In Vollmann's Europe Central, which won the 2005 National Book Award for Fiction, history is transformed into a manifesto of moral conundrums. Here, the adage "hard times demand hard methods" holds sway. This sprawling historical fiction alternates between Nazi Germany and Soviet Russia during WWII. It employs a cubist technique that disrupts chronology, thereby exposing the psychic devastation of totalitarianism.
The book's interlocking stories form a mosaic that requires readers' ethical engagement. We encounter the brilliant composer Dmitri Shostakovich, whose music serves as a form of resistance against Stalin's oppression. There is also Field Marshal Friedrich Paulus at Stalingrad, who disobeys Hitler rather than sacrifice his remaining troops.
Vollmann writes with exceptional erudition. He offers harrowing insights into the psychological breaking point of warfare, as seen in the statement: "Exhausted, at which point a man becomes a coward; one must feed one's bravery; it's all a matter of chemicals."
The grief-stricken artistic journey of German filmmaker Käthe Kollwitz after losing her son in WWI exemplifies Vollmann's thematic focus on art's response to atrocity. This is juxtaposed with the story of Russian general Andrei Vlasov, who betrayed Stalin to join the Nazis before being captured and executed. Vlasov's moral compromises reveal the impossible choices of wartime.
The doomed romance between Shostakovich and translator Elena Konstantinovskaya pulses throughout the book. It is encapsulated in the admission: "To you I'm just a fool in love with an idea."
Operation Barbarossa is presented through the eyes of both invaders and defenders. The SS Einsatzgruppen's methodical extermination campaigns in Ukraine are depicted with forensic precision, while Kurt Gerstein's failed attempts to expose the Holocaust while paradoxically supplying Zyklon B to concentration camps embody the moral contradiction under fascism.
Vollmann, the enfant terrible of American letters, has produced a literary equivalent to Picasso's Guernica. His work is disturbing, disruptive, and transformative. It evokes the gravity-defying historical acrobatics of Pynchon or the melancholy wanderings of Sebald, yet his voice remains distinct. Scholarly yet street-wise, historically meticulous yet wildly imaginative.
The novel employs a deliberately destabilizing structure that alternates between German and Soviet perspectives. The German narrative often takes the form of an unnamed "SS officer" who functions as a propaganda voice, referring to himself as "we" and embodying the collective German perspective while revealing its moral failures. This technique explores totalitarianism from within rather than passing judgment from a historical distance.
The Soviet sections provide a counterpoint through their more intimate psychological approach. The extended focus on Shostakovich's tormented relationship with music, his unrequited love, and his complex accommodation with Soviet power is particularly revealing. Other figures like poet Akhmatova and filmmaker Roman Karmen further illustrate the human cost of totalitarian regimes.
What makes Vollmann's approach challenging yet rewarding is how these dual narratives resist providing comfortable moral certainty. After all, we are dealing with Nazis and Stalinist Communists. By continuously shifting perspectives, the novel forces active participation in constructing meaning, much like people living through these events had to make sense of contradictory information. The disorienting style intentionally mirrors the chaos of wartime Europe while challenging the notion of a single "true" historical narrative.
Through this complex technique, Vollmann blurs the lines between victors and vanquished, perpetrators and victims. He reveals how both German and Soviet regimes weaponized narrative itself. Shostakovich's story, with its musical descriptions, provides an emotional center that makes the difficult structure more accessible. His suffering becomes emblematic of the broader human experience under totalitarianism.
In Vollmann's perspective, history transforms from a distant past into an urgent warning. It suggests that when "the finest people always seem to be hiding something from others and keeping quiet about it," complicity becomes the deadliest form of collaboration.

William Vollman's Europe Central was, for me, a very slow burn.

I spent the first two hundred pages of this sprawling, kaleidescopic epic on the emotional sidelines, wryly observant, interested but not overly engaged. Vollman's characters seemed both intriguing and annoying. His prose was vivid but a bit overblown. I thought it was the kind of thing I might have enjoyed more in high school. Do we really need another novel about World War II?

Then I began thinking constantly about the moral dilemmas in the novel. Vollman has spent years thinking about the "moral calculus" in extreme situations. His fictionalized portraits of mid-century Russian and German historical figures are people in impossible situations. The reader witnesses their moral and emotional arcs.

The novel features a wide range of characters, from artists to generals. Although I'm not a fan of military fiction, the episodes about the defecting generals were compelling. The cult of personality around Hitler and the pressure of the chain of command add to the tension.

All the characters in Europe Central are deeply flawed. They are working for oppressive regimes or have irritating qualities. But even the most unlikeable characters can evoke sympathy. The characters' complexity makes the novel compelling.

World War II is often seen as a clear-cut battle of good and evil. But Vollman shows the war's eastern front between two oppressive regimes. The choices are less clear, and it takes strength to imagine a third option. Vollman blurs the lines between the sides and makes the reader question their own view of the war.

Many recommend this novel for World War II history aficionados, but I think that's beside the point. Vollman is writing fiction, not history. The people who should read this novel are those interested in the human psyche in crisis or the cycle of violence. The thoughtful reader will also learn from observing their own sympathies.

“The majority of my symphonies are tombstones.” This powerful statement by Dmitry Shostakovich sets the tone for the complex and haunting world of William T. Vollmann's “Europe Central.”

This book is a unique and challenging work that combines elements of Pynchon's “Gravity's Rainbow” and Littell's “The Kindly Ones.” From the very first chapter, it grabs the reader in a grotesque and unrelenting way, not letting go until the very end. Vollmann seems to delight in making the reader scream and then attempts to capture the essence of that scream in his writing.

The life and works of Shostakovich form the backbone of the novel. He is depicted as a man fighting passively against the crushing weight of Soviet oppression. His art becomes a means of expressing his inner turmoil and反抗. The love triangle between Shostakovich, Elena Konstantinovskaya, and Roman Karmen adds another layer of complexity to the story. Vollmann bends history to fit his narrative, creating a world that is both familiar and strange.

“Europe Central” can be imagined as a giant expressionist painting, with Shostakovich at the center. It is filled with demons, parables, and symbols, such as Totenkopfverbändes decorated with rubies, snow, skeletons, zombies, bombs, and planes. The painting scrolls from left to right, following the direction of time and history. Reading Vollmann's work is not a traditional journey of art, but rather a dreamlike and often nightmarish experience.

The novel explores the idea that history is not always what it seems. In the chaos of war and its aftermath, truth and identity can become lost. Myth and legend can sometimes seem just as real as official history. The quotes from the book that are included add depth and meaning to the overall narrative, highlighting the themes of chaos, the power of art, and the blurring of reality and fantasy.

Overall, “Europe Central” is a challenging and thought-provoking work that requires careful reading and reflection. It is a book that will stay with the reader long after they have finished it, leaving them with a new perspective on history, art, and the human condition.

“The majority of my symphonies are tombstones.”
― Dmitry Shostakovich in William T. Vollmann, Europe Central



“We have a Motherland and they have a Fatherland. Their child is Europe Central.”
― William T. Vollmann, Europe Central




This book, THIS book.

This book reminds me of some mad Nazi experiment (or Soviet torture) grafting the madness of Pynchon's Gravity's Rainbow and the darkness of Littell's The Kindly Ones. From the first chapter it grabs you grotesquely by the balls and just won't let go. Vollmann wants to hear you scream and then wants to write the score of your scream, the ghost notes of your warped night tremors.

The spine, the backbone, of this novel is woven the life/stories/stutters of Dmitry Shostakovich (yes THAT Shostakovich) writing his opus of lust, his opus of war, his opus of death. Fighting, passively, always passively against the crushing weight of Soviet oppression. The more the institution would grind on him, push him down, the more his art would squirt out. Art finds a way. There is the love triangle between Shostakovich and Elena Konstantinovskaya and Roman Karmen. This is Vollmann bending history to fit his novel. He isn't trying for close. He isn't aiming for clarity. He is composing with this novel. He is grooving.

The way I floated with this novel was to imagine it as a giant expressionist painting with Shostakovich in the center (or perhaps, a symphony or musical development? Others have said yes, so I'd recommending reading their reviews if you prefer a symphony to an expressionist painting). It is full of demons and parables. Full of Totenkopfverbändes decorated with rubies, snow, skeletons, zombies, bombs and planes. There are mass graves and one can get quickly lost in death and the cold. There is a certain direction, only because time and history both have a direction, to the painting. It is scrolling left to right. But reading Vollmann is not a journey of art. It is a dream, a nightmare. It is a primal scream trying to clear out the cobwebs of the 20th century. It is Hieronymus Bosch's Purgatory, Hell, and all three panels of the triptych Garden of Earthly Delights sewn together with teeth, hair, and cobwebs and repainted by a German Expressionist or Soviet “nonconformist” artist.

'Europe Central' isn't history, but history isn't history. When so many people were killed, buried, burned -- we lose all sense of identity and truth. In Central Europe/Europe Central during that period right before, during, and after WWII myth seems almost as appropriate as any official history. The demons that whistle to you at night are just as convincing as the frozen chickens of day.

Again, I'm trying to wrap my head around it all. It is crazy. I am crazy. Two of the quotes from the book that helped me the most were:

“According to the Great Soviet Encyclopedia, our planet's most pronounced topographical features compromise an approximate mirror image of the crust's underside. The steppes of the Ukraine thus roof the crating platforms which replicates them, while the Ural Mountains not only project into the sky, but in equal measure stab down like gabblers trained upon the magma on which our contest uneasily slither. To me, the thought that this world is doubled within its own red, liquid hell is a profoundly unnerving one. Chaos seethes beneath my feet” (page 694).

“Most literary critics agree that fiction cannot be reduced to mere falsehood. Well-crafted protagonists come to life, pornography causes orgasms, and the pretense that life is what we want it to be may conceivably bring about the desired condition. Hence religious parables, socialist realism, Nazi propaganda. And if this story likewise crawls with reactionary supernaturalism, that might be because its author longs to see letters scuttling across ceilings, cautiously beginning to reify themselves into angels. For if they could only do that, then why not us?” (27).

I will end this now, before I get swallowed up again by Vollmann's Airlift Idylls and Steel in Motion one more time and fail to find my way to the surface again.

Put down on p221. I am hesitant to pen any sort of review as I made the rare decision for me not to carry on. Due to this, I haven't given it any stars.

So, the question arises: why? WTV has received a great deal of love from GR reviewers I hold in high regard, and the subject matter should be right up my alley. Yet, for some reason, I found myself becoming increasingly irritated and continuously "thrown out" from the text, to the extent that I quickly exhausted both my interest and enjoyment.

I can't "review" this book as I haven't completed it. However, I can explain why I put it down and what in those pages rubbed me the wrong way so vigorously. To keep things concise and straightforward, I'll state the following:

1. WTV has incorporated biographical information about some key and not-so-key characters from the period and inserted his own invented elements or taken quotes out of context, etc. This shouldn't have irked me as I have a penchant for fictionalized history, but it did, mainly because I knew the sources well enough to spot where he had copied parts or invented things. As such, it made it impossible for me to fully "enter" the text. I was constantly telling myself, "Wait, that's not right!" or feeling that the characterization seemed "off." I also felt that his "additions" were problematic in content and reflected more of the author than the character. For me, what's interesting about writing/reading historical fiction is attempting to inhabit an entirely alien and impossibly Other's worldview (and failing, of course), but much of what I read didn't even seem to bother trying.

2. I found the sex scenes and the detailed language used within them jarring. I have no issue with the erotic; it just didn't work in the context.

3. The prose was at times excellent but also often clumsy, confusing, and, in my opinion, in need of some editing. This comes down to personal taste, and just like with music, the fact that I didn't like the prose doesn't mean it's objectively bad.

4. I found his conclusions/comments/metaphysical digressions trite and unoriginal (though I'm aware this is unfair as I only read a small portion of the novel and much was from the "perspective" of the characters). This may be harsh, and perhaps points 1-3 above made me more inclined to notice and be critical of this.

5. Finally, he references and was inspired by the work of Danilo Kiš. DK is a master of precision and control and of "making new" the historical. A Tomb for Boris Davidovich is fable-like in its exactness, meticulousness, and concision, while EC is not. From this reader's perspective, WTV suffers in comparison, similar to how Lars von Trier did at the start of Antichrist when he dedicated the film to Tarkovsky.

However, I must emphasize that all of the above is very much a personal response. I have too much respect for the views of my fellow GR reviewers to suggest that WTV is, in any way, a bad writer per se or that this book isn't worth attempting. Nor has it put me off him in general; I'm likely to give both The Royal Family and Fathers and Crows a try at some point.

It was on a 3/4 mile stretch of the most perfect Anguillan beach. I was reclining on a wicker lounge. Derron, with his charming British accent, was continuously feeding me margaritas, which were perfect despite being served in plastic. For three whole days, a young couple lounged right next to us. She wore a flimsy little white bikini with her (new?) name sequined on the back bottom: 'Mrs. K_____'. Meanwhile, he sat under the umbrella and read The Hebrew Bible intently for those three days. So, don't ever tell me that Europe Central is not a beach book.

It would be a simple matter to write this story as a parable of the heart which through its very empathy was duped.

I don't know what that means either, but it seems like as good a starting point as any.

This book is sprawling; the writing is pyrotechnical (as always); it is multi-biographical. It aspires to be great, and perhaps it is. There are numerous moments when it surely is. But Vollmann just can't help but go to excess. There are dream sequences when I would nervously look over my shoulder to make sure Derron was busy blending and salting and not noticing how fast the pages were turning.

Like all Vollmann's works, it is based on massive research. But also like all Vollmann's works, it is not strictly wedded to meticulous truth. Like Life and Fate, to which it must necessarily be compared, Europe Central takes an artist's perspective on certain people who just happened to live through the Europe of World War II and beyond. EC is different in that it uses real people, which is Vollmann's characteristic way. It has a fabulous cast: Kathe Kollwitz, Anna Akhmatova; German General Friedrich Paulus and Russian General A.A. Vlasov, both driven to the brink of treason; and in perhaps the starring role: Dimitri Shostakovich.

It turns out all the rest is (are) filler, context. This is a book about Shostakovich, who was battered by war and a Soviet system that made him a hero one day and defiled him the next. And it is about his several marriages and, Vollmann would have us believe, a woman who was his ephemeral lover and eternal addiction. (We learn in a brief afterward that Vollman made it all up). The cigarettes, the vodka, the oral sex, the lies, the stuttering, forced self-effacement -- how did that make music? Vollmann attempts to explain. And if he's only guessing, well, it's still an enjoyable read. He examines several of Shostakovich's main works in more than just a passing analysis: Symphonies 7, 8 (a personal favorite) and 10; the 8th String Quartet (Opus 110); and the Cello Sonata (Opus 40). It is Opus 40 that Vollmann explains in detail is a musical examination of a multi-positional afternoon of perfectly choreographed sexual acts. I pass this along as a public service for those not inclined to read the whole 752 pages but just want to get to the good stuff - Chapter entitled 'Opus 40' starting at page 85 in my book. I have written elsewhere that I'm not always sure what music was intended to mean. I just listened to Opus 40 again. There are some musical themes therein that are, frankly, not in my playbook.

It is natural to believe, or want to believe, since inertia is self-preservation, that once we have opened the vault, the dark grey file, and read some stupefying secret, we've learned the secret, in which all others, if in fact there are others, must be contained; hence we need not go to the dangerous trouble of digging anything else up.

So Vollmann digs everything up. And he paints it in an artist's spectrum. The Sleepwalker paces in Berlin. The Realist smiles knowingly in Moscow. And everyone else dies, or doesn't die, pawns, grist, sand covering us all.

I brought this book home full of torn pieces of cocktail napkins, marking sentences that moved me, or stopped me while I lolled in Paradise. But I read it next to Mrs. K_____, and next to her, apparently Mr. K_____ and his Hebrew Bible. Did any of us hear the music, that string quartet, as Vollman did:

About this quartet the most fundamental thing which can be said is that it is too sad even to rise from a moan into a wail at death's uncompassed crescendo. To be sure, the danse macabre of the second movement glows sickeningly vivid as a sodium flare at night (so much for flamelessness!); it's as bright as the electric light which illuminates the gas chamber when it's time to ascertain whether all the Jews are dead; while the menace of the third remains more chilling than those screams in Leningrad when the German bombs come down; they'll never stop coming down. There's more.

But listen to the music. Or just the sounds. Like Stephen Stills, Vollmann keeps asking: What's that sound? It's war and love, breaking glass and tank treads, lies and accommodations, courage, equivocation and resignation.

Or is that Derron's blender, drowning out Shostakovich's constant weeping? Maybe just buy the CD.

A Thunderous Urgency Rumbles Through this Novel
How Murder Could Seem a Mercy

In his 2005 National Book Award winning novel, Vollmann takes readers on a captivating journey by alternating narratives between Nazi Germany and the former U.S.S.R. (via Shostakovich). Despite its hefty length of over 800 pages, the novel progresses at a frenetic pace. Vollmann masterfully demonstrates how these bloody totalitarian regimes placed their citizens in a no-win moral quagmire.

The concept of pure evil is vividly portrayed, showing that it derives far more delight from shattering and ruining the souls of the innocent than from simply murdering their bodies. This novel serves as a chilling reminder of what time and fading history have somewhat obscured. It forces us to confront the harsh realities and moral dilemmas that people faced during those dark periods.

Vollmann's work is not only a literary achievement but also a powerful exploration of the human condition under extreme circumstances. It makes us reflect on the importance of standing up against injustice and the consequences of remaining silent in the face of evil.

Overall, this novel is a must-read for those interested in history, morality, and the power of literature to shed light on the darkest corners of the human experience.

4.5/5

If you have absolutely no interest in delving deep into the vast knowledge of World War II, then this book is not the right choice for you. In fact, if you are not in the mood for a plethora of facts, quotations, and references presented in a semi-short story style, refer to the previous statement. However, if you are okay with that kind of thing, you are in for a wonderful experience.

I must admit that I panicked a little when I realized how filled this book is with historical trivia. As if that wasn't intimidating enough, the writing is rich in metaphors and imagery, often descending into extended fantastical meanderings. There are lots of eagles, octopuses, and letters formed in physical settings. It was definitely overwhelming at the beginning, which contributed to the long time it took me to finish the book.

What helped me get my bearings and start to enjoy the book was the decision to interpret the phantasmagoric quality of the writing as the author's attempt to convey just how crazy this time was. I have no idea if that was the author's intention, but it seemed to work. In fact, a prime example of this is the map insert at the beginning, which consists of an outline of Europe covered in names of military operations and nearly nonsensical warlike doodles. The further you get in the book, the more ridiculously brutal the events become, especially during the parts concerning Shostakovich. He, of all the characters, most clearly comprehends the menace that surrounds everyone, but more importantly, he understands that despite objections to the contrary, none of it makes any sense. And it never will.

Throughout the book, there are a number of characters whose morals are challenged, who are forced into compromising situations and decisions by the murderous chaos surrounding them. Some of them, like the Berlin sleepwalker, are thought by many to have a hand in the chaos, but they are in truth just as trapped by historical events as the rest of them. The only difference is their position and how willing they are to disengage from reality in order to do what needs to be done. If this doesn't make sense, for those who wish to know, the sleepwalker is Hitler. And as previously mentioned, there is little to no rhyme or reason to why these people need to go through these trials. It just is.

Personally, I found the learning experience amazing, as I had known nothing about the SS officer who persistently worked against the machinations of the concentration camps, or that there was a female lawyer known as the 'Red Guillotine' who condemned many to death in the name of the workers of the USSR. Generals switch from Russia to Germany and back again, and the fighters below them march on into oblivion. And of course, there was the monumental focus on Shostakovich, whose romantic obsession may not have been nearly as strong as the book made it out to be, but whose experiences under Stalin and the Soviet Republic can't be denied.

Not only was the author thorough in writing all these people in, but he also had a real talent for conveying that deep feeling of resignation in wartime. It's the one that sinks deep into the bones and makes one view flowers in the snow and corpses in the street as one and the same. A brilliant example of this is Shostakovich's Opus 110, which is described as containing the screams of women and the moans of rockets, along with a whole host of other unearthly cries and shrieks that only war and its sufferings can bring to life.

Now that I've finished the book, I'm strongly reminded of The Kindly Ones by Jonathan Littell. Both are stories that use unconventional descriptive prose to talk about morally objectionable and unimaginably violent subjects. In fact, people who had trouble getting past the brutal parts in The Kindly Ones may have better luck with this book, although as previously mentioned, there are huge amounts of historical references. Again, if that's your sort of thing, go for it. You won't be disappointed.

PS: There was very little mention of the US, and what little there was was coupled with either contempt or hatred. Somewhat refreshing in an odd sense.

4.75 stars
In olden times, wars were waged by heroes who admired one another but found themselves forced by fate or blood revenge to do each other harm. In our time, we fought for hateful ogres against other ogres equally hateful.

This is Vollmann's focus on mid-century Eastern Europe. The eastern front in the Second World War is at the center of the book. Vollmann switches between a Soviet perspective and a German one. There are multiple voices on both sides, including Shostakovich, Roman Karmen, Anna Akhmatova, two generals (Paulus and Vlasov), and numerous others. Vollmann is very clear that this is a work of fiction, stating that his seven dreams books are much more historical. I'm not sure I'm going to give him that, but he is known for his meticulous research. There is certainly an underlying skeleton of historical fact, and the book contains a mind-boggling array of facts and historical detail.

Vollmann examines the differing fanaticisms of the Nazis and Soviets. The timelines of the fifty different stories range from the 1930s to as late as the 1970s, although most focus on the War. This is almost a series of novellas. Some of them concern Shostakovich, his music, and his tense and difficult relationship with the state and the party. Special attention is paid to Opus 110.

There is also an examination of the Holocaust through the eyes of Kurt Gerstein, a rather contradictory SS officer. We get a lot of responses to totalitarianism. The novel also pivots around the Battle of Stalingrad, exploring its mythic status and the reactions of the generals involved.

This work is challenging and for many authors this would be their magnum opus. It's probably average length for Vollmann and nowhere near the over three thousand pages of his reflection on violence, Rising Up and Rising Down. It does help to have a little background knowledge before reading this, but there are lots of notes and sources. Having studied all this in the historical context some forty years ago, I did appreciate Vollmann's approach to this and got a good deal out of it. I still think Grossman's Life and Fate is better, but this is good.

“All magic spells fail without belief. We enforced belief.”

Europe Central is an extraordinary work by Vollmann. It's monstrous in multiple aspects - size, content, language, implications, and its critique of humanity and world-historical analysis. Right from the start, it's clear this is a masterpiece, horrifying yet beautifully profound. If you're a writer, you'd envy Vollmann for creating this. In many ways, it encapsulates all his previous works. There was a recent discussion about different phases of Vollmann's career. Europe Central, from 2005, can be seen as the transition from "middle" to "late" Vollmann. The language in this book is confident, precise, and shows remarkable control and economy, despite its massive and excessive nature.

One of the most intriguing questions about Europe Central is who the narrator is. Is it Comrade Alexandrov, the Stasi, a Dreamer of History, Shostakovich, Gerstein, Paulus, Vlasov, Hilde Benjamin, Totalitarian Ideology, Time-Unstuck Death, or perhaps one of Roman Karmen's films? Or is it all of the above? The book models its form on Danilo Kiš’s A Tomb For Boris Davidovich, taking its structure and expanding it infinitely. What we get is a panoramic view, both internal and external to the real people, told through a web of fear and ideological distortions, rooted in historical events but ascending into the realm of History as the Greatest Fiction.

Another candidate for the narrator could be Moral Ambiguity in the Time of Terror. We see the characters at moments of fatal choice, in a time when ethics was stomped upon and music became a symbol of destruction. The uniting thread of these stories might be threnody, like Shostakovich's hidden heart in the destroyed piano. Europe Central could be an opera with a stage set of real rubble and an orchestra performing songs that should not be lost in the wreckage of History.

Europe Central, by William T. Vollmann, is a highly successful book with an impressive number of ratings and reviews, boasting an average star rating of 3.88. It won the National Book Award for Fiction in 2005 and has been translated into multiple languages.

After reading Vollmann's newest book, Last Stories, reading Europe Central presented a contrast in the treatment of anxiety in the face of death. In Last Stories, death has already passed, while Europe Central presents the very anxiety of being-toward-death in a more humanly anxious manner.

The author is much less present in Europe Central compared to his other works. The plot, which is about going off the rails, is the focus. This novel is historical fiction, and the emphasis must be on 'fiction' as it is its own mode of truthful discourse.

As a portrait gallery of moral actors, Europe Central forms the fictive half of a diptych with Rising Up and Rising Down. It has the common feature of being too short, like most encyclopedic novels. There are many more portraits that could be added, such as a novella about Dietrich Bonhoeffer or Rosa Luxemburg.

Vollmann not only writes about the music of Shostakovich but also folds it into his writing. Europe Central is a different kind of Vollmann book, with a more subdued tone. The structure is a novel built of collated stories, and some recommended ones include "Airlift Idylls", "Opus 40", and "Opus 110".

Don't hesitate to pick up the metaphorical black telephone and engage with Europe Central. It's a captivating read that offers a unique perspective on history and morality.

Here are some links related to the German translation of the book from 2013:

- An interview with Bill, translator Robin Detje, and one of his greatest admirers, the German writer Clemens Setz.

- Reviews from Der Spiegel and Frankfurter Allgemeine.

- Another link in German.

Rewritten and expanded:

Hence, we have religious parables, socialist realism, and Nazi propaganda. And if this story also teems with reactionary supernaturalism, perhaps it is because its author yearns to witness letters scurrying across ceilings, gradually beginning to materialize into angels. For if they could achieve that, then why couldn't we? Extremity has the power to reveal. The fact that such instances (at least for those in the First World) occur so rarely only intensifies its allure. The soul must, perhaps, be forged within the crucible of being. Well, maybe. The Ost Front was the most significant mechanized catastrophe in our species' history. What does it signify morally? What does it presage for those who contemplate the foe-stated dilemma? Is the equation appropriate? Simple statistics disclose that the majority of us would submit, collaborate, or remain silent during the Dark Times, yet we repeatedly return to Year Zero. What kind of tacit death wish are we truly whispering?

It is a complex web of ideas and emotions that the author is weaving here, making us question our own beliefs, our responses in extreme situations, and the power of the unknown.

I usually prefer to know as little as possible in advance about the books I read. I relish the element of surprise and delight in the process of discovery, especially when it comes to books that take a novel approach or deviate from literary conventions. However, in the case of Europe Central, I felt that a brief introduction or primer could have been beneficial. Some prior exposure would have enabled me to understand and appreciate this novel more quickly. Like many readers, I struggled in the early stages and seriously considered abandoning it. I believe the reason for this initial resistance stemmed, to some extent, from my own misaligned expectations and lack of patience, but more significantly from my inability to form a clear conception of the novel's shape and intent. Throughout the first several chapters, I was truly unsure of what I was reading: perhaps it was a loose collection of short stories, or was there a narrative thread emerging, or maybe the concept was more impressionistic? Without something solid to hold onto, I felt an increasing sense of friction with the novel. I was unable to establish a connection or distinguish its central narratives from its peripheral ones (which is crucial for a novel of this length).

The opening of the novel is strong. Steel In Motion is fluid, captivating, and mysterious, introducing the metaphor of the telephone and the center of operations that is "Europe Central", a recurring motif throughout the story. The seven chapters that follow are presented essentially as standalone short stories. Some are powerful and moving, while others are less engaging. Some have only a tangential connection to the events of the Second World War. Opus 40 introduces Shostakovich, whose character, rather than being just another fleeting presence, turns out to be the backbone of the novel (although I wasn't aware of this at the time). I must admit that I found the early Shostakovich chapters rather dull. What significance did the private life, artistic desires, and sexual relations of this Russian composer hold in the context of a conflict in which millions of people were dying horribly? I found the parallels drawn between the features of his compositions and his personal and political life to be extremely tenuous and unconvincing, not to mention excessive.

My interest was piqued when the action moved closer to the military conflict itself. The Sleepwalker immerses us in the mind of Hitler. Breakout, The Last Field-Marshal, and Clean Hands explore questions of culpability within the military command structure, in an environment where moral responsibilities are in direct conflict with unquestioning loyalty. These chapters were perhaps the turning point for me, the moment when I finally connected with the novel. From here on, the novel gains momentum and strength. Ecstacy is a short yet beautiful expression of unrequited love, which, although it forms part of the Shostakovich narrative, could just as easily be read as a standalone piece (something about the use of a book as a surrogate for oneself was reminiscent of scenes in The Magic Mountain). The surprising Airlift Idylls is an intense piece of surrealist prose that, for me, was a return to the promise of the novel's opening.

As the various characters and motifs are referenced, reprised, and recombined in the later chapters, the novel begins to achieve a sort of thematic unity, despite the apparent lack of connectedness between some of the stories. I regretted my earlier dismissal of the Shostakovich story, which is the centerpiece of the novel, the point around which its themes revolve and converge. The overall gestalt of the novel is built not on a single narrative, but rather on the products of these associations.

In the lengthy Opus 110 and the final few chapters, we reach the resolution of the Shostakovich narrative. Although I'm still not entirely convinced by the musical analysis, which implies a level of consciousness in the composition that seems a bit too deliberate, the second movement of his Opus 110 is undoubtedly remarkable (listen to it!), and I'm certain that it does indeed contain all that Vollmann attributes to it.

Throughout the novel, I was困扰 by the question of historical accuracy. The novel relies almost entirely on actual events and real historical figures. These are extensively researched (with sources cited), but the truth is treated rather liberally. Even though I was aware of this, I still had some misgivings and found it difficult to completely suspend my disbelief. I understand that there is always a balance to be struck in historical novels between accuracy and literary license, but the fact remains that a novel like this can insidiously blend into one's own recollection of learned history, making it difficult to later distinguish what was fact and what was fiction. So, while I understand that historical accuracy was not the author's primary intention here, I'm not entirely comfortable with the outcome.

As you can imagine, I'm conflicted about this rating. My experience with the novel was less than ideal at times, yet in many ways, I feel it still deserves the highest score. So, please take this rating with all of the above caveats in mind. I found Europe Central to be an extremely rewarding experience, but it requires patience and the right expectations.