Întâmplări în irealitatea imediată

I've been trying to put together some thoughts, and it's tricky.

I mean, one could go the obvious way and say that it's a direct descendant of the proto-existential (or whatever) writers of the late 19th/early 20thc, the guys who walked around every major old world city thinking about their lives and their situations and the lack of god and the pressures of self and all that stuff, from Notes Of Underground through Hunger and Doctor Glas right up to The Trial and The Blind Owl (and on to Orbitór - I'm pretty sure Cartarescu has worn out quite a few copies of Blecher). A young boy grows up in a Romanian town, tries to figure out how the world works, how other people work, how his own body works (especially around the opposite sex), etc. We've seen that before.

Except that's not really what the novel does. There's something truly spooky about this book, and I haven't really managed to nail it down on one read. Our narrator doesn't come to any revelations, doesn't declare "And then I realised my boyhood was over and I had become... a man". Blecher's narrator observes everything, in minute detail, walking through his life like a HD camera (operated by a really good photographer) but where others would try to imbue objects with meaning he just returns to the form, the surface. It's less a novel about growing up than it is one about growing in. In a very physical sense; he's practically brainfucking everything he sees - not to impregnate it, but to catch it. (I'm sure someone's written something on the effect of tuberculosis on European literature; Torgny Lindgren, who survived TB as a child, has said that he's basically been able to call on that feel of feverish hyperclarity when writing ever since; Blecher, of course, wasn't so lucky.)

...for a moment I realised that the world could have existed in a realer reality, a positive structure of its cavities, so that everything that was hollow would bulge and reliefs would be identically shaped holes, without content, like the fragile, bizarre fossils trapped in stone that show tracks of shells or leaves that have been eroded away by time and only left fine imprints of their contours.
In a world like that humans wouldn't be multicoloured, fleshy growths full of complicated organs that could rot, but pure emptiness floating like air bubbles in water, in the entire universe's warm, soft matter.

Once you've read the author bio on the back flap - Blecher wrote this when he was 27, he was already bedridden with tuberculosis, he died shortly afterwards, and then... well, you know what happened to Romanian Jews after that, it's hard not to let that colour the novel.

Now I struggle in reality, I scream, I beg and beg to wake, to wake to another life, my real life. (...) All around, exact reality drags me further down and wants to undo me.

Or to read it through the lens of 19th century Europe dying, all the old truths dying, leaving us air bubbles to be filled with something else... Or maybe that's doing exactly the sort of thing the novel itself seems to reject.

"This is your life - nothing else", says the memory, and those words encompass this world's unfathomable nostalgia, enclosed in its hermetic lights and colours, from which no single life can extract more than a picture of an exact banality.

So, like this: Adventures In Immediate Unreality is a spooky, beautiful, haunting (and haunted) novel. I'm not sure I like it. I just know I need to read it again before long.