The Fawning Sychophant
The Street of Crocodiles by Bruno Schulz
Evan Brickell
Issue date: 10/11/02 Section: Entertainment
- < prev Page 2 of 2
In The Street of Crocodiles, the main character's father, Jacob, is the centerpiece of the novel, and probably its greatest asset. His father is Schulz's vivid and fantastic writing style personified. Jacob's creativity, his fascination for a unique life, one cut from the bland and destitute reality of the merchant class, is correlated with the act of writing itself. He creates living matter from nothing, imports rare and exotic bird eggs and then lives with the hatchlings, becomes so obsessed with the movements of cockroaches that he becomes one himself, and he formulates a philosophy based on the lives of tailors' dummies. His life is completely alienated from reality, and yet it is he that holds the family together psychologically, because, with his eccentricities, they abscond from reality and all its monotony.
Frankly, there is no plot, no cause and effect, nor is there any recognizable reason for some chapters or their succession. Characters like Charles, the narrator's licentious and indolent uncle, are introduced and elucidated, described in great detail, and then never occur in the novel again. Events occur after their ramifications are felt. Nights follow mornings and winters follow summers, and yet, with Schulz, the reader never really expects anything but this strange mentality, because in a way, Schulz defines his reality, the machinations of his memory, and the novel is simply an expression of his mindset.
Perhaps, though, the most vexing thing about this novel is its style; it is excessive, juvenile, and at times so purposelessly convoluted that the passages lose all meaning. The reader searches in vain for some function or message behind certain phrases but finds only highly eccentric splurges draped loosely upon a vacuous phraseology. I can find absolutely no obvious or even well known literary kin, because Schulz was truly a writer without precedence. I wouldn't recommend this to many people, but, if you're looking for something a little out of the ordinary, then check this out.
Frankly, there is no plot, no cause and effect, nor is there any recognizable reason for some chapters or their succession. Characters like Charles, the narrator's licentious and indolent uncle, are introduced and elucidated, described in great detail, and then never occur in the novel again. Events occur after their ramifications are felt. Nights follow mornings and winters follow summers, and yet, with Schulz, the reader never really expects anything but this strange mentality, because in a way, Schulz defines his reality, the machinations of his memory, and the novel is simply an expression of his mindset.
Perhaps, though, the most vexing thing about this novel is its style; it is excessive, juvenile, and at times so purposelessly convoluted that the passages lose all meaning. The reader searches in vain for some function or message behind certain phrases but finds only highly eccentric splurges draped loosely upon a vacuous phraseology. I can find absolutely no obvious or even well known literary kin, because Schulz was truly a writer without precedence. I wouldn't recommend this to many people, but, if you're looking for something a little out of the ordinary, then check this out.
Be the first to comment on this story