This novel seems to really get people's goat. All the criticisms leveled against it are true to a certain extent, there is no character worthy of easy or obvious sympathy, the translation trips over itself at certain moments, it is an exhausting book. But all these faults contribute to its specific lure, its terrible power. Though mean, Canetti's prose doesn't come across as misanthropic. Though furious, it isn't bile after bucket of bile being dashed across the page. The fury comes through the curved vertices of a magnifying glass, an ultimate tragedy and comedy which leaves you uncertain of whether you are really meant to be laughing. It ends in ecstatic despair, leaving you drained, weightless, and finally uplifted. This novel is pure power, without sympathy or misanthropy, a cold eye looking at madness in all of its luscious dysfunction.
Auto Da Fe overcame me, with all its ugliness and tragic comedy. From that summation this novel seems like some cheap thrill to exercise misanthropy, but the depth, focus, restraint (and occasional lack of) transform it from indulgence to a modern myth about delusion, sacrifice and belief. The inevitable and final release of Peter Kien is the most beautiful end to any story I have read, seen or heard. At the heart, there is great love for humanity, viewed through the harshest glass.
This story is complete, with all its cracks, and has been my bible for sometime.
Oh yeah, and it's fun. Do you hear that? Auto Da Fe is a fun book, like as fun as some moderate acts of arson.
Though I haven't read a lot, I have yet to read something as unimpeachable, or dare I say it, perfect.