Montauk [Max Frisch, Goeffrey Skelton, Jonathan Dee] on *FREE* shipping on qualifying offers. Max Frisch’s candid story of his affair with a young. Max Frisch’s Montauk, packed with these dissolving moments, is one of a small handful of works toward which I feel proprietary, if not downright. And others may find that they should write their memoirs, if they are born writers or not. In the autobiographical novel Montauk by Max Frisch the.

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A couple hours later, I was—we were—again following Montahk. Or leading him from behind as it were, because I had resolved not to read the book before seeing the place. Especially in the off-season. I should like to describe this day, just this day, our weekend together, how it came about and how it develops.

I should like to tell it without inventing anything. In the role of a simple narrator.

Montauk by Max Frisch

Max Frisch, as I wrote once in some catalog, was one of the giants of twentieth-century German literature, achieving fame as a novelist, playwright, diarist, and essayist—not really in that order. He lived primarily in Switzerland, frisc also in Berlin and with extended visits to New York, and he has written true things about each of those places.

In the course of his life—seventy-nine years in the meat of the twentieth century—he received heaps of prizes and was wildly famous, even becoming, as he notes in this narrative with some embarrassment, the type of guy who gets recognized on the street, or, at the very least, when asked to give his name.


This book is strewn with other names that TQC readers will frich. Private people are another story. They are where this narrative becomes true and grotesque and amazing. They are internalized montaik memories are until their voices are indistinguishable from his own.

Montauk by Max Frisch

And that flatness is also in the very Swiss anxiety of Frisch himself. These people appeared in color, but the man, the lens through mnotauk the reader sees them, is color blind, unable to view them as they are. Much as I am unable to separate this text from the feelings it has given me.

This book is a kind of photo album, not really of major figures in twentieth-century letters but of a hundred personal scenes that interconnect for Frisch in his own mind. Most notably, these are frisdh of women who are alike in one way or another, brought out through ALL CAPS inquiries from Lynn, frisdh lover of the moment and a stand-in for women in general. Lynn acts as the touchstone, the jumping-off point and interlocutor for these recollections.

And in this, the description of his relationship to these women, he is at his most brilliant and his least kind:. I remember a woman who scratched all her ten fingers bloody on the walls of the lavatory after I had told her of my adultery.

The blood on the walls I noticed that same evening, her sore fingers only the next morning. I also remember a woman who omntauk from her bed to ring her husband up at his office. From a phone booth, she said, while I listened in silence. An hour later, we were all three dining together.


It can just as easily appear as swagger as it can an act of contrition, and this book has the flavor of both. And as a form, often in the guise of a personal essay, the confessional is having quite a moment.

It is very honestly self-interested and self-critical. To understand that the mistakes that we make are not just interpersonal, but a matter of style and substance. The friisch sea beneath the deep clouds is the color of mother-of-pearl, the waves lifeless, the sun obscured.

He finds it better to take off his shoes and walk barefoot, shoes in hand.

Gulls over the empty beach, louder than any feeling, louder than the waves. And a few moments—a couple pages—later, he reveals himself still drafting, frixch self-critical:.

Yesterday the long, easy afternoon: In the first place the sea is not the color of mother-of-pearl, the gulls are not white, the sand is neither yellow nor gray, not even the grass green or yellow, the deep clouds not violet—. Or ffrisch it seems to me, but I am always ignorant of the true position.

Review by Jeff Waxman. German Autumn by Stig Dagerman Stig Dagerman, the wunderkind of Swedish literature in the ten years before he committed suicid