Leave it to Penelope Fitzgerald to offer such an interesting reminder. By the time the French Revolution took place, Robinson Crusoe had already been in print for 70 years. Well, it seems obvious now, doesn't it? But I had never really connected the two in my mind. This implies that Marie Antoinette might have read it. Could she read English? Maybe if she had developed an interest in English novels.

The Blue Flower is quite the opposite of the typical historical fiction novel. It's not a hefty 500 pages long. In fact, I even thought it could have been a bit shorter. It's not filled with the sometimes tedious minutiae that we've come to expect from historical fiction, although it doesn't lack in historical detail. For example, using burnt carrot powder to stretch the coffee supply and having only one washing day a year. And if you weren't so well-off, you might only own 89 shirts. The plot is rather thin, but that's not the main reason most people read her books. I had never read anything by Novalis and knew nothing about him or his life, yet I still enjoyed the book.

(Just like A Pale View of Hills, I had to read it twice to truly understand and appreciate it, and I don't think I'll ever stop appreciating it.)

In June 2016, I read this book as a buddy read on IG. At first, I really struggled to get into it. It wasn't until I reached about page 50 that I could clearly understand the characters, the subject matter, and the direction of the novel. To be honest, if it hadn't been for the book group read, I probably would have given up after the first few chapters.

I found the prose a bit awkward and dull, and none of the characters were particularly likable. For a highly praised book, I had some difficulty understanding why.

Many of my fellow readers mentioned their love for the subtle humor in the book. However, I may be a bit slow, as I didn't see it as humorous until it was pointed out to me. In my opinion, the humor was more of an underlying tone throughout the novel rather than something that could be easily picked out as examples.

After reflecting on the book and finishing it, I realized that Fitzgerald's writing style is its redeeming quality. There's something about it that really hooks you. I'm now interested in reading more of her novels before making my final judgment.

Once I gave the book a chance, I discovered that her understated writing style is full of wit, sharp perception, and a beautiful mastery of language. I also liked how Fitzgerald rewarded creative effort and the discovery of one's own self in the novel.

I think my main problem was approaching this book as a standard novel with a typical layout. By doing so, I wasn't able to grasp the narrative style as quickly as I would have liked, which made the reading a bit of a chore. As Fitzgerald herself said about the brevity of her novels, "I do leave a lot out and trust the reader really to be able to understand it. [My books are] about twice the length...when they're first finished, but I cut all of it out. It's just an insult to [readers] to explain everything." Now I finally understand.

My grandmother presses books into my hands with the greatest joy and excitement. She is certain that I will read it and join into her world with her.

However, it is a great sadness that I find we have completely different taste. I look forward to disappointing her by saying I put it down 30 pages in.

In summary, this book sucked although it was mildly funny. Possibly because I have a rotten Marxist brain?

To expand on this, my grandmother's enthusiasm for sharing books with me is truly heartwarming. She believes that through reading the same book, we can have a deeper connection and engage in meaningful discussions. But alas, our literary preferences couldn't be more different.

The book she gave me, which she thought would be a delight for me, turned out to be a disappointment. I managed to read only 30 pages before putting it aside. It had some mildly funny moments, but overall, it just didn't capture my interest.

I wonder if my Marxist perspective has something to do with it. Maybe my way of thinking and analyzing literature is so different from my grandmother's that it affects my enjoyment of the books she recommends.

Despite this difference in taste, I still appreciate my grandmother's efforts to share her love of reading with me. It's a reminder that even though we may not always see eye to eye, there is still a special bond between us.

Towards the Blue Horizon


This engaging work is a Bildungsroman centered around Friedrich von Hardenberg, the son of an impoverished aristocrat. His poetry, penned under the name Novalis, would go on to encapsulate the mystical essence of German Romanticism, symbolized by the enigmatic Blue Flower. However, Fitzgerald only provides glimpses of the poet's later (albeit brief) life in this concise volume. Instead, she delves into his early years, showing him at home with his strict religious father and numerous siblings. At Jena, he impresses his professors with his insatiable curiosity about the latest thoughts in almost every field. He lives with the family of a regional magistrate to study administration, forms friendships, and falls deeply in love. His love for a girl who is just twelve when they meet is so intense on his part and so minimally motivated on hers that it becomes the embodiment of his philosophy of the ideal: that the qualities of a desired object rely more on the beliefs of the beholder than on its inherent nature.


Ultimately, the book is about that ideal, or the concept of striving towards a romantic ideal, the blue flower, the distant horizon. But the Blue Flower of the title is only mentioned sparingly, a few times in a quotation from the opening of Novalis' unfinished novel Heinrich Von Ofterdingen. Fitzgerald understands that to establish the horizon, one must first chart the ground beneath one's feet. (This is particularly true of Novalis, whose romanticism was not an escape from the real world but a belief that everything in it—humans, animals, plants, even the rocks—might communicate on an equal plane.) Much of the book focuses on daily life and domestic minutiae, yet its initial impact can be disorienting. Fitzgerald writes in a clean yet curious style that sometimes seems like an awkward translation from German (such as the use of the definite article before some people's names or the substitution of "maiden" for "girl"); oblique references to Kant and other contemporary thinkers are thrown in without explanation. The reader is thrust into a bustling, repetitive life where the details of daily routine serve as ballast for flights of intellectual exploration. But as the strangeness fades, the writing simplifies, and the book's ultimate effect is to bestow an air of absolute authenticity upon everything the author describes.


This is not a conventional love story or, in fact, a conventional novel in any sense, despite being populated with memorable characters. Ideas are sketched with a few deft strokes and then left hanging. The author assumes that readers either have a good grasp of the political and intellectual history of those pivotal times or are capable of pursuing these matters independently. She does not use the novel as a vehicle for explaining history, let alone an aesthetic, but undertakes a far more audacious task: making you experience it firsthand—even without fully understanding what you are experiencing. Perhaps initially a bit disappointing, this book ultimately proves to be a depth charge that stirs the mind long after the ripples of reading have subsided.

Penelope Fitzgerald cannot write unlike herself.

The Blue Flower is a historical novel based on the youth of 18th-century poet Friedrich von Hardenberg, better known by his pen name Novalis. Fitzgerald, in an uncharacteristic author’s note, reveals that she drew much information from a German edition of Novalis’ complete works, diaries, and letters. I say uncharacteristic because her novels are always filled with fascinating historical details, and one wonders where she sourced them from, yet she never felt the need to disclose her sources before.

Anyway, I approached this book expecting Fitzgerald to tell me one of her stories with her characters and ideas. However, I was disappointed to find that she set out to tell Novalis’ story with fictionalized historical characters and supported by Fichte’s ideas. What I mean is that Fitzgerald seems to have tried to distance herself as much as possible from this text, aiming to create a timeless work of art independent of herself. As a result, it feels cold, voyeuristic, and peculiar.

The first act was a mess that read more like the first draft of a novelized history book than a historical novel. Characters and locations followed one another at a dizzying pace, and Fitzgerald clumsily threw unconnected historical tidbits at the reader, which at best felt copied verbatim from an encyclopedia, completely making you lose the thread of the story. I was afraid that if things continued this way, I wouldn't finish the book. But the novel eventually found its footing and from then on, it progressed merrily at an enjoyable pace.

My biggest issue with this book is its lack of a sense of place. The story drifts aimlessly between Jena and... wait, let me check... Grüningen, and... *sigh*... Tennstedt, as languid as a corpse in a river, paying little attention to the destinations it passes through. The East-Anglian town of Hardborough in The Bookshop was both a name and a place - I remember it as if I had visited it in person. The same goes for the Cambridge college of St Angelicus in The Gate of Angels. Here, the locations are just names, as bare as the outlines of buildings in Lars von Trier’s Dogville.

Speaking of names, there are many in this book, including some well-known ones: Goethe, Fichte, Schlegel make appearances (even Moses Mendelssohn is mentioned - that was a bit of a surprise). Fichte’s philosophy, which had a significant influence on Novalis’ worldview, strongly underpins the story’s tone and themes, although at times it feels a bit heavy-handed.

I do like how certain events in the book foreshadow future events in the characters' lives that are not covered in the novel. That's quite clever. I also like the way Fitzgerald fictionalized certain characters - the Bernhardt was mysterious and unsettling, and the Mandelsloh was a great feminist character, putting all the dreamy and incompetent men around her in their place with no-nonsense common sense.

Every now and then, the unexpected adjectives and delicate turns of phrase that I've come to expect from Fitzgerald would surface. But I feel that in this novel, she relied a bit too much on another characteristic of her prose: understatement.

As a quick aside, I found a passage where two characters are interpreting a text about a man visiting someone's house and being received by the wife. Their remarks, I thought, captured Fitzgerald's writing perfectly:

‘Let me read it through once to myself.’ Then she asked, ‘What did the young woman look like?’
‘That doesn’t matter. What matters is that she opened the door.’

When done well, this understated writing can be tense and exciting, adding hidden depths to every sentence. However, in excess, it drains all emotion from the text. The brutally understated nature of this book leaves us with a cast of indistinguishable characters floating in nameless places, all speaking like aliens trying to imitate human speech. The dialogues are more like strange lists of outbursts and non sequiturs.

In conclusion, it's not without its virtues, but it could have been so much better.

This is a fictionalized biography of Novalis' life before he became a famous poet.

The ship seems to be on the verge of sinking as its voyage progresses.

The journey turns monotonous.

Day after day, the passengers on the ship endure the same routine.

The sea is vast and unchanging, and the only sounds are the creaking of the ship and the lapping of the waves.

Novalis, too, feels the monotony.

He spends his days lost in thought, reflecting on his past and imagining his future.

Despite the boredom, there are still moments of beauty and wonder.

The sunsets are breathtaking, painting the sky in vivid colors.

The stars at night are like diamonds in the sky, shining bright and clear.

These moments give Novalis hope and inspiration, and he begins to write poetry again.

His words flow freely, inspired by the beauty of the sea and the monotony of the journey.

Perhaps this is the beginning of his journey to becoming a famous poet.

I think my reaction to this book was quite different from that of many of my Goodreads friends. A Google search for reviews reveals a plethora of gushing praise. Phrases like “Beautiful masterpiece”, “Her finest and most demanding book”, and “A model of what historical fiction can be at its best” are abundant. In contrast, many of my GR friends find this book a disappointment and would prefer several, if not all, of Fitzgerald’s other works to this one. I must confess that this is the first Fitzgerald book I have read, so I have no basis for comparison.

So, clearly, there is something going on here. The book is critically acclaimed, yet it elicits a somewhat mixed reaction from “ordinary” readers.

This book seems to have German Idealism playing a significant role. And I know very little about that! We are delving into the life story of Friedrich von Hardenburg, better known in history as Novalis. The narrative focuses on his early life, before he became Novalis, and tells the tale of his love for Sophie. The fact that Sophie is only 12 years old doesn't seem to faze him.

That's really all there is to the “plot”. Based on meticulous research, it presents us with a version of this part of von Hardenburg’s life. It is rich in period details, which might be where the claim of it being a “model of historical fiction” stems from (but see below). And these details are juxtaposed with some of the more abstract ideas of the German Idealism philosophy. Von Hardenburg is strongly influenced by Johann Gottlieb Fichte. One of Fichte’s key concepts is that objects do not possess inherent properties; rather, it is only what the perceiver discovers about those objects. This has profound implications for the relative reality of things. For instance, it means that von Hardenburg’s Blue Flower in the story, Sophie herself (or perhaps, more precisely, von Hardenburg’s love for Sophie), and then Karoline’s imagined lover can all, in some respects, be regarded as equal because they are perceived as real by von Hardenburg.

I'm just thinking aloud here, which is usually a bad idea, so this might not make much sense.

But the contrast between the mundane and the philosophical is an interesting aspect of the book.

The book’s structure is also highly intriguing. It is told in fragments, and many of those fragments are left unfinished. For example, without giving away too much, Fritz (as he is called for most of the book) witnesses a duel in which someone loses two fingers. He rushes both the fingers and the swordsman to the hospital (the fingers carried in an unconventional manner). But we never find out what happened next. This gives parts of the book an almost dream-like quality, a sense that there is far more happening than what we are shown. I didn't understand this at the beginning and thought I wasn't enjoying the book. But then I started to see it, and my enjoyment increased correspondingly.

I'm not typically a big fan of historical fiction. It's not my “go-to genre”, although I have read some excellent examples. However, upon finishing The Blue Flower, I do feel that it has a great deal more to offer than a typical “historical fiction” novel. And perhaps this is indeed where the claim that this is a model of what historical fiction can be comes from. Some of the characters frustrated me (Bernhard, for example - I didn't like him at all), and I didn't always understand the writing style. But it grew on me, and as it did, it opened up (like a flower, I suppose) to become a book that contains ideas about philosophy, music, poetry, and is also a book that could well be considered ahead of its time in terms of its structure and narrative style.

It is with some surprise, after nearly abandoning it at the 100-page mark, that I find myself awarding this book 4 stars.

I really liked the writing style, voice, and tone of the story. The historical setting and details were also very engaging. However, I did not like the central sort-of-love-story.

On the whole, I found that I liked the ending more than I disliked it. This was because it fit the tone and foreshadowing of the story.

But there is one thing that I just can't get over. The main character, who is 23 years old or whatever his exact age was, falls instantaneously in love with a TWELVE YEAR OLD!

Yes, I know that this story is based on true events, and that just makes it even more disturbing. It's hard to understand how such a thing could happen and be considered acceptable in any context.

I think that this aspect of the story really detracts from the overall enjoyment and makes it a bit difficult to fully embrace.

I thoroughly enjoyed being a part of the chaotic yet loving Von Hardenberg clan during the brief time I spent with this book.

There's the mature and resourceful Sidonie, the jovial Erasmus, the idiosyncratic Bernard (who isn't the family dog but rather the youngest member for the first part of the novel), and of course, the main character, Fritz.

Fritz goes on to become the poet known as Novalis. While today he might be more renowned for his infatuation with a twelve-year-old than his poetry, in "The Blue Flower," he is a recent graduate. He dreams of being a poet while fulfilling his filial duties by training to be a salt mine surveyor. He firmly believes in the interconnectedness of all things, that humans can only understand themselves through their interaction with nature, and that love is a sense of relationship and sympathy among all beings in the world. This romantic view of the world sets him apart from many in his family, and he is seen as "simple" in his younger years. However, being a pragmatist, Fritz applies himself to learning the art of the surveyor for the good of his family. It is during his apprenticeship that he falls in love with the twelve-year-old Sophie. Just 15 minutes after setting eyes on her, he decides to wait four years until he can marry her. He has found the living embodiment of his philosophy (whom he calls his philosophy throughout the book), the other identity that will complete him. She is dark while he is fair, not as beautiful as he is handsome, comes from a lower-class family, is uninterested in learning, and somewhat uncouth, whereas he lives in his thoughts, is restrained, and from old nobility. Yet, she has a beguiling quality that captivates all who meet her, including Fritz's brother Erasmus, who is charmed when he visits to tell her of the impossibility of her relationship with Fritz.

I won't spoil the rest of the book, which is a delight to read and has brought a greater depth of understanding to his poetry.

3.5*, really.

I thought this was an amusing and funny light reading. It's not quite as funny or good as The Last and the First by Ivy Compton-Burnett, but it's close.

The story, which is apparently historically accurate, at least as far as the main character is concerned, takes place in late 18th century Thuringen, a part of then still happily divided Germany.

The main characters are part of an eccentric noble family that adheres to the (still existing) Moravian church. This is an interesting and benevolent variant of protestantism with its roots in the 15th century Bohemian Reformation, much earlier than Luther.

This might explain why all the characters have good intentions towards each other.

The story made me smile a lot, and sometimes even laugh. I'm not sure if that's how it was meant to be, but it certainly had that effect on me.

Overall, it was an enjoyable read that I would recommend to others looking for a light and entertaining historical novel.

This is a truly strange and beautiful short novel. It centers around the young poet Friedrich Von Hardenberg, also known as the 18th century German poet Novalis, and his inexplicable love for the somewhat slow and not particularly lovely 12-year-old Sophie Von Kuhn, who would later become his fiancee.

The genius of this novel lies in its complete disregard for explaining or examining the WHY of Hardenberg's love. It is not a traditional love story or romance. Instead, it is an observation of those ineffable human forces that give rise not only to love but also to its companion, art.

In this small book, what remains unsaid, unseen, and unheard is just as crucial as what we, as readers, can immediately access. It serves as an object lesson in the writer's art of strategic omission.

Fitzgerald makes many other interesting and, in my opinion, successful choices. The novel has its own ordering logic but does not feel obligated to follow the laws of linear chronology. The chapters are mere fragments of storytelling, each with its precise, almost aphoristic title. The language is at times odd and elliptical, and so on.

Utterly captivating and not quite making sense, much like the relationship at the heart of the novel.

This is the fifth Fitzgerald book I've read.

While it is not my favorite among Fitzgerald's works, I did find it enjoyable.

I was particularly drawn to the vivid images of life in provincial Germany during the late 18th century.

The characters were well-developed and engaging, and the prose was intelligent and thought-provoking.

The story revolves around Novalis, Friedrich Von Hardenburg, known as Fritz to his family and friends, a poet of the Romantic period, and his unexpected love for a 13-year-old girl.

Most of the book focuses on Fritz's family life and education. Coming from a large family, Fitzgerald brings this family to life with a wonderful blend of humor and sympathy.

It helps to have some knowledge of the Romantic period as Fritz embodies the values of the Romance writers. He is dreamy, irrational, and impetuous, and in the eyes of his family, a true genius.

His talent is not overlooked by his family, so his declaration of love for a simple 12-year-old girl shocks both his friends and family.

We also get to know his family quite well, as well as the woman his age who secretly loves him, although he is unaware of it.

I don't believe Fitzgerald's works are for everyone, but I highly recommend this book to lovers of historical fiction.

It offers a fascinating glimpse into a bygone era and the complex emotions and relationships of its characters.