Annemarie Schwarzenbach

The year is 1939. Annemarie, having emerged from drug rehabilitation, undertakes a journey to Kabul with her friend Ella Maillart. The journey, which was meant to be an opportunity for rebirth for Annemarie and to strengthen the bond with her friend, fails in every respect. It would, however, be a mistake to expect references to drugs or to the romantic relationship between Annemarie and Ella (the latter’s name appears only a handful of times in the narrative), just as it would be illusory to seek an analysis of the places and diverse societies the two friends encounter. The real subjects of the book are the car, a Ford, and the journey as an escape. The various sketches that make up the narrative describe a social environment and a natural world—ever harsh and at times captivating—that nevertheless remain in the background, often proving repetitive and characterized by a dominant aestheticism. > I am amazed by the notes taken during the journey. I have forgotten most of the names. I do not even want to recount the legends I collected . The only real anchor is the car, struggling up impossible ascents, swallowed by sand, its engine boiling in the extreme heat and failing to start in the cold, constantly having to be repaired by local mechanics, who are always kind and accommodating. Everything else is illusion! Yet even the journey as an escape is an illusion. In a beautiful passage, Annemarie thus sums up her journey toward Kabul: > to tell the truth, I was simply tired of traveling and wanted to go home. I feared I had pushed myself too far and had unwittingly crossed the boundary of the space allotted to human beings... That is why one day I wanted to break free, from what fate I do not know exactly... Yet when once again the magic of twilight descends, when the shadowless day fades, and the roe deer stand on the grassy slope already shrouded in mist; when once again such an innocent hour is granted to me, I am ready to lower my eyes and repent and indulge temptation no longer, to admit that we are rooted in a narrow space and can traverse only a very short span, while beyond, in an incalculable distance, the ships were putting in at the shores of death . From a reading of this passage, the narrative’s limitations become evident: it is made of small elegies (almost prose poems) that have little to do with the events of the journey, with the setting and nature. The narrative is, in fact, introspective; yet, because the protagonist’s personal drama (drugs and despair) never emerges except between the lines, it ultimately proves too bloodless to make for an engaging read. Why not read it? It is repetitive, tedious, and insubstantial.