“Politics and the English language,” or any language, I suppose, is an important subject. I frequently write about politics; I frequently write about language. I frequently write about the intersection of the two. And I have again today, in my Impromptus, here.
The worst political terms of all, in my judgment? There are many to choose from, but I nominate “pro-war” and “anti-war.”
Let’s have some mail. My column yesterday, I devoted to a book, namely The Post-Office Girl, by Stefan Zweig. A reader writes,
Hello, Jay,
. . . The excerpts you included brought forth some tears and pulled some emotions and memories from inside me, as great writing can do. Since this is the age of instant gratification, my copy has just downloaded.
Another:
I have read Beware of Pity three times. [This, too, is a novel by Zweig.] The first two times I could not spot a flaw in it. The third time I think I did, but it is not something that would detract from my view that it is a truly great novel.
A third note:
Jay,
Delighted to have read your piece on Stefan Zweig, long one of my favorite authors. As you mention, he wrote The World of Yesterday just before he died. The subtitle says a lot: “Reflections of a European.” That world was swept away.
In Salzburg, you can find the Stefan Zweig Center — housed in the University of Salzburg — which is dedicated to the great man’s work, life, and ideas: tolerance, culture, letters, and a common European identity based on those three. I am a member there (only in the sense that they cash my check) and recommend you swing by on your next trip.
Finally, from Jeffery A. Triggs:
Thanks for the piece on Stefan Zweig. I mainly knew him through his association with Richard Strauss, but later came to a fuller appreciation of his work. We stayed once in a hotel in Vienna that had been his house. Some years back, I wrote a poem about him that might interest you.
Here it is:
Liebestod
In the official police photos, Stefan Zweig and his girl,
Young Lotte, can be seen lying side by side,
Primly propped, he in his sweat-stained shirt and tie,
She in her house dress. Their lips are pursed and chaste.
Their fingers gently touch each other as though
They were shy, young lovers on a first date.
Only the empty bottles on the night stand speak
Of something gone amiss. Things are not as they seem.I have seen a different view. The same iron bed, same bottles
And same clothes, only here disheveled. He holds her
In his arms as only a practiced lover knows to do,
His mouth is agape, as if he strained for one last kiss.
Not knowing better, one might almost think
They moved in death, death imitating art.