Wondering is the wandering of the mind, as Wandering is the wondering of the body. And so it is very fitting that Wandering is simply Wondering with an extra leg given to its second letter.
Walser died in the same style in which he wrote: he went on a lonely walk and never came back. His body was found lying in a field of snow.
His writing appears aimless – and, in fact, is – for he often goes on a tangent, and keeps straying further away from the point until he eventually ends the story, elegantly, after losing the plot entirely. It is worth noting, however, that he never strays entirely away from his original point – he becomes very close to doing so, yes, but never quite does so. Reading his stories, one feels as though one has somehow, unknowingly, been placed on a swing, swung back and forth until, suddenly again, one finds oneself quite far from Earth. Floating along in the abyss, amongst the moons and stardust, one orbit later we are more or less grounded, and find ourselves at the end of the chapter. We do occasionally find guidance in the novel, something like an usher with a voice resembling that of Walser, but with deliberate differences that blend it into the fiction of the story: this voice tells us not to worry, there is no need to be scared, and oh how he is ever so sorry for the narrator’s bursts of passion that quite carries him away at times. But he always writes with such self-conviction that one is often under the impression that he had not meant, perhaps, to have a reader at all, but had always written for himself — to himself — in a genial one-way conversation. It is rather like peeping into the most minute of pinholes, through which we gain a glimpse of a phantasmagoria of eccentricity, bursting to escape the confines of the pages.
To read Walser, one must be in just the right mood, and one must, naturally, be patient. The mood to accept the directionless path one follows in his stories, and the patience to wait for a meaning to become clear. It is rather like the process of inserting the thread into the needle before sewing; it is precise, requiring much patience, and a useful skill in life. One must not become anxious when the thread seems not to enter the tiny hole, but instead must find a way to make it thinner, sharpen it, steady one’s hand, and then try again. Eventually, the thread enters, to one’s greatest satisfaction, and the needlework can then recommence. Later on, the thread might be lost again, may unthread itself, but all one needs to do is simply persist, rethread, and carry on; in the end, all will be well. This is the way to read the works of Walser. Patience, that is all, and one will be rewarded with the beauty of the art.
Image Credit: Isabella Lill
For Cherwell, maintaining editorial independence is vital. We are run entirely by and for students. To ensure independence, we receive no funding from the University and are reliant on obtaining other income, such as advertisements. Due to the current global situation, such sources are being limited significantly and we anticipate a tough time ahead – for us and fellow student journalists across the country.
So, if you can, please consider donating. We really appreciate any support you’re able to provide; it’ll all go towards helping with our running costs. Even if you can't support us monetarily, please consider sharing articles with friends, families, colleagues - it all helps!
Thank you!
