A novel about solitude, about men wandering in the night of the absurd and feeling the 'nausea' of existence. It is a story of unrequited and tragic love, in which the characters roam from America to Europe and Africa in the years prior to and at the start of World War II ... While existentialist in mood, it is not a gloomy book. Prokosch throws a veil of subtle beauty over everything. It clothes New York, Paris, Venice and Tangiers in mystery, hides their squalor in compassion, assuages the solitude of men."--Jeanne Mercier
Son of the famous Thomas Mann, homosexual, drug-addicted, and forced to flee from his fatherland, the gifted writer Klaus Mann's comparatively short life was as artistically productive as it was devastatingly dislocated. Best-known today as the author of Mephisto, the literary enfant terrible of the Weimar era produced seven novels, a dozen plays, four biographies, and three autobiographies--among them the first works in Germany to tackle gay issues--amidst a prodigious artistic output. He was among the first to take up his pen against the Nazis, as a reward for which he was blacklisted and denounced as a dangerous half-Jew, his books burnt in public squares around Germany, and his citizenship revoked. Having served with the U.S. military in Italy, he was nevertheless undone by anti-Communist fanatics in Cold War-era America and Germany, dying in France (though not, as all other books contend, by his own hand) at age forty-two. Powerful, revealing, and compulsively readable, this first English-language biography of Klaus Mann charts the effects of reactionary politics on art and literature and tells the moving story of a supreme talent destroyed by personal circumstance and the seismic events of the twentieth century.
A novel about solitude, about men wandering in the night of the absurd and feeling the 'nausea' of existence. It is a story of unrequited and tragic love, in which the characters roam from America to Europe and Africa in the years prior to and at the start of World War II ... While existentialist in mood, it is not a gloomy book. Prokosch throws a veil of subtle beauty over everything. It clothes New York, Paris, Venice and Tangiers in mystery, hides their squalor in compassion, assuages the solitude of men."--Jeanne Mercier
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