60 of 61 people found the following review helpful
on 15 April 2003
Ostensibly an account of a walk but in reality a dark journey to the bottom of the soul. Sebald's knowledge of local, European and world history and literature is unsurpassed. He leads us through a landscape of dilapidated coastal resorts, decadent country houses, disused seaports, closed branch lines and towns that have literally fallen into the sea. He uses these surroundings as the catalyst for a broad, fascinating discourse on the loss brought about by man's destructive nature and the ineluctable passing of time. He brings his acute, perceptive intelligence to bear on subjects as diverse as the European silk industry, the books of Thomas Browne, Chateaubriand, Rembrandt, Dutch Elm Disease, the Great Storm of 1987, the Rape of the Summer Palace in Peking and his dim recollections of childhood in Nazi Germany and the propaganda films he was shown at school.
In each case, our past sins come back to haunt us in this elegiac, cerebral odyssey. Sebald's sense of collective guilt is so acute, we can only hope that in tribute to this genius's tragic passing, the world mourns him with equal sensitivity and intensity, to that with which he lamented the decline of his adoptive East Anglia and the punishing vicissitudes of nature.
90 of 92 people found the following review helpful
on 2 January 2004
This was the first sebald book I purchased. It is like nothing I have read before or since. The fact that it has no story as such is immaterial to enjoyment of the often dream like qualities of this book. There is a narrative thread in the form of a journey through East Anglia but this is broken by tangental episodes and characters that drift in often seemingly from out of nowhere. This mixture of abstraction and convention is held together by an elegiac low key prose style which I find completely beguiling. Sebald has a way of communicating facts and historical episodes that make them seem fresh although the subject matter is often disturbing. The fact that as a book it is difficult to pin down in terms of style and type only enhances the compelling, enigmatic and ultimately uplifting qualities of this book. It is one of the few books I constantly return to especially after reading a highly rated 'bestseller' (which invariably doesn't come close in terms of written quality or content).
18 of 18 people found the following review helpful
on 28 May 2008
I was given this book in German by a friend who I think had over-estimated my proficiency in that language. I made several failed attempts to penetrate the first chapter before I gave up and ordered "the Rings of Saturn" in English from amazon. I'm glad I did.
I still found the first chapter difficult but after a while, I switched into Sebald's train of thought and was spellbound for the rest of the book. Wandering around the largely desolate, decaying and deserted Suffolk coastline becomes a metaphor for a stream of consciousness, a meandering through the mind. Sights and places spark off connections to stories about a number of historical persons and events, which all become inter-connected in the literary web that is "The Rings of Saturn".
There are recurring themes here of the nature of time, transience and permanence, death and birth. In spite of the philosophical and learned nature of the writing, this book is never dry or dull. In reading it, I learned a lot, I thought a lot and I felt a lot. I can recommend this to anyone who yearns for writing and thought of quality away from the mainstream.
24 of 25 people found the following review helpful
on 12 June 2009
The back cover of this book captures beautifully for me the strange, melancholy and yet uplifting nature of this original and delicate text:
`A walking tour through the haunted landscape of the past, in the company of the exiled and departed'
` .... a book unlike any other in contemporary literature, an intricately patterned and endlessly thought-provoking meditation on the transience of all things human'.
WG Sebald does indeed describe a walk that he undertook along the coast of Suffolk over a number of days in 1992 but from the very first page it becomes clear that this will be no ordinary travelogue. The book opens with the author describing how, a year after his walk, he was `taken into hospital in Norwich in a state of almost total immobility'. Being able to see only a small rectangle of sky from the window of his eight floor room, he becomes `overwhelmed by the feeling that the Suffolk expanses I had walked the previous summer had now shrunk once and for all to a single, blind, insensate spot'.
And so begins a rich and meandering set of accounts of all manner of topics, some provoked by what he has seen and others by associations with places that he is aware of by virtue of his immensely broad and scholarly reading. One passage even consists of a memory of an eccentric household with whom he took lodgings in Ireland years before and is inspired by a dream he has one night during his walk. Sebald wears his learning lightly and his tales and accounts of topics completely alien to me, such as the history of silkworm farming from the ancient Chinese to the twentieth century Nazis, and the life and lost love of the French writer Chateaubriand, are told so engagingly and seemingly from such a fresh perspective, that I was drawn fully into them. There is so much to learn from this book without ever once the reader, or at least this reader, feeling lumbered with a textbook.
But there is potentially more to this enchanting book. As in Austerlitz, the only other book by Sebald that I have so far read, there are a number of grainy black and white photographs, maps and snippets of archival documents. In Austerlitz these were used to support a work of fiction, to confuse and stimulate the curiosity of the reader. Was the author being serious, playful or somehow both at the same time? So too, in this book, there are hints that all may not be what it seems, that there may be invention, embroidery and tall tale telling but corralled, as in Austerlitz, into serving a deeply humanitarian endeavour.
As a completely original and unconventional text, full of rumination on the human condition, sweeping across centuries and continents whilst also rooted in a landscape often painted as featureless and bleak, this is a wonderful book and one to return to for companionship and enrichment during life's solitary journeys.
21 of 22 people found the following review helpful
on 15 October 2003
'Rings of Saturn' is Sebald's greatest work. It has a finesse of description, and an ethereal prose style, that would be hampered by a strong narrative. In fact, Sebald is not terribly good at plot, as I believe 'Austerlitz' demonstrates. In 'Rings' the lives of the lonely and vanishing characters seem to drift in and out of vision, like figures in a misty landscape, without the artist trying to grasp them.
Something like attending a seance to which only the ghosts of obscure historical personages are summoned, 'Rings' is a beautifully melancholy read.
5 of 5 people found the following review helpful
on 22 April 2011
I'm writing this half-way through reading The Rings of Saturn, having looked at other readers' reviews in order to reassure myself that 'it isn't just me' who finds this a strange, but wonderful book.
I came on it after a chance purchase of 'Bicycle Diaries' by David Byrne (yes, he of Talking Heads et al), which I also greatly enjoyed. Byrne references and acknowledges The Rings of Saturn in the forword to his work, which it resembles to no small extent, particularly the travel-related format and the liberal inclusion of sometimes ambiguous, sometimes obscure, black and white photographs. In both books, one suspects the author exploits the limts of the printing process to make the reader work that bit harder to interpret what he or she sees.
I agree with those reviewers who compare this book to Proust and de Botton, but I'm surprised that (unless I've skimmed over it), no-one has mentioned the occasional flash of gentle humour that shines through. OK, it's not so laugh-out-loud funny as Bill Bryson or Michael Palin, but now and then I reckon Sebald throws in the occasional spoof 'fact' with his tongue in his cheek and a twinkle in his eye, just to test the limits of our credence and to make sure we're paying attention. Spotting these is one of the pleasures of reading the book. A map would have been nice, though.
23 of 25 people found the following review helpful
on 10 January 2004
This is a wonderful book, ostensibly a chronical of a walk along the suffolk coast from Lowestoft to Orfordness; Sebold weaves into this pedestrian tale a compendium of remarkable, human stories and tales from around the world. A life affirming book that reminds us how we each have the whole world within us.
3 of 3 people found the following review helpful
Without question this is a strange and fascinating book. The physical journey taken by the author meanders through the landscape of coastal East Anglia, and the journey the text takes meanders through a wide range of topics - art, literature, history. I think that the book is clear reflection of the landscape of the region. While East Anglia may not have the high mountains and dramatic valleys that define other regions, its beauty is without question. The text of the book takes on a similar form. Small details become important, otherwise overlooked aspects become the focus and the journey is enriched through this.
There is no sweeping grandeur here - the place and text come together to examine the small, the valuable and the distant, and yet the book manages to be both compelling and thought provoking. Do not look for the huge, the famous or the dramatic in this book - its charm lies in other areas. Highly recommended.
2 of 2 people found the following review helpful
on 30 September 2014
Sebald (1944-2001) was a German philosopher and novelist living in the UK and clearly haunted by the past. (He calls history “but a long account of calamities”). His travels around the empty and isolated marshes and coastline of East Anglia in the 1990s, as well as towns in decline such as Lowestoft, seem factual enough, but often verge on the surreal. His description of a black hearse decked out with wreaths passing Lowestoft station, for instance, appears to be symbolic rather than factual, but on the next page there’s a grainy black and white photograph showing the exact scene, with hearse. But despite the photographic evidence dispersed throughout, those that have tried to follow the geographic details of the walk have found that the physical landscape doesn’t always tally with the text.
Each place visited leads to far-flung associations and long historical digressions, on subjects ranging from the skull of Thomas Browne to the natural history of the herring, ancient sea battles, concentration camps, Conrad and the Heart of Darkness, China, the lost port of Dunwich, silkworms, and a very moving description of the tree damage caused by Dutch elm disease and the UK hurricane of 16 October 1987. Themes echo each other and return unexpectedly. The book is structured as intricately as a piece of music. One common technique Sebald uses is to quote his sources in the first person, so that it’s sometimes hard to work out if it is the author himself or one of his sources engaged in the narration.
Chapter 8 considers the patronage of the arts and of lavish country estates in East Anglia by the sugar trade, bolstered by the practices of slavery. This is illustrated by the life of the poet, who grew up in a “heavily-carpeted family home stuffed with gilded furniture, works of art, and trophies of travel” that he later rejected and refused to set foot in again. Sebald traces his gradual withdrawal from society and lonely death. Then there’s a of scene to Ireland, vividly describing the horrific decline and eventual poverty of large country estates, many of them raised to the ground by rebel Republican arsonists. Back on his walk, Sebald finds similar fading palaces on the North Sea coast, evidence of an old prosperity that attracted holidaying Germans in the Victorian age. These were often re-purposed for military ends during the First World War – radar was invented in one of them. The chapter ends on a visit to the mysterious costal area of Orfordness, only recently vacated by the MOD and full of relics and ruins signifying secret activities that can no longer be fathomed. Many of these themes recur in different guises throughout the rest of the book.
There’s a key passage towards the end that I’d like to quote in full, coming after a description of silk weavers in East Anglia, who “spent their lives with their wretched bodies strapped to looms made of wooden frames and rails, hung with weights, and reminiscent of instruments of torture or cages.” The author clearly empathises with this, and continues: “That weavers in particular, together with scholars and writers with whom they had much in common, tended to suffer from melancholy and all the evils associated with it, is understandable given the nature of their work, which forced them to sit bent over, day after day, straining to keep their eye on the complex patterns they created. It is difficult to imagine the depths of despair into which those can be driven who, even after the end of the working day, are engrossed in their intricate designs and who are pursued, into their dreams, by the feeling that they have got hold of the wrong thread.” This is surely a self-description of the author.
If this all makes The Rings of Saturn sound gloomy and depressing, then I’ve given the wrong impression. It’s immensely unsettling, but the constant curiosity and joy in life’s details provides a strong counterbalance. This book is highly recommended.
18 of 20 people found the following review helpful
on 16 October 2001
Nominally a walk round the coast of East Anglia, but really a series of loose, mainly literary connections: those with a German slant being more interesting because less familiar with most readers in the UK. This book reminds me of Richard Holmes' FOOTSTEPS; one of the earliest literary biographies/travel books, setting the literary scene in the landscape.
Having been to Regensburg and Den Haag recently, I found the connections made fascinating. I went on to read any other Sebald books translated into English in pbk and found them published in the same style (big spaced out print, funny black and white photos accompanying the text for authenticity) leaving the same confusion: is this really fiction or a kind of autobiography? is this superficial entertainment or a subtle weaving of textual references (some of the other work reminded me of Nabokov at his best). Quintessentially English, yet peculiarly European.
A great work of Euro literature and (like all his works) a compelling read and not as melancholy as some of his other work.