When rescue came, it was almost an assault. I leaned against the wall of the building, looked down at the vomit around my feet, and retched something clear and sticky. My mouth was suddenly full, I tried to swallow everything down again, and clenched my teeth with my hand in front of my mouth, but it all burst out of my mouth anyway straight through my fingers. That was another thing that had never happened to me before. I woke up every morning with a dry mouth and the sensation that my insides were in the wrong place and too heavy for my body. Even if I sat down at the table hungry, I soon felt queasy. When I was faced with stairs either at home or at school, my legs would hardly carry me. I’d been feeling weak for days, in a way that was completely new to me. That’s where I’d thrown up on the way home from school one day the previous October. The first time I ventured outside, it was to go from Blumenstrasse, where we lived on the second floor of a massive turn-of-the-century building, to Bahnhofstrasse. As dusk came one evening in February, there was the sound of a blackbird singing. I saw sky, sun, clouds, and heard the voices of children playing in the courtyard. January was warm, and my mother moved my bed out onto the balcony. Things didn’t start to improve until the new year. As the old year darkened and turned colder, I got weaker and weaker. It started in the fall and lasted until spring. What remains is an austerely beautiful narrative of the attempt to breach the gap between Germany’s pre- and postwar generations, between the guilty and the innocent, and between words and silence. What does it mean to love those people–parents, grandparents, even lovers–who committed the worst atrocities the world has ever known? And is any atonement possible through literature? Schlink’s prose is clean and pared down, stripped of unnecessary imagery, dialogue, and excess in any form. Should we only fall silent in revulsion, shame, and guilt? To what purpose?” The Reader, which won the Boston Book Review‘s Fisk Fiction Prize, wrestles with many more demons in its few, remarkably lucid pages. As Michael follows the trial, he struggles with an overwhelming question: What should his generation do with its knowledge of the Holocaust? “We should not believe we can comprehend the incomprehensible, we may not compare the incomparable…. Hanna is a defendant in a trial related to Germany’s Nazi past, and it soon becomes clear that she is guilty of an unspeakable crime. He never learns very much about her, and when she disappears one day, he expects never to see her again. Michael Berg is 15 when he begins a long, obsessive affair with Hanna, an enigmatic older woman. Oprah Book Club® Selection, February 1999: Originally published in Switzerland, and gracefully translated into English by Carol Brown Janeway, The Reader is a brief tale about sex, love, reading, and shame in postwar Germany.
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