I read four books in January. They were the kind of books that require slow and patient reading to unfold their full emotional impact. Not something to devour in an evening, something to savour and think about.

1. Der Zauberberg (The Magic Mountain) – Thomas Mann
2. Charlotte – David Foenkinos
3. Die hellen Tage – Zsuzsa Bánk
4. Der Hände Fleiss. Siebenbürgische Textilien als Wohnschmuck – Rose Schmidt/Werner Förderreuther

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1. Der Zauberberg (The Magic Mountain) – Thomas Mann

I’m going to admit it: I turned from a Thomas Mann hater in my teenage years to a sort of reluctant appreciation for his verbose writing, his meandering plots, and his sharp and insightful characterizations. I usually take the time between Christmas and January 6th to read his books, because with the absence of everyday stressors I can really disappear into the worlds between the covers. “The Magic Mountain” is possibly the longest of his books, or at least the one with the least plot. Hans Castor just wants to visit his cousin in a sanatorium in the Alps, but he is so spellbound by this weird, sort of haunted/sort of enchanted place that he winds up staying for years. There he meets and mingles with a dizzying array of peculiar characters, biding their seemingly endless time with strange hobbies and meaningless activities in morbid anxiety until death arrives – and not the individual death, but the great death of WWI.

2. Charlotte – David Foenkinos

David Foenkinos writes about the life of expressionist artist Charlotte Salomon, who was murdered by the Nazis in Ausschwitz. The book is a sort of fictional biography, based on her work and the author’s conversation with the descendants of people who knew her. At first I side-eyed Foenkinos’ decision to start a new paragraph after every sentence as a weird mannerism, but the book is so devastating that the paragraphs actually give you room to breath.

You can read more about Salomon and her work on the website of the Jewish Cultural Quarter.

3. Die hellen Tage – Zsuzsa Bánk

If I had to describe this book in one word, it would be: beautiful. Or maybe: magical. It’s futile to describe its plot, because that isn’t what makes this book so special and moving. It’s a book about growing up, about friendship and motherhood and family. The one you were born with and the one you choose later in life. It’s also a book about loss and grief, and how that grief becomes part of your life, how it shapes and changes you. Reading the book, I kept taking breaks just so I could appreciate the magic of its words and sentences.

4. Der Hände Fleiss. Siebenbürgische Textilien als Wohnschmuck – Rose Schmidt/Werner Förderreuther

See my post about this book here: