Ebook Pdf Schachnovelle Anmerkungenmit Biografie Von Stefan Zweig German Edition contains important information and a detailed explanation about Ebook. 1. Mai Other Fiction Zweig, Stefan: Schachnovelle|V1||German Kindle Books. Die»Schachnovelle«schrieb Stefan Zweig zwischen und im , Karl May, ePub Books, 0, AM. Beware of Pity - Stefan Zweig - dokument [*.epub] STEFAN ZWEIG () and the novella Schachnovelle, published by NYRB Classics as Chess Story.
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Plot summary. The narrator opens the story on a cruise to Rio. Driven to mental anguish as the result of total isolation by the Nazis, Dr B, a securities expert hiding valuable assets of the nobility from the new regime, maintains his sanity only through the theft of a book of past masters' chess games which he plays endlessly, voraciously learning each one until they overwhelm his imagination The game is played by millions of people worldwide. Chess is believed to be derived from the Indian game chaturanga sometime before the 7th century. Chaturanga is also the likely ancestor of the Eastern strategy games xiangqi, janggi, and shogi. Chess Notes Archives.
Frei bearbeitet von Stefan Zweig. Episode vom Genfer See.
Eine Rede. Drei Novellen. Leipzig o.
Casanova — Stendhal — Tolstoi. In: Insel-Almanach auf das Jahr , S. Bildnis eines politischen Menschen. Die unsichtbare Sammlung. Episode am Genfer See. Mesmer — Mary Baker Eddy — Freud. Bildnis eines mittleren Charakters.
DNB Die schweigsame Frau. Musik von Richard Strauss. Juni Dresden Maria Stuart.
Die Gouvernante. Die Frau und die Landschaft. Phantastische Nacht. Brief einer Unbekannten. Die Mondscheingasse.
Vierundzwanzig Stunden aus dem Leben einer Frau. Untergang eines Herzens. Legenden: Rahel rechtet mit Gott. Der begrabene Leuchter. Die Legende der dritten Taube. Die gleich-ungleichen Schwestern. Sternstunden: Die Weltminute von Waterloo. Die Marienbader Elegie. The weeping went on, grew, if anything, more vehement, breaking forth again and again, like a gush of blood, like a hot agony of vomiting, in spasm after spasm.
Hofmiller retreats to the salon, where Ilona intercepts him. He bolts from the house, his heart "hot with shame. As we discover, she often has such fits when something displeases her. But for the folie a deux that is the novel's subject to take root, Hofmiller must make a complementary response. Already that night, he is appalled at having given such pain: He has committed a gaffe, a social error, and has thereby dishonored both his regiment and himself within the regiment: In return, he receives a note from her, inviting him to tea.
He needn't say what day he's coming, she adds: But alas! The day after this visit, the innocent Hofmiller is riding out to the morning parade, his men behind him. He loves riding, and he spurs his horse to a gallop: Ah, to ride thus, to ride thus to the ends of the earth! He orders his men to slow to a trot. Disappointed, they obey.
That, Hofmiller says, was "the first symptom of the strange poisoning of my spirit by pity. Edith is narcissistic and imperious - a diva of pain. At tea the day before, she had been forced to leave early the masseur had arrived , and, though accustomed to using a wheelchair, this time she insisted on walking: She pressed her lips firmly together, raised herself on to the crutches and - tap-tap, tap-tap - stamped, swayed, heaved herself forward, contorted and witch-like, while the butler held his hands out behind her to catch her should she slip or collapse.
Tap-tap, tap-tap, tap-tap - first one foot and then the other She wanted to show me, me in particular, to show all of us, that she was a cripple. She wanted, out of a kind of mysterious vindictiveness born of despair, to torture us with her torture. In the course of the novel, that "tap-tap" will come to sound like something out of Poe, and Edith's witch-like character will become more pronounced. In a way, her father, grieving for her, his only love he is a widower , appeals more powerfully to Hofmiller's compassion than Edith does.
Even in this grotesque scene, however, Zweig makes it clear that the wounded do deserve our pity.
And how are we to withhold it, though in giving it in the measure they ask - Hofmiller is soon expected at the house every day - we may feel coerced? That, in any case, is Hofmiller's reasoning as, from day to day, from teatime to dinnertime, he doles out the greater and greater reassurances that Edith demands.
She of course falls in love with him, and her doctor tells him that he cannot disabuse her as to his feelings, or not yet, for this would doom a cure that she is about to undertake in Switzerland.
So he descends ever deeper into hypocrisy. In the process, Zweig gives us a piercing analysis of the motives underlying pity. Gradually Hofmiller realizes how much he enjoys the attentions paid to him for his emotional services, how it pleases him that when he arrives at the Schloss his favorite cigarettes - and also the novel its pages already cut that he had said in passing that he wanted to read - are laid out on the tea table.
Nor is it lost on him that his own sense of strength is magnified by Edith's weakness and, above all, by his growing power over the Kekesfalvas, the fact that if he, a poor soldier, does not present himself at teatime, this great, rich household is thrown into a panic, and the chauffeur is dispatched to town to spy him out and see what he is doing in preference to waiting on Edith.
Beyond the matter of power, however, Hofmiller finds that the emotion of pity is a pleasure just in itself. It exalts him, takes him to a new place. Before, as an officer, he was required only to obey orders and be a good fellow. Now he is a moral being, a soul. That analysis of compassion is one of the book's foremost contributions, but any psychoanalyst could have done it. What only Zweig could have created are the scenes between Hofmiller and Edith: Late in the novel, during one of his visits, she finds his attentions insufficient.
She starts to have one of her fits, and to allay it, he places his hand on her arm: Suddenly the spasm ceased; she grew rigid again and did not stir. It was as though her whole body were straining to understand what this touch indicated, to know whether it was a gesture of It was terrible, this waiting with bated breath, this waiting of a tense, motionless body.
I had not the courage to withdraw the hand which had with such marvellous suddenness stilled the paroxysm of sobs, and on the other hand I had not the strength to force from my fingers the caress that Edith's body, her burning flesh - I could tell - so urgently awaited.
I let my hand lie there, as though it were not a part of me, and I felt as though all the blood in her body came surging in a warm pulsating stream to this one spot.
Now she moves his hand to her heart and begins caressing it: There was no avidity in this fervent stroking, only serene, awe-struck bliss at being allowed at last to take fleeting possession of some part of my body I enjoyed the rippling of her fingers over my skin, the tingling of my nerves - I let it happen, powerless, defenceless, yet subconsciously ashamed at the thought of being loved so infinitely, while for my part feeling nothing but shy confusion, an embarrassed thrill.
The image of Hofmiller standing there awkwardly as Edith fondles his captured hand, the sheer, no-exit suffocation of the situation: The scene combines their moral knowledge with a kind of neurotic, subdermal excitement reminiscent of Schnitzler, a friend of Zweig's and another legatee of Freud.
Nothing in the book is more striking than its sustained, morbid tension: Like Hofmiller, the reader is dragged down, by the neck. A few days after the above episode, Edith will again seize Hofmiller's hand, and slip an engagement ring onto his finger. From there, the relationship moves swiftly to its fated, disastrous conclusion. That very fatedness, not just in Beware of Pity but in his stories too, has been held against Zweig. A number of writers - for example, Stephen Spender and Salman Rushdie - have remarked on the lock-step progression of his plots and, correspondingly, on the psychological fixity of his characters.
His fictional writings are in some measure case histories, textbook portraits of neurosis, Hofmiller's indecision and Edith's guilt-wielding being prime examples.
To my mind, however, Edith's character - her unlovability, even as she demands to be loved - is a wonderfully bold stroke, opening up whole caverns of psychological meaning. The outcasts of the world "desire with a more passionate, far more dangerous avidity than the happy," Hofmiller says.
Silence, exile, and cunning: From Musil and Schnitzler and Joseph Roth, we have learned to view Franz Joseph's Vienna as a scene of empty however glittering pomp in the public sphere and neuroticism in the private sphere, but Zweig's circumstances were different from those men's. He was the son of a millionaire industrialist - and the second son, the one not required to go into the family business. Already as a teenager he had joined a group of aesthetes whose lodestar was the brilliant young Hugo von Hofmannsthal.
His thoughts were only for art, which he saw in the most ideal terms. After a conversation with Rilke, he wrote, "one was incapable of any vulgarity for hours or even days.
In keeping with the so-called "Austrian idea" - that multi-national, multi-ethnic Austro-Hungary was a symbol of human fellowship - he saw himself as a citizen not of any one country, but of Europe as a whole, "our sacred home, cradle and Parthenon of our occidental civilization.
In , he writes in The World of Yesterday , "The world offered itself to me like a fruit, beautiful and rich with promise. He was part of that large class of educated, assimilated, secular European Jews who were to receive such a surprise in the s.
As a young man, he said, he never "experienced the slightest suppression or indignity as a Jew," and his Moravian family were "free both of the sense of inferiority and of the smooth pushing impatience of the Eastern Jews.