David Albahari’s SNOW MAN


Snow Man, a novel by David Albahari, translated by Ellen Elias-Bursac

. . . fearing . . . that I would end up stuck here forever, constrained, among people who believe that knowledge, rather than being the mastery of ignorance, is confirmation of the desire that things be the way a person believes they are. . . . I hated the willingness of young people to believe, to shrug off the individuality that grows out of the challenge of learning, and to embrace the dead abstractions that professors foisted upon them, and that were nothing more than banality cloaked in the guise of profound wisdom. . . .

I had been living on the edge of an incomplete historical vortex, on the edge of a historical sewer that sucked in all spiritual and physical secretions and then spewed them forth in even more horrible forms, disguised by the illusion of historical balances that dissolved at the most unexpected moments. Nothing was permanent in that place, nothing reliable, except a permanent faith in the power of illusion, and if that day, I was thinking, that had long since eroded into twilight and now held evening in its firmly clenched jaws, differed in any way from all other days, then the distinction lay in my feeling of incredulity at the willingness of people to embrace illusion, at the quickness, in fact of illusion’s embrace, I was thinking at the quickness of this willingness to seize on the veracity of illusion.

“I came because language no longer meant anything, it was being squandered like flour in a mill, because, in fact, it no longer existed.”

“I came here,” I said, “because I had stopped being, because I believed that life could be an existence again, and not merely a series of interrupted sequences, always a new beginning, never an end, and I found myself in a web of new beginnings, in a constant repetition, in the impossibility of being anything other than what had, once, been.” I couldn’t remember when I had last uttered such a long sentence. “I came,” I tried again, though I was no longer addressing only my toes, “because I believed that when I looked back from another place that I would see that first place in a way that I had never been able to see it while I was there, and then, freed of the subjectivity and passion for possession, I would see that everything might have unfolded in a different way, that reality, actually is contained in the act of choice, in opposing any sort of imperative.”

The narrator of David Albahari’s novel, published in English in 2005, is a writer who takes refuge from his disintegrating country at a Canadian university. A country that falls apart leaves people who fall apart. What had seemed to have meaning loses its meaning. Language squandered no longer exists. And without language, a writer becomes a snow man.

Without paragraph breaks, this novel puts a reader inside the head of a troubled man, troubled for good reason, impossibly situated, suffering — “Elend,” as the Germans say, eli-lenti, outside of one’s country — exiled, foreign not as foreign in a new country but foreign in regards to his own. Books and maps and sentences and words have proven useless, worse than useless, have proven to be lies, all of them.

The country is never named. The violence is never described. The dead are never counted. The history of this war plays out entirely in the personal crisis of the narrator in exile. His disappearing voice is devastating.

About Scott Abbott

I received my Ph.D. in German Literature from Princeton University in 1979. Then I taught at Vanderbilt University, BYU, and Utah Valley State College. At Utah Valley University, I directed the Program in Integrated Studies for its initial 13 years and was also Chair of the Department of Humanities and Philosophy for three years. My publications include a book on Freemasonry and the German Novel, two co-authored books with Zarko Radakovic (REPETITIONS and VAMPIRES & A REASONABLE DICTIONARY, published in Serbo-Croatian in Belgrade and in English with Punctum Books), a book with Sam Rushforth (WILD RIDES AND WILDFLOWERS, Torrey House Press), a "fraternal meditation" called IMMORTAL FOR QUITE SOME TIME (University of Utah Press), and translations of three books by Austrian author Peter Handke, of an exhibition catalogue called "The German Army and Genocide," and, with Dan Fairbanks, of Gregor Mendel's important paper on hybridity in peas. More famously, my children are in the process of creating good lives for themselves: as a model and dance/yoga studio manager, as a teacher of Chinese language, as an ecologist and science writer, as a jazz musician, as a parole officer, as a contractor, as a seasonal worker (Alaska and Park City, Utah), and as parents. I share my life with UVU historian Lyn Bennett, with whom I have written a cultural history of barbed wire -- THE PERFECT FENCE (Texas A&M University Press). Some publications at http://works.bepress.com/scott_abbott/
This entry was posted in Uncategorized and tagged , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

3 Responses to David Albahari’s SNOW MAN

  1. flowerville says:

    i’ll probably read this.

    found this just now, you might well already know it, but i thought just in case….: http://xroads.virginia.edu/~drbr/b_arb1.html


  2. Scott Abbott says:

    i’ve been reading all of albahari’s books i can find in either german or english translation. i very much like him.
    the article by earl hayter is a good early study. we worked in the hayter collection at the university of wyoming, finding lots of good documents in his life-long collection.
    and in a side note: the article was published in the journal Agricultural History, which just this week accepted our article on early barbed-wire advertisements. i never thought i would have an article in a journal of that sort. feels good!


  3. flowerville says:

    yes this is kinda charming they accepted it. congrats.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s