re/inventing the past

when i think of W. G. Sebald, my first thought is of a great, perhaps the greatest inventor
homo facer, constantly hovering over his mind. leaving aside the fashionable borgesian
labyrinth, the 4 novels are more or less a moveable feast of perceptions.
a train which nevers stops - an everlasting moment of suspicion and doubt
"am i moving"? sebald is perfectly unconscient because his out-of-the-object
narrow of thought (or stream of consciousness or whatever it is) allows him to
lean on his associative mind. that is how the novel is built. he is the only true heir of
Kafka, Borges and Nabokov, he's charged with the task of carrying the malentendu 
universel. it is the most impossble task a man can take, let alone a writer.

mlm

писателите изобретяват миналото - своето, а в голяма степен и на читателите.

"... Marie moved closer to me and asked whether I had remembered that tomorrow was my birthday. When we wake up tomorrow, she said, I shall wish you every every happiness, and it will be like telling a machine working by some unknown mechanism that I hope it will run well. Can't you tell me the reason, she asked, said Austerlitz, why you remain so unapproachable? Why, she said, have you been like a pool of frozen water ever since we came here? Why do I see your lips opening as if you were about to say something, maybe even cry out loud, and then I hear not the slightest sound? Why did you never unpack when we arrived, always preferring to live out of a rucksack, as it were? We stood there a couple of paces apart, like two actors on stage. The color of Marie's eyes changed as the light dimmed. And once again I tried to explain to her and to myself what incomprehensible feeling had been weighing on me over the last few days; how I kept thinking, like a madman, that there were mysterious signs and and portents all around me here; how it even seemed to me as if the silent facades of the buildings knew something ominous about me, how I had always believed  I must be alone, and in spite of my longing for her I now felt it more than ever before. But it isn't true, said Marie, it isn't true that we need absence and loneliness. It isn't true. It's only in your mind. You are afraid of I don't know what. You have always been rather remote, of course, I could tell that,  but now it's as if you stood on a threshold and you dared not step over it. That evening in Marienbad, sad Austerlitz, I could not admit to myself how right everything Marie said was, but today I know why I felt obliged to turn away when anyone came too close to me, I kow that I thought this turning away made me safe, and that at the same time I saw myself transformed into a frightful and hideous creature , a man beyond the pale. Dusk was gathering as we walked back through the park, Dark trees and bushes lined both sides of the white sandy path curving ahead of us, and Marie, whom I lost entirely soon afterwards, by my own fault, was murmuring something quietly to herself. All I remember of it now is a ohrase about the poor lovers qui se promentaient dans les allées désertes du parc."

W. G. Sebald, Austerlitz, p. 215