The World Of Yesterday Stefan Zweig

I have never enjoyed an author’s company as much as I did whilst reading this book. Stefan Zweig’s personality infuses every page, and what a beautiful personality that is. His grand view of European liberalism and enthusiasm for artistic expression is the ideal antidote to the nationalism and political polarisation inherent in our current world. For me, the most riveting passages are those in which he describes meeting, and in some cases being closely acquainted with, what are now seen as some of the greatest artists, writers and composers of the twentieth century. He describes meeting those iconic figures with such vivid detail and passion that it is clear that he himself realised his great fortune in holding such company. He describes such events as witnessing Rodin sculpt with his hands, visiting a Parisian cemetery with Rilke, taking Dali to visit Freud on his deathbed, and writing an opera with Straus. It is a life filled with art, passion, hard work, and gratitude.

A mood that does come to pervade much of this memoir is that of nostalgia, for this is a book borne at the end of an era of peace, liberalism and high art — in short, the end of an era of comfort and security, at least in the world that Zweig lives. The first shock to this world comes with the First World War, and whilst his security is somewhat recovered in the interwar period, one can’t help thinking that when comparing his writing to that of other interwar writings such as Henry Miller’s Tropic of Cancer, Zweig’s memories already contains nostalgic overtones. Zweig’s prose often lulls and comforts, but one must remember that nostalgia operates by a process of selective memory, and a selective retelling is applied throughout this novel, for one of the most fascinating aspects about this novel is not about what is contained within its pages, but instead what is not contained. Whilst Zweig’s personality dominates every page, there remains a stark detachment and impersonality, for his personal life is barely referred to, with only a few inadvertent references to his wives or brother being made. Many more words are devoted to his lost collections, such as a signed novel by Joyce, sheet music in the hand of Mozart, and a painting by Blake. His lamentation for his lost collection can’t help but signify what other far more personal things he had also lost.

This novel was written during the Second World War, and the shadow of that period falls on its pages with menacing darkness, and there is a fear of the truth written through it that the world of security that he knew, loved and understood had been shattered forever. The true depth of this novel is found between the interplay of the reminiscence of days past, and the reality of days present, for like Blake in his poetry collection this novel contains both songs of innocence and of experience.