The Marquise of O— and Other Stories (1806-1811)

Heinrich von Kleist was a German writer of somewhat morbid tendencies who did most of his work during the period of the Napoleonic wars before committing suicide (with his girlfriend) in his mid-30s in 1811. He is one of those occasional writers of the relatively far past, two centuries distant now in this case, who somehow seem strikingly modern—"cinematic" is a term I have seen applied to von Kleist more than once. Interestingly, the movie treatment of The Marquise of O— (which I have not seen) was directed by Eric Rohmer, a filmmaker regarded with suspicion in some quarters as being overly literary. The Penguin collection of von Kleist stories, translated by David Luke and Nigel Reeves in the '70s—I have it on good authority that a Martin Greenberg translation is to be preferred, but couldn't find it—is indeed some kind of revelation. Modern, cinematic, yes, all true enough, those words are good too. But even more than that, von Kleist is a stone cold master of intricate plotting. The complications are legion in The Marquis of O—, a mixed-up story of sexual intrigue, honor, and class, and yet presented so lucidly that one races to finish. There are few cheats, and the tales remain sturdy and symmetrical as clockwork. On the surface these stories would appear to be anything but, with long convoluted sentences and paragraphs that may sprawl for pages, confronting one with virtual walls of type. But never mind that. Just start reading. You won't stop. The Marquise of O— presently vies with another novella, Michael Kohlhaas, as von Kleist's most famous. They are both splendid. In Michael Kohlhaas an honorable horse-trader seeks justice in a relatively minor civil matter, only to see it explode into international catastrophe. This one is truly cinematic, playing much like a Sergio Leone picture. Contrast these novellas with "The Beggarwoman of Lacorno," a short short ghost story of merely three pages, brilliantly done: scary, uncanny, and with its pieces moved expertly about its board even in the tight confines of the space. None of the rest of the stories in this collection were up to these three for me—"The Earthquake in Chile" came closest—but once started with this guy one doesn't tend to want to stop anyway. He's that good.

In case it's not at the library.