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Unrecounted
For a number of years until his death in 2001, W. G. Sebald and the German artist, Jan Peter Tripp exchanged poems and lithographs. Unrecounted is the result of this long artistic friendship a creative dialogue inspired by shared concerns. Sebald's words and Tripp's images speak of moments salvaged from time passing, of our eyes bearing witness, and of memory and remembrance.
128 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 2003
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About the author
W.G. Sebald
49books1,674followersWinfried Georg Maximilian Sebald was a German writer and academic. His works are largely concerned with the themes of memory, loss of memory, and identity (both personal and collective) and decay (of civilizations, traditions or physical objects). They are, in particular, attempts to reconcile himself with, and deal in literary terms with, the trauma of the Second World War and its effect on the German people.
At the time of his death at the age of only 57, he was being cited by many literary critics as one of the greatest living authors, and was tipped as a possible future recipient of the Nobel Prize in Literature.
At the time of his death at the age of only 57, he was being cited by many literary critics as one of the greatest living authors, and was tipped as a possible future recipient of the Nobel Prize in Literature.
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Displaying 1 - 27 of 27 reviews
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September 21, 2021Sebald poetry! Although I would argue that even his novels are poetry. Here, we have the poems by Sebald and the images provided by Jan Peter Tripp. I came across the book while browsing the library � a place I had written off since I was 12 or so. I knew what they had in there, and that was that. The problem was that I had not scaled up to match the other 13 years that had passed, adding information to my knowledge base. Now, I looked through the non-fiction and fiction sections with awe. This popped out at me, showing me my ignorance yet again. I had no idea such a book existed. It is unbelievably odd. For one, it is read horizontally � you have to flip the cover “up�, while holding the book by the top and the bottom. Portrait mode, if you would.
There is not so much to say about the poems themselves � they are short as all hell. I mean, wait a second, are they even poems? Andrea Köhler puts it perfectly in her essay at the end of the book: “These are neither aphorisms nor poems, but rather flashes of thought and remembrance, moments of illumination on the verges of perception.� Each one is accompanied by a picture of a pair of eyes, most likely familiar to the readers of Austerlitz; these are the same eyes that were shown when Sebald discussed the Nocturama at the beginning of the book. These pieces are followed by an essay written by Sebald to discuss the works of Jan Peter Tripp � scrumptious as always.
But here is the thing: the essay got me to think about the question of pretension � namely, what is it? What is pretension? Google gives me ostentatiousness as a synonym, and I think that applies here as well. So do I experience a work of art (or anything else) as “pretentious� because I don’t understand what it has to offer and get mad because my knowledge base was insufficient to grasp it? I am only asking (and I have my shield up as I say this) because I realized how pretentious some of Sebald’s passages are. That’s the only word that came to mind when I was reading him go on about the art of Jan Peter Tripp and he, I shit you not, just up and dropped a verse from Fitzgerald’s “translation� of the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam out of nowhere, without naming it, the poet, the translator, the source, anything. You could see a tenuous link between his discussion and the verse (I suppose both were about chess, so that gave him an in), but wow. I actually put down the book and chuckled for a couple of seconds, because come on! What are you doing? Maybe this was a buildup reaction to Sebald, this being my third one. In other works, he will often go on a French or German run of sentences without translation, and I think my first inkling of this feeling was lurking there, somewhere in the background... so if I have to backtrack and put some structure into my thoughts, here it is: that inkling of a feeling I experienced could be because I may have perceived certain passages and references to have been put into the work as barriers, levels of entry, access points. In other words, you either know this or you don’t. If you do, you are part of a special club, wink wink. But more reflection leads me to the fact that this is most likely my own insecurity � Sebald writes honestly, after all. That is his artistic expression, and it seems to be from the heart. So I will tally this up as a me issue and be done with it.
There is not so much to say about the poems themselves � they are short as all hell. I mean, wait a second, are they even poems? Andrea Köhler puts it perfectly in her essay at the end of the book: “These are neither aphorisms nor poems, but rather flashes of thought and remembrance, moments of illumination on the verges of perception.� Each one is accompanied by a picture of a pair of eyes, most likely familiar to the readers of Austerlitz; these are the same eyes that were shown when Sebald discussed the Nocturama at the beginning of the book. These pieces are followed by an essay written by Sebald to discuss the works of Jan Peter Tripp � scrumptious as always.
But here is the thing: the essay got me to think about the question of pretension � namely, what is it? What is pretension? Google gives me ostentatiousness as a synonym, and I think that applies here as well. So do I experience a work of art (or anything else) as “pretentious� because I don’t understand what it has to offer and get mad because my knowledge base was insufficient to grasp it? I am only asking (and I have my shield up as I say this) because I realized how pretentious some of Sebald’s passages are. That’s the only word that came to mind when I was reading him go on about the art of Jan Peter Tripp and he, I shit you not, just up and dropped a verse from Fitzgerald’s “translation� of the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam out of nowhere, without naming it, the poet, the translator, the source, anything. You could see a tenuous link between his discussion and the verse (I suppose both were about chess, so that gave him an in), but wow. I actually put down the book and chuckled for a couple of seconds, because come on! What are you doing? Maybe this was a buildup reaction to Sebald, this being my third one. In other works, he will often go on a French or German run of sentences without translation, and I think my first inkling of this feeling was lurking there, somewhere in the background... so if I have to backtrack and put some structure into my thoughts, here it is: that inkling of a feeling I experienced could be because I may have perceived certain passages and references to have been put into the work as barriers, levels of entry, access points. In other words, you either know this or you don’t. If you do, you are part of a special club, wink wink. But more reflection leads me to the fact that this is most likely my own insecurity � Sebald writes honestly, after all. That is his artistic expression, and it seems to be from the heart. So I will tally this up as a me issue and be done with it.
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December 1, 2022God I love Sebald but I have absolutely no idea what the point of this slim volume was. Here's a Sebald poem -- and quite a short one at that -- mixed with some pictures of eyes. And it's pretty ambitiously priced, given what it is, and so my thought is that this was just a publisher's ploy to piggyback on Sebald's posthumous reputation. The poem itself? Yeah, it's pretty alright, it is Sebald after all, but books like this (David Foster Wallace's This Is Water comes to mind too) piss me the fuck off.
April 22, 2017
Μια αλλη ιστορια του ματιού
July 7, 2024
This writing paper smells like wood shavings inside a coffin.
December 7, 2019
33 prachtige Sebald-miniaturen bij evenveel Tripp-etsen van ogenparen. Mooi inleidend gedicht van Hans Magnus Enzensberger en een knap, verhelderend nawoord van Andrea Köhler.
April 25, 2024
Since I revere Sebald's writing this was extremely enjoyable, something still left to be discovered. The German versions presented at the end is highly appreciated because then you get a feel of what may have been lost in translation. Though it goes without saying that the translation is of a very high standard because of who the translator is.
May 23, 2013
I have become a bit of a Michael Hamburger fan now because of his translations of Sebald's poems collected here and his wonderful essay on both W.G. Sebald and Jan Peter Tripp found within these same pages. I came into this book carefully and I had some experienced doubt as to what I was getting myself into. But the more I read now of anything by Sebald the better I like it and understand him. These are all marvelous little poems collected here in Unrecounted. And Jan Peter Tripp's work is understated, and amazing, if that makes any sense at all to you. I absolutely love work that sneaks up on you, that doesn't explain itself at all, but the more time you spend with it the better it becomes. I used to sell brick in order to get my peas and carrots. I would tell perspective homeowners that rarely does brick look better the closer you get to it. But when it does, you really got yourself something, and somewhat at a bargain too in this present world of clones, fakes, and wannabes. This book is no fake. It is the real deal. And it is going to get better with each successive look between the pages. Nothing short of beauty and art, and for the bargain price I get to have it resting here until my cold, dead hands figure otherwise.
November 3, 2012
A kind of collaboration between Sebald and one of his oldest friends, a photographer, Jan Tripp, who mainly shares lithographs of eyes in juxtaposition with Sebald's "micro poems". A conversation ensues, naturally, though not one many might be able to agree on, but this was for me really terrific, energizing. I love Sebald, and this is my first experience with his poetry. I'll try to write more later and explain more what I like about it, because I think most people who like poetry would find this work strange and alienating... and I do, too (in part), but for me that's a good thing! There's a fine essay by the translator, Michael Hamburger, on the translation, an informative essay on Tripp as photographer, a short essay about Sebald. SUCH a beautiful, haunting book!
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November 28, 2013Stupendously beautiful, moving and haunting. Who else can write this:
"This writing paper
smells
like wood shavings
inside the coffin".
"This writing paper
smells
like wood shavings
inside the coffin".
September 1, 2008
Gorgeously illustrated, the poems here are much better than After Nature.
January 7, 2011
Amazing and haunting work. Ten Stars.
May 20, 2016
"Unrecounted
always it will remain
the story of the averted
faces"
This book represents a collaboration between Sebald and the artist, and friend since their youth, Jan Peter Tripp.
Tripp's illustrations dominate the book - highly lifelike lithographs of eyes taken from photos (Borges, Burroughs, Rembrandt, Sebald himself, perhaps most movingly Sebald's daughter who was later to be injured in the car crash that took Sebald's life). These are paired with brief "micropoems" from Sebald, the above being a typical example, which are "in dialogue with" rather than commentaries on the pictures.
I have to admit I read this because it was the last book published under the name of the wonderful WG Sebald that I hadn't read. The problem is that much of the content of the already slim volume is not from WG Sebald, and even that which is, is mainly duplicated from other works.
We get
- a rather self-justifying and slightly piqued introduction from Sebald's translator Michael Hamburger;
- two poems from a third party - a tribute to Sebald and one to Tripp;
- Tripp's pictures
- an, admittedly useful, essay from Andrea Kohler on the Sebald/Tripp colloboration.
The content from Sebald himself is restricted to:
- some micropoems, except, many overlap with those in For Years Now, a similar Sebaldian collaboration with Tess Jaray. (Interestingly, Hamburger suggests this duplication by the otherwise fastidious and scrupulous Sebald was related to distractions in his life that also halted his novelistic output after Austerlitz).
- an essay on Tripp taken from the German original "Logis in einem Landhaus", a book untranslated at the time Unrecounted was published, but later translated as "A Place in the Country".
A link to a Guardian review which clearly took more from the book than I was able to:
always it will remain
the story of the averted
faces"
This book represents a collaboration between Sebald and the artist, and friend since their youth, Jan Peter Tripp.
Tripp's illustrations dominate the book - highly lifelike lithographs of eyes taken from photos (Borges, Burroughs, Rembrandt, Sebald himself, perhaps most movingly Sebald's daughter who was later to be injured in the car crash that took Sebald's life). These are paired with brief "micropoems" from Sebald, the above being a typical example, which are "in dialogue with" rather than commentaries on the pictures.
I have to admit I read this because it was the last book published under the name of the wonderful WG Sebald that I hadn't read. The problem is that much of the content of the already slim volume is not from WG Sebald, and even that which is, is mainly duplicated from other works.
We get
- a rather self-justifying and slightly piqued introduction from Sebald's translator Michael Hamburger;
- two poems from a third party - a tribute to Sebald and one to Tripp;
- Tripp's pictures
- an, admittedly useful, essay from Andrea Kohler on the Sebald/Tripp colloboration.
The content from Sebald himself is restricted to:
- some micropoems, except, many overlap with those in For Years Now, a similar Sebaldian collaboration with Tess Jaray. (Interestingly, Hamburger suggests this duplication by the otherwise fastidious and scrupulous Sebald was related to distractions in his life that also halted his novelistic output after Austerlitz).
- an essay on Tripp taken from the German original "Logis in einem Landhaus", a book untranslated at the time Unrecounted was published, but later translated as "A Place in the Country".
A link to a Guardian review which clearly took more from the book than I was able to:
March 24, 2017
W.G. Sebald may have been the first to coin the term "micropoetry," a sub-genre I have been interested in for the past few years, and so I wanted to like this book more than I did. Unrecounted is a collaboration with Sebald's long time friend, Jan Peter Tripp, who contributes lithographs for each poem. Both are fine, though sometimes marred by Michael Hamburger's typically clunky and dry translations. Mr. Hamburger's has some interesting information in his preface, but the dang thing rambles like the long-winded introductions modern poets often give to their pieces before actually spending thirty seconds reading them.
After the poems and pictures, one is treated, I guess, to an essay by Sebold about his photographer friend. Scholars may find use in such material, but there was only a little I found worthwhile. The book finishes with a long, dull essay by Andrea Kohler. Again, there are interesting observations, but as a whole, the volume reads like the sort of thing academics publish because they have to, not because they have any interest in the subject.
I do not know who came up with the idea to print the entire book in landscape, but whoever it was should not be allowed to do so again. I got used to the layout with the poems, as one could could easily see the verse/illustration pairings (and many pictures would not have looked right in portrait). However, the tedious prose was made all the more so by this difficult to handle and read setup.
I will seek out more work by both Sebald and Tripp. There is much here to recommend them. But I sure wish publishers would have allowed readers a less "scholarly" tome. Like 11th grade English, it sucks the joy out of the experience.
After the poems and pictures, one is treated, I guess, to an essay by Sebold about his photographer friend. Scholars may find use in such material, but there was only a little I found worthwhile. The book finishes with a long, dull essay by Andrea Kohler. Again, there are interesting observations, but as a whole, the volume reads like the sort of thing academics publish because they have to, not because they have any interest in the subject.
I do not know who came up with the idea to print the entire book in landscape, but whoever it was should not be allowed to do so again. I got used to the layout with the poems, as one could could easily see the verse/illustration pairings (and many pictures would not have looked right in portrait). However, the tedious prose was made all the more so by this difficult to handle and read setup.
I will seek out more work by both Sebald and Tripp. There is much here to recommend them. But I sure wish publishers would have allowed readers a less "scholarly" tome. Like 11th grade English, it sucks the joy out of the experience.
May 16, 2010
Sebald's first novel, Vertigo, hypnotized me when I read it, the way Peter Handke's writing does, no one else's. Andrea Kohler describes the effect well as "the melody of a melancholic litany." These poems don't achieve the same effect, but I liked them anyway. They are tiny haiku-like observations (for me, most reminiscent of Abbas Kiarostami's poetry in Walking with the Wind), paired with Jan Peter Tripp's lithographs of eyes, viewed in a fragmenting close-up and trompe-l'oeil detail.
I was more taken with the eyes than the poems. Sebald's essay on Jan Peter Tripp is appended. In it he argues against reducing Tripp to a trompe-l'oeil artist, and I would agree with that, as trompe-l'oeily as he is.
I was a little disappointed to discover that the subjects tend to be famous artists. I like the idea of a Jan Peter Tripp hunting through crowds for just the right pair of eyes.
I was more taken with the eyes than the poems. Sebald's essay on Jan Peter Tripp is appended. In it he argues against reducing Tripp to a trompe-l'oeil artist, and I would agree with that, as trompe-l'oeily as he is.
I was a little disappointed to discover that the subjects tend to be famous artists. I like the idea of a Jan Peter Tripp hunting through crowds for just the right pair of eyes.
May 6, 2008
A really great interplay of images and poems that would stand well on their own, but are incredibly interesting in their interaction and dialogue as well. So overall very good, although I think I liked it more because I already enjoyed Sebald, perhaps thinking of it more as an addendum to his body of work than a stand-alone piece.
May 6, 2008
A really great interplay of images and poems that would stand well on their own, but are incredibly interesting in their interaction and dialogue as well. So overall very good, although I think I liked it more because I already enjoyed Sebald, perhaps thinking of it more as an addendum to his body of work than a stand-alone piece.
June 4, 2012
my reshelving work upstairs began late, then was derailed as I stumbled upon this thin volume, one I bought 4 or so years ago. It is a collection of micropoems and an adjacent survey of the paintings of Jan Peter Tripp. there is a drizzle of the ghostly in these pairings.
December 19, 2008
When we stand in front of a picture by Jan van Eyck... we are convinced that he succeeded in depicting the inexhaustible wealth of detail in the visible world.
-E.H. Gombrich, quoted in Unrecounted
-E.H. Gombrich, quoted in Unrecounted
April 11, 2012
Michael Hamburger's introductory note is well worth reading, and makes me hope that a good biography of Sebald will appear soon.
Want to read
October 21, 2014page 15
The red
spots
on the
planet
Jupiter
are three-
hundred-
year-old
hurricanes
The red
spots
on the
planet
Jupiter
are three-
hundred-
year-old
hurricanes
September 22, 2014
Not a fan of poetry. Also, this seems all farfetched.
November 7, 2023
Pliny says
that elephants are
intelligent & righteous
revere the stars
& worship the sun
& the moon
(p. 13)
The red
spots
on the
planet
Jupiter
are three-
hundred-
year-old
hurricanes
(p. 15)
Please send me
the brown overcoat
from the Rhine valley
in which at one time
I used to ramble by night
(p. 19)
Do you remember
how curiously grey
was the light
when in March we
were on the river island
called Peacock Isle
(p. 21)
Feellings
my friend
wrote Schumann
are stars that
guide us only
in brightest daylight
(p. 23)
In the darkness
above the mouth
of the Somme the Pleiades
shining
as nowhere else
(p. 25)
Like a dog
Cézanne says
that’s how a painter
must see, the eye
fixed & almost
averted
(p. 51)
They say
that Napoleon
was colour-blind
& blood for him
as green as
grass
(p. 55)
What I see
is human beings for
I see creatures
like trees
save that
they walk about
(p. 63)
This writing paper
smells
like wood shavings
inside the coffin
(p. 69)
But the time
in which darkness
prevails
that time one
does not see
(p. 71)
Unrecounted
always it will remain
the story of the averted
faces
(p. 75)
that elephants are
intelligent & righteous
revere the stars
& worship the sun
& the moon
(p. 13)
The red
spots
on the
planet
Jupiter
are three-
hundred-
year-old
hurricanes
(p. 15)
Please send me
the brown overcoat
from the Rhine valley
in which at one time
I used to ramble by night
(p. 19)
Do you remember
how curiously grey
was the light
when in March we
were on the river island
called Peacock Isle
(p. 21)
Feellings
my friend
wrote Schumann
are stars that
guide us only
in brightest daylight
(p. 23)
In the darkness
above the mouth
of the Somme the Pleiades
shining
as nowhere else
(p. 25)
Like a dog
Cézanne says
that’s how a painter
must see, the eye
fixed & almost
averted
(p. 51)
They say
that Napoleon
was colour-blind
& blood for him
as green as
grass
(p. 55)
What I see
is human beings for
I see creatures
like trees
save that
they walk about
(p. 63)
This writing paper
smells
like wood shavings
inside the coffin
(p. 69)
But the time
in which darkness
prevails
that time one
does not see
(p. 71)
Unrecounted
always it will remain
the story of the averted
faces
(p. 75)
July 23, 2023
100 pages of trash
November 24, 2024
“Te cubrirá
con sus
plumas
&
entonces tú
Բá
entre sus alas�
“Sin contar
queda la historia
de las caras
vueltas hacia otro lado�
“Al final
solo quedarán los
que quepan sentados
alrededor de
un tambor�
con sus
plumas
&
entonces tú
Բá
entre sus alas�
“Sin contar
queda la historia
de las caras
vueltas hacia otro lado�
“Al final
solo quedarán los
que quepan sentados
alrededor de
un tambor�
January 16, 2024
I am extremely ambivalent about this slim volume of poetry that is too self-conscious but at the same time contains glimmers of promise. The photographs by Jan Peter Tripp are hauntingly beautiful even though many of the subjects are not.
Why ever was it printed in landscape? To irritate the beholder and force one to stare at the piercing, disconcerting eyes? To dredge some meaning out of the micro-poetry? To stop me averting both my gaze and attention? Perhaps that is achieved but it remains an uncomfortable reading experience for me.
Why ever was it printed in landscape? To irritate the beholder and force one to stare at the piercing, disconcerting eyes? To dredge some meaning out of the micro-poetry? To stop me averting both my gaze and attention? Perhaps that is achieved but it remains an uncomfortable reading experience for me.
October 29, 2020
from Unrecounted by W.G. Sebald (translated from the German by Michael Hamburger):
The red
spots
on the planet
Jupiter
are three-
hundred-
year-old
hurricanes
The red
spots
on the planet
Jupiter
are three-
hundred-
year-old
hurricanes
December 15, 2015
A lovely, enigmatic book that defies being placed in any specific category.
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