One of my small joys during the pandemic was trading books with my friend, Katie, in what became a reading lifeline while the libraries were closed. Our tastes align enough that we love a lot of the same books and genres but diverge enough that we can sometimes introduce each other to something the other might not have considered otherwise. But the best is when she shares a book I’ve never heard of anywhere else that is unlike anything else I’ve ever read. Toward the end of last year, that was Daniel Kehlmann’s Tyll (translated from German by Ross Benjamin).
Kehlmann takes the jester of German folklore and sets his story during the Thirty Years War. Tyll’s journey takes him from his childhood village where his father, the town miller, nurses a forbidden fascination with magic, to the company of a traveling performer, who teaches him the arts of juggling and being a jester. Tyll’s forges his own path, having a near-supernatural ability to survive any situation he finds himself in, from being trapped in a collapsed mine to entertaining the King and Queen of Bohemia, as the Thirty Years War rages around him.
Tyll is a beautiful, devastating, eerie, evocative ride. The summary tricks you into believing it is the linear story of Tyll Ulenspiegel, but instead it’s structured as vignettes and bursts of memory, some almost fever-dreams, of those who encountered Tyll and who remember his impact, his biting wit, his death-defying tightrope walking, and his near-magic ability to captivate and bend an individual or even a whole crowd to his will. These moments occur non-linearly, some very clearly rooted to a specific time and place and others more difficult to place in the context of his life. While a handful of characters appear in multiple memories, the characters who serve as audience proxy are all historic figures, from Elizabeth of Bohemia, the Winter Queen, to Father Kirchner, a priest famous for authoring studies and books on almost every topic under the sun and being quite wrong about a lot of it. Only a few feature Tyll’s perspective–notably the chapter set during his childhood where he both figuratively and literally begins the journey to becoming “Tyll Ulenspiegel” and one where he comes perilously close to death–but a chapter is never told from Tyll’s perspective alone. He exists in relation to and in relationship with others, while he himself is a mystery, knowable only to us the readers and even then only as much as he chooses. Much is implied, yet we never really know the truth of his experiences. Even when nearing death and hallucinating his past, Tyll hedges, sharing only parts of his story with us and with himself. Kehlmann underscores this unreliability by playing with time, bringing a character originally from the Middle Ages to the Thirty Years War. At times, the narrative feels very rooted in the Middle Ages, even though Kehlmann regularly reminds us the book is set during the 17th century. This slippage of time and the swirling structure of the story support the intentional obfuscation of our protagonist, fueling the rumors and legend of “Tyll.”
As noted, this is a translation of Kehlmann’s original novel by Ross Benjamin. Benjamin’s translation is incisive and precise, every word, every punctuation mark serving its purpose, yet the prose is not necessarily spare. In fact, it often feels luxurious, lingering in sensory descriptions to allow us to really feel with our whole selves what the characters are experiencing. I’m not sure how closely Kehlmann and Benjamin actually worked together, but it is certainly an effective partnership here.
I loved this book. It’s different: quiet, a bit sinister, and coming at you sideways, just like Tyll himself. I don’t know what I expected, but it absolutely surprised me in the best way, and it has stuck with me weeks after finishing it. And I adored the ending. It’s both unresolved and inherently hopeful, a delightful image to hold as you finish the book. I am eager to read more of Kehlmann’s work and highly recommend Tyll.