcissism which drives the story to its tragic conclusion. While I am loath to align too closely with the theories of Freud, in my own personal experience and observation, homosexuality is at its core driven by a sort of narcissism: a love of one's own image. For Aschenbach, this love is further perverted, for him it is a love of his bygone image, the image of youth. Aschenbach continually envisions himself a god, attributes to himself the divine ability to create the world, his love, in his own image, in his own way. He considers himself a skilled craftsman, a talented artist, and a noble man. In Munich he feels that he is a man beloved by his countrymen, beloved by everyone for his art. When he arrives in Venice, his divinity is paled, he is not known by everyone there, his ego is slighted when he is not permitted special treatment (when the gondolier refuses his request, when his luggage is lost), and he feels that his dominance, his power, is lost in this new locale. Away from his Olympus he is made mortal, he becomes subject to the sirocco of desire and temptation, he feels powerless and feels the need to regain that power. His trial is doomed to fail, because what he can never avail over is the indomitable specter of Time, who he seeks to defeat in Venice through his love for the shadow-mirror of a young boy. He has his hair dyed, his cheeks rouged, his lips painted, his eyes lined, all in vain expectations of renewing his youth, when in reality his stay in Venice brings him closer and closer to death. It is in Venice that the declension of power occurs over his own fate, the loosening hold of himself and of his temptations: Clusters of blossoms- white and purple, redolent of almonds- hung down over the crumbling walls from the small gardens overhead. Moorish window frames stood out in the murk. The marble steps of a church descended into the water, where a beggar, in affirmation of his indigence, squatted with his hat out and showed the whites of his eyes as if he were blind. An antique dealer posted outside his lair beckoned the passerby ingratiatingly in the hope of fleecing him. Such was Venice, the wheedling, shady beauty, a city half fairy tale, half tourist trap, in whose foul ait the arts had once flourished luxuriantly and which had inspired musicians with undulating, lullingly licentious harmonies. The adventurer felt his eyes drinking in its voluptuousness, his ears being wooed by its melodies; he recalled, too, that the city was diseased and was concealing it out of cupidity, and the look with which he peered out after the gondola floating ahead of him grew more wanton. Venice is a city of disease. Not only the choleric disease which we assume ultimately kills Aschenbach through his infected strawberries (a symbol of sensuality, purity, fertility, humility - note the fruit is also the pattern on Desdemona's fatal kerchief). Venice is the city of corruption, of a specifically hidden corruption. In Wings of the Dove, the scheme on Milly's fortune is a disease which infects the entire cast, a disease more fatal to happiness than the poor girl's own ailments. In Death in Venice this corruption is a kind of self-loathing but insurmountable temptation toward perversion, toward self-destruction, toward deicide. Venice is a sort of Götterdämmerung - the death of Aschenbach's self-envisioned godliness to the mortal temptations and corruptions of the city. Death and corruption lurk in the many masked faces of inn-keepers and merchants and bums, in the tourists and travellers, the musicians and play-actors, who keep the secret of the city's canker of corruption below the surface. Isn't this also the crime of art? To keep the truth just below the surface? Is fiction not a euphemism for lying? Despite all the verisimilitude, is fiction not only the semblance of reality, masquerading as truth? Is Aschenbach's love for Tadzio real? How can it be? It is merely a fiction like his many successful books, which he has published without understanding them fully himself, speaking of a world which he scarcely knows, and which is scarcely knowable. The city, the story, like all fiction, can be adorned with "blossoms of white and purple" but those are but a mask for the sometimes hideous natures which populate the worlds of reality and fiction, which distract us from the brutal violence between children (Jasiu nearly suffocating Tadzio) and perversion (Aschenbach's pursuit of Tadzio), etc.


Since the piece is well known as being a landmark work of fiction regarding male homosexuality, I am not going to focus on that in my review, or on its other element that has been flogged to death as well, being the rather extreme youth (age 14) of the love object. -----Well! What a conflicting piece of fiction. The novella seems fairly divisive amongst critics, but one thing that I think most of us can agree on, is that the novella is a discomfiting piece of writing. I suspect this was so for the author as well as for his readers.For me this was not because of how the protagonist's obsession affected his love-object, but because of how this obsession affected the protagonist himself. ... and, I couldn't shake the feeling that the novella was pretty much autobiographical in many senses. (I found out later that it was so in many respects, and the love-object is based on a real person. Most uncomfortable of all, is that the 'real' Tadzio, was the 10-year old Wladyslaw Moes).Achenbach, the protagonist, is a well-respected author, who, like Mann, tends to engage with political and intellectual issues in his work. Like Achenbach, Mann visited Venice, where he made the acquaintance of a young boy whose beauty he apparently admired; with the difference that Mann was accompanied by his wife and brother, while Achenbach was alone. Okay, there are a few other differences as well - and one pretty large one, but that's a spoiler.Many reviewers and critics have made much ado about the protagonist's homosexuality and/or his pederastic inclinations, but I think what disturbed me most was the stalker-ish intensity of the protagonist's infatuation, and to an extent also how he totally overromanticized the idea of physical beauty, using purple prose and overblown idealistic sentiments to describe his thoughts on physical human beauty, (which I deeply disagree with), and which Mann propped up with symbolism from Greek mythology, and references to Platonic ideals.Ironically, Björn Johan Andrésen, who played the role of the fourteen-year-old Tadzio in Luchino Visconti's 1971 film adaptation of Death in Venice, is credited with saying: “One of the diseases of the world is that we associate beauty with youth. We are wrong. The eyes and the face are the windows of the soul and these become more beautiful with the age and pain that life brings. True ugliness comes only from having a black heart”.Because I have long known that beauty is only skin-deep, I like those sentiments a lot better than: ... he believed that his eyes gazed upon beauty itself, form as divine thought, the sole and pure perfection that dwells in the mind and whose human likeness and representation, lithe and lovely, was here displayed for veneration. This was intoxication, and the aging artist welcomed it unquestioningly, indeed, avidly. His mind was in a whirl, his cultural convictions in ferment; his memory cast up ancient thoughts passed on to him in his youth though never yet animated by his own fire. Was it not common knowledge that the sun diverts our attention from the intellectual to the sensual? It benumbs and bewitches both reason and memory such that the soul in its elation quite forgets its true nature and clings with rapt delight to the fairest of sundrenched objects, nay, only with the aid of the corporeal can it ascend to more lofty considerations. Cupid truly did as mathematicians do when they show concrete images of pure forms to incompetent pupils: he made the mental visible to us by using the shape and coloration of human youths and turned them into memory's tool by adorning them with all the luster of beauty and kindling pain and hope in us at the sight of them...Some interesting thoughts there, though I disagree with the sentiments expressed in bold. Were these the thoughts of the protagonist, or the author himself? From his notes, it would seem that these were actually Mann's own sentiments. They do seem a perfect rationalization for a man in Achenbach's position to make though, which makes them pretty fitting in their context, I must concede.I am surprised that so many people, with so much evidence to the contrary, can still invoke Plato's ideas of essence = form when it comes to physical beauty = spiritual beauty. Surely, it doesn't require too much contemplation to come to the conclusion that physical beauty does not equal spiritual beauty?One could muse that perhaps what Achenbach is rather saying, in what seems like a rationalization for his passion, that beauty can inspire love, the latter which is in itself beautiful. ...and yet, since in this specific context the object of that passion is so young, and vain, and since they had never even exchanged a word with one another, could this be love? Methinks not - this could surely be but an infatuation of the senses.From the notes Mann made for the writing of the novella, it is clear that part of what he wanted to show, was that an artist (an author like himself) cannot be a dignified, purely rational creature, that he needs to be in touch with his passions and emotions, and that the act of creating art is inherently not a dispassionate activity.Something else that Mann seems to be saying behind the scenes, is that love itself cannot be dignified, that love pushes an individual into undignified behavior. Mann being a fairly obviously repressed individual, one can read a certain parallel between the disease that infects Venice, with Achenbach's almost insane passion (insanity features in Mann's notes). Mann seems to see these homosexual pederastic impulses that one surmises he felt himself, as at the same time degrading and ennobling. Ennobling, so the reasoning seems to go, in the sense of that when a person degrades himself for love, it can be seen as a kind of sacrifice of dignity for a higher cause (being, in this case, "love").But one can only follow such reasoning if you can agree that a passion that seems so distant, unrealistic and physical can be ennobling and can be described as "love". To put the matter in a slightly different context - make a small leap in your mind and imagine that the love-object here is instead a 40-year old woman. If the latter was the case, would the scenario in DIV still be creepy? Indeed, it would. What would make the scenario still creepy? It would still be a purely physical obsession characterized by stalkerish behaviour.So one ends up asking yourself how far selfishly and obsessively stalking someone can really be an expression of love? ..and if it is to the extent that one puts this behaviour of yours above the wellbeing of its object? ..and what when the continuation of this behaviour puts the other's life in danger, then is it not actually selfishness and the opposite of love?(view spoiler)[ Achenbach deliberately does not tell Tadzio's mother about the epidemic in order to avoid the outcome that Tadzio's family would leave the resort; which would remove Tadzio from the older man's proximity. In fact, I was sort of visualizing an ending in which Tadzio dies of Cholera, and Achenbach is racked with guilt, possibly even driven totally mad with guilt) (hide spoiler)]Of course, when the object of your obsession is only 14 years old, not making contact can probably be seen as the nobler action to take than to make contact; and sticking to stalking behaviour is probably preferable to some potential alternatives.In spite of my criticism of Mann's ideas and of his patches of overwrought, overemotional purple prose, the latter suits the subject of the story well, and there are certainly a lot of thought-provoking ideas and well-executed imagery.Mann also displays keen insight into his characters. He portrays the aging, smitten homosexual well, and the dissolution of his personality via the intensity of his obsession is conveyed with pathos despite the relentless dissection under Mann's unnerving microscope. One feels torn between pity for Achenbach while at the same time suppressing a shudder at the creepiness of his stalking behavior - but Mann manages to make him look pathetic more than anything else. Mann also remarks on Tadzio's narcissism with acute insight. According to The Real Tadzio: Thomas Mann's Death in Venice and the Boy Who Inspired It, the latter was indeed a pretty narcissistic person who enjoyed the attentions of older men, so Mann was pretty spot-on with his portrayals.All-in-all, as with all good fiction, the novel leaves one with conflicted feelings. And, like all good fiction, it makes you roll around its various elements in your head, considering and re-considering; trying to find definite stances. The fact that the latter is so hard to do with this work of fiction, is a part of what makes it good fiction, whether one agrees with all of the specific ideas put forward by it or not.--- I must mention that I started the novella with the e-book version of the translation by Michael Henry Heim, and finished with the translation by Clayton Koelb, with some cross-over where I read passages out of both. The latter claims to be the most natural and most US-friendly translation out there, but these two translations appeared fairly similar to me.["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>


A good book to be taught in tandem with Lolita, methinks. A literary achievement with the psychology of Tolstoy and a Greek commitment to The Story; and that is not the only thing about this book that is 'Greek'. A treatise on Death, Life, Sex, Desire, and Fear, Death in Venice is both enticing and terrifying, and for the self-same reason. Here is the face of wretched animal man, teeth bared, cloudy desperation mocking his vision. Mann's succinct and powerful images are always reversed: the raw and brutal emotion herein is become feral, mitigated only by how it twists back upon itself as only such a morally indistinct, labyrinthine mass may so twist.Eminently pleasing and disturbing, this battle between the barely-restrained Epicurean and the resignedly Absurdist meets the latter's comic fruition in the former's faux-tragic inaccessibility.

Steve mitchell

The book was short and sweet, so I will follow suit.Plot-An older famous writer, Ashenbach, decides to go on holiday to Venice the only place in the world he can truly relax.While on holiday he sees a young Polish boy and falls in love(?) I dont know how you fall in love just from sight! He follows this little kid around and obviously he wants to approach him and then you should read the book!This is almost a Lolita before Lolita, and its not only pedophilia but homosexual pedophilia, I am surprised this wasnt blacklisted everywhere, or maybe it was but just not as famous.Mann uses intertextuation, something I had seen before but did not know it had a name or was a style, he uses Platos Phaedrus to discuss erotic love! I was intrigued by the authors thoughts on writing and fame:"The happiness of writers is the thought that can be entirely emotion and the emotion that can be entirely thought. Such a pulsing thought, such a precise emotion belonged to the solitary one then: namely that nature was shaken with delight when the mind paid homage to beauty." This makes Aschenbach want to write suddenly. To keep his mind off of the young boy.I also loved the description of wandering around Venice and following the boy using gondolas.A great quick read that gives me the urge to read Manns other books from the list.


Gustav Aschenbach è un anziano scrittore di successo che ha dedicato la sua vita alle fatiche della scrittura, sacrificando così diletti e piaceri. Si reca a Venezia per un soggiorno estivo e, nell’hotel dove alloggia, la sua attenzione viene catturata da una nobile famiglia polacca, in particolare dall’adolescente Tadzio. Dapprima Aschenbach sembra solo ammirarne l’efeba bellezza che incarna i principi estetici classicheggianti che hanno sempre ispirato la sua opera. Con il passare dei giorni, però, l’attrazione diventa di tipo carnale, portando lo scrittore a rivisitare non solo la sua concezione dell’arte, ma della sua stessa vita. Quando lo scrittore viene a conoscenza dell’epidemia di colera che si sta diffondendo a Venezia, decide di restare per poter continuare ad ammirare l’oggetto del suo desiderio e sprofonda così in quell’abisso che aveva sempre temuto.“La morte a Venezia” racconta la crisi del magistero della scrittura, la morte dello scrittore borghese. Tra i tanti dati reali che stanno alla base del racconto, infatti, uno in particolare è significativo dell’intento di Thomas Mann. L’idea alla base di questo racconto, almeno agli inizi, si era infatti sovrapposta ad un altro progetto che Mann aveva in mente: raccontare, cioè, l’amore del settantenne Goethe per la diciassettenne Ulrike von Levetzow. Dunque quello che Mann aveva in mente era la rappresentazione del problema della dignità dell’artista. Nella lotta tra apollineo e dionisiaco che caratterizza la crisi di Aschenbach e, per esteso, la figura dell’intellettuale borghese, emerge il tentativo di Mann di conciliare (come, tra l’altro, anche in “Tonio Kröger”) la forma e la forza elementare della vita, il caos. Cerca di giustificare il suo iniziale interesse per il giovane polacco rintracciando nelle sue fattezze gli indizi della bellezza classica, come la chiarezza e il richiamo al mondo delle idee, ma poi il sogno finale, durante il quale viene svelato un poco equivoco simbolo fallico, lo sprofonda inevitabilmente nel caos di quelle forze vitali ed oscure nascoste nel suo inconscio e che porta dapprima alla tragedia, poi alla morte. Nonostante i continui richiami al “Fedro” e al “Simposio” di Platone, l’inconciliabile resta tale, sia nel racconto in questione, sia nella realtà. Il tentativo di Aschenbach fallisce perché la realtà cambia, l’intellettuale borghese perde realmente la sua dignità, prima quella di intellettuale, poi quella di borghese.Un racconto non facile, pieno di richiami alla cultura classica e di riferimenti ai dati reali che hanno portato al suo concepimento. Tuttavia rimane una lettura imprescindibile se si vuole comprendere il passaggio da un mondo antico a quello nuovo, se si vogliono comprendere i conflitti che hanno portato alla nascita di un nuovo tipo di cultura e di artista. Inoltre si resta incantati da alcuni passaggi, dove la penna di Mann esprime il meglio di sé. Ne riporto uno che ho particolarmente gradito e che descrive l’alba.”Ma, ai primi chiarori dell’alba, lo destava un soprassalto di acuto e dolce sgomento, il cuore si ricordava della sua avventura , egli non resisteva più fra i cuscini, si alzava, e, coperto di leggero contro i brividi del mattino, sedeva alla finestra in attesa del sorgere del sole. Il mirabile evento riempiva di devozione religiosa la sua anima purificata dal sonno. Cielo, terra e mare giacevano ancora in un pallore vitreo, spettrale, di crepuscolo; negli spazi incorporei nuotava ancora una stella morente. Ma ecco giungere un soffio, l’alato messaggio lanciato da inaccessibili regioni, che Eos si leva dal fianco dello sposo; avveniva quel primo e tenero arrossire delle zone più remote del cielo e del mare, in cui il rendersi percepibile ai sensi dell’universo creato si rivela. Si avvicinava la dea, la rapitrice di adolescenti, che già involò Clito e Cefalo e, sfidando l’invidia degli Olimpici, godé l’amore del vezzoso Orione. Ai confini del mondo, aveva allora inizio uno spargere rose, un brillare e rifiorire di un’indicibile grazia; come ubbidienti amorini, leggere nubi pargolette intrise di luce si libravano nei rosei e celesti vapori; un manto di porpora calava sul mare che pareva ondeggiando risospingerlo a riva; dal basso, auree lance si avventavano in alto nel cielo; lo splendore trasmutava in incendio; tacitamente, con imperiosità divina, la vampa infocata, il lingueggiar delle fiamme, inondavano di sé il firmamento: con impetuosi zoccoli, i sacri destrieri del fratello balzavano alti sull’orbe. Inondato dal fulgore del nume, solitario vegliante sedeva e, chiusi gli occhi, offriva le palpebre al bacio del cerchio di luce.”

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