ROBERT WALSER
ROBERT WALSER, WRITER, 1878 - 1956
Walser’s passion for simple moments (taking walks, observing human qualities) is more precious than ever in a world increasingly removed from the tangible. Carl Selig’s stunning memoirs ‘My walks with Walser’ have been released by New Directions Publishing.
ca. 1939
Excerpt from ‘The Assistant’, 1907
“The yellow and red leaves burned and gleamed feverishly through the foggy gray of the landscape. The red of the cherry tree’s leaves had something incandescent and aching and raw about it, but at the same time it was beautiful and brought peace and cheer to those who saw it. Often the entire countryside of meadows and trees appeared to bve wrapped in veils and damp cloths, above and below and in the distance and close at hand everything was gray and wet. You strode through all of this as if through a gloomy dream. And yet this weather and this particular sort of world expressed a secret gaiety. You could smell the trees you were walking beneath, and hear ripe fruit dropping in the meadows and on the path. Everything seemed to have become doubly and triply quiet. All the sounds seemed to be sleeping, or afraid to ring out. Early in the morning and late in the evening, the slow exhalatioins of foghorns could be heard across the lake, exchanging warning signals off the distance and annoucing the presence of boats. They sounded like the plaintive cries of helpless animals. Yes, fog was present in abundance. And then, now and again, there would be yet another beautiful day. And there were days, truly autumnal days, neither beautiful nor desolate, neither particularly agreeable nor particularly gloomy, days that were neither sunny nor dark but rather remained consistently light and dark from morning to dusk, so that four in the afternoon presented just the same vision of the world as eleven in the morning, everything was quiet and pale gold and faintly mournful, the colors withdrew themselves as if dreaming worried dreams. How Joseph adored days like this. Everything appeared to him beautiful, light and familiar. This slight sadness on the part of nature banished all his cares, even his thoughts. Many things then appreared to him no longer dire, no longer burdensome, though they had seemed so burdensome and troublesome not long before. an agreeable forgetfulness sent him drifting through the pretty streets of the village on days like this. The world looked so peaceful, so calm and good and pensive. You could go anywhere you liked, it was always the same pale, full image, the same face, and this face was gazing at you earnestly and with tenderness.”
Available from New Directions Publishing