After decades of being virtually unread in English, Stefan Zweig is in the news again: The filmmaker Wes Anderson has characterized his latest caper, The Grand Budapest Hotel, as a layered homage to the obscure Austrian writer’s work and persona. “I stole from Stefan Zweig,” Anderson said in an interview with historian George Prochnik.
In the 1920s and 30s, Zweig was a full-blown literary celebrity whose books—championed by artists and thinkers like Thomas Mann, Albert Einstein, and Sigmund Freud—routinely broke sales records. He “had to barricade himself in his house in Salzburg in order to avoid the fans lurking around his property,” writes Joan Acocella in her introduction to Zweig’s novel Beware of Pity. “According to his publisher, he was the most widely translated author in the world.”
But for Zweig, who had witnessed a cultural golden age in turn-of-the-century Vienna, and who spent his entire life advocating for the virtues of tolerance, openness, and personal freedom, Europe’s descent into war in the late 1930s was too much to bear. He was not only banished from the borders of his nation, but his homeland as he remembered it disappeared—and both factors contributed to his suicide in Brazil in 1942. The day after finishing his memoir—The World of Yesterday, an ode to the cultural progress made and squandered in his lifetime—Zweig and his young wife poisoned themselves. An obituary ran on the front page of The New York Times.
“The world of my own language sank and was lost to me and my spiritual homeland, Europe, destroyed itself,” he wrote in his suicide note.
When I spoke to George Prochnik—whose book The Impossible Exile: Stefan Zweig at the End of the World is out today after months of Anderson-fueled advance press—he asked to discuss a passage from Zweig’s memoir that embodies the author’s blend of dashed hopes and radical optimism. Though he lost faith in science and technology as a means of progress, Zweig retained his belief that the creative imagination had the power to save humanity from its worst instincts.
Prochnik’s biography gives special attention to Zweig’s life after he left Austria in 1934, and it delves into the psychology of exile itself as it explores the effects of displacement on Zweig’s work. His other books are In Pursuit of Silence: Listening for Meaning in a World of Noise and Putnam Camp: Sigmund Freud, James Jackson Putnam, and the Purpose of American Psychology. He spoke to me by phone from his home in Brooklyn.
George Prochnik: Stefan Zweig’s literary project, both in his fiction and in his historical studies, was to show the kaleidoscopic nature of humanity. He wanted us to see that all the different ways of being human were equally deserving of attention. Over and over, he said that what made Vienna great was its attitude of “live and let live”—the broadly tolerant stance of that city’s diverse populace fed its cultural achievements and fabled sensuous atmosphere alike. Zweig always valorized the idiosyncrasies of people, he liked to encounter passions and viewpoints taken to the extreme, and he felt that—unless someone’s views were directly impinging on other people’s capacity to live—their way of life should be respected, even embraced, by the larger culture. “The more a man admires, the more he possesses,” Zweig declared in an early biographical study.
I discovered Zweig completely by accident. I was doing a research project on Brazil, when I grabbed a completely random jumble of books off the shelves of the public library. One of those books was Zweig’s Brazil: Land of the Future, which was first published in 1941. It’s an unusual hybrid work of travelogue and personal observation, which interested me, and I found myself intrigued by the spirited, jaunty tone. But most of all, I was struck by how, right in the introduction to the book, Zweig was able to acknowledge he had originally come to Brazil with a whole host of classic European prejudices. Chiefly, that he was going to find a complete intellectual backwater, a country that wasn’t conducive to anyone but adventurers. He acknowledges a surprising degree of European arrogance—then explains that he was stunned, and his attitudes were subverted, when he realized that Brazil manifested a very impressive degree of refinement and culture in a European sense.
In fact, in the most important areas, he felt Brazil was superseding Europe. In an extraordinary set of passages in that book’s introduction, he speaks about how committed he and his peers had been to ideas of progress essentially gauged by statistics: the degree of comfort, the degree of productivity, the degree to which life could be organized for convenience. He writes on how this whole value standard was degraded once one realized that those sorts of statistical indices of progress could co-exist with the kinds of acts of barbarism that were then being unleashed on humanity.
In other words, Brazil had come much closer to the kind of peaceful, tolerant, and humanist society that Zweig had once hoped to see flourish in Europe—and by the mid-1930s, when he began writing the book, felt Europe had been grotesquely betrayed. One thing that’s important about Zweig’s story is the fact that, up until the First World War, he was deeply optimistic. In 1908, he described watching a zeppelin fly over Vienna—and in this airborne vehicle, effortlessly crossing national borders, cheered on by citizens of disparate countries, Zweig saw a symbol of the brotherhood of humanity that was to come. He saw technological progress and social progress as absolutely aligned, working in lock-step to unite the Continent through the beauty and significance of its peoples’ achievements.