Lenz (English and German Edition) - Softcover

George Buchner; Johann Friedrich Oberlin; Johann Wolfgang Von Goethe

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9780974968025: Lenz (English and German Edition)

Synopsis

Lenz, Georg Büchner’s visionary exploration of an 18th century playwright’s descent into madness, grew in part out of Alsatian pastor Oberlin’s journal, which is translated here in its entirety for the first time. Lenzis a dispassionate account on the nervous system of a schizophrenic, perhaps the first third-person text ever written from the “inside” of insanity. At his death at the age of 23 in 1837, Georg Büchner also left behind Leonce and Lena, Woyzeck, and Danton’s Death—-psychologically and politically acute plays well ahead of their time.

Richard Sieburth’s translations include Friedrich Holderlin’s Hymns and Fragments, Walter Benjamin’s Moscow Diary, Gerard de Nerval’s Selected Writingsand Henri Michaux’s Emergences/Resurgences. His English edition of the Nerval won the 2000 PEN Book-of-the-Month-Club Translation Prize.

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About the Author

Georg Büchner (1813-1837) was born in Germany. His plays (Leonce and Lena, Woyzeck, Danton's Death) were ahead of their time both psychologically and politically, influencing contemporary playwrights as different as Ionesco and Brecht. Richard Sieburth's translations include Friedrich Holderlin's Hymns and Fragments, Walter Benjamin's Moscow Diary, Gerard de Nerval's Selected Writings, and Henri Michaux's Emergences/Resurgences. His English edition of the Nerval won the 2000 PEN Book-of-the-Month-Club Translation Prize. Richard Sieburth's translations include Friedrich Holderlin's Hymns and Fragments, Walter Benjamin's Moscow Diary, Gerard de Nerval's Selected Writings, and Henri Michaux's Emergences/Resurgences. His English edition of the Nerval won the 2000 PEN Book-of-the-Month-Club Translation Prize.

Excerpt. İ Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

The 20th, Lenz walked through the mountains. Snow on the peaks and upper slopes, gray rock down into the valleys, swatches of green, boulders, and firs. It was sopping cold, the water trickled down the rocks and leapt across the path. The fir boughs sagged in the damp air. Gray clouds drifted across the sky, but everything so stifling, and then the fog floated up and crept heavy and damp through the bushes, so sluggish, so clumsy. He walked onward, caring little one way or another, to him the path mattered not, now up, now down. He felt no fatigue, except sometimes it annoyed him that he could not walk...

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