Claudio Magris

*Microcosmi* is an assemblage of > fragments that little by little coalesce into an orderly novel, whose structure and meaning reveal themselves (to him) at the end, as happens in life . And life is an assemblage of places, > places and things, scarcely separable from beloved persons and from the image of the world that envelops them . The first fragment is the Caffè San Marco in Trieste, setting the keynote for the narrative: a journey where one never moves. > Sitting at the café, one is on a journey; as on a train.... one cannot leave a vain personal imprint on anything, one is nobody. In that familiar anonymity, one can disguise oneself, shed the self like a peel . And what could be more motionless and yet vital than lagoons and great forests? The narrative proceeds with an evocative, memory-laden description of the sea at Grado and the forests of Monte Nevoso. Here, the forest is not a natural or fantastical place, but rather > at once the exaltation and erasure of borders, a plurality of different and conflicting worlds, held within the great unity that embraces and dissolves them . the following chapter, devoted to the Turin hills, creates a placid and gentle atmosphere (perhaps serene and happy years for the author), leading us to think that > even disappearing could be a celebration, like losing oneself among the hills that in the evening resemble a sea, great and calm waves of a long, powerful breath . And one feels the urge to «go up to one's room and let the world manage on its own». The subsequent chapters (The Absyrtides, which concerns the Croatian islands, in particular Lussino and Cherso) and Antholz (a valley in the Tyrol) lead to places (never explicitly stated) where the author spent his vacations. They are the book's less fortunate pages, overburdened with historical citations and settings difficult for the reader to identify. With the chapter dedicated to the «Public Garden» (a true literary gem), Magris abruptly brings us back to his own childhood, evoking it through a child who carries a dying goldfish to the park's small pond in an attempt to keep it alive. The Garden is a place of recreation, but also of prohibitions. Venturing into the garden is, for the child, like plunging into deep water, finding himself «beyond all those doors that usually bar entry to its secret heart». The Public Garden mirrors the complexity and variety of the human psyche. The self, like the Garden, is a dark forest, an assemblage of open clearings, ancient centuries-old trees, and recesses: > the forest is all around, but one is not inside the forest; invisible thresholds bar the way... one is outside, excluded from the woods, which perhaps begin a meter further on, but the door to enter and reach that gnawing and murmuring cannot be found . The child's return home introduces the final chapter, with the mysterious title «The Vault», which finally speaks explicitly of an episode from the author's life, bringing forth the figure of the mother with poignant tenderness. As in a dream, the child remembers an air raid and the flight into a shelter inside a church. The child is frightened, yet he is together with the others («throughout the church, people greeted one another, shook hands, some embraced») and so > he was not surprised to see her beside him... go to sleep, she told him, I'll wake you when the time comes . He is afraid, but he hears voices that reassure him. They are > two voices, almost identical to his own, the children who had filled the house, the days, life itself, telling him not to be afraid . The cycle of life comes to a close, from childhood to old age, among loved ones. *Microcosmi* possesses several virtues: the author's literary device of chronicling the places and people of his life without ever resorting to the first-person “I,” a felicitous choice in an era as narcissistic as our own; the exceptionally elegant prose, which frequently rises to the level of poetry; the depth and acuity of many reflections, tossed off with seeming nonchalance—veritable aphorisms. It is difficult to discern an overarching meaning across these narrative fragments. One might, perhaps, offer a psychoanalytic reading: revisiting the most significant places of his life allows the author to return to his childhood, to his mother, and to forge a link among the disparate moments of existence. Then there recurs the metaphor of the door—that is, the difficulty of entering, but entering where? Perhaps one's own consciousness. The book's virtues are also its flaws: there is no plot, the references and digressions are often tedious, and the narrative style easily slips into erudite mannerism, losing its candor. One senses the learned Germanist, somewhat snobbish and unwelcoming. Why read it? Reading the entire book is a heavy task. It is worth lingering only over the chapters devoted to the Caffè San Marco, the Turin hills, and the public garden—the latter being a genuine masterpiece.