Counterfactually Assessing the Impact of Primo Levi’s Death on his Writing
In his recently published review of Berel Lang’s
new biography of Primo Levi in the Association
of Jewish Studies Review, Alvin H. Rosenfeld (yes, he’s related) employs a
counterfactual argument to question Lang’s insistence that readers approach
Levi’s work from a perspective that brackets off the circumstances of
his death (very likely, although never proven, by suicide).
Rosenfeld writes:
“Lang subtitles his
study “The Matter of a Life,” but the book is not intended as a full-scale
biography, and readers already familiar with the biographies of Levi available
in English will not come away from reading Lang with any new facts about the
author's life. They may, however, feel moved to ponder what they find in these
pages about Levi's death.”
“Lang devotes to this a whole chapter,
in which he strongly contests the idea that writers' deaths might
“retroactively alter their creations” (14). “Why should Levi's suicide…loom so
large in thinking and speaking about him…?” he asks. “The words and
sentences…of his writings remain exactly as they would have however he had
died” (12).”
“In a literal sense, this last
sentence is true, but so, too, is it true that a writer's death can, and often
does, influence the way we read his or her books, sometimes decisively so. To cite but one prominent example: Anne
Frank's famous diary almost certainly would never have achieved the canonical
status it has today had the book's youthful author survived the war. As Philip Roth put it in The Ghost Writer, were the diary “known
to be the work of a living writer, it would never be more than it was: a young
teenager's diary of her trying years in hiding during the German occupation of
Holland.”
“Inasmuch as readers commonly bring
some knowledge of Anne Frank's premature and tragic death to their reading of
her book, their encounters with the diary become a more troubled, but also a
more moving and meaningful, experience. The same may be true of those who read
Levi's writings about the Nazi death camps in the shadow of his death. They are
not wrong to do so.”
Both Rosenfeld and Lang have valid
points to make.
Lang legitimately takes issue with
possibility that readers may strain to “see” the signs of Levi’s death (again,
probably by suicide) prefigured in his writings. This certainly represents a violation of his literary output’s
integrity.
His discomfort with this practice is
reminiscent of Michael Andre Bernstein’s concept of “backshadowing” – which he
defines as a practice that “works by a kind of
retroactive foreshadowing in which the shared knowledge of the outcome of a
series of events by narrator and listener is used to judge the participants in
those events as though they too should have known what was to come.” (Bernstein
offers the specific example of the Holocaust, noting that “our knowledge of the
Shoah is used to condemn the "blindness" and
"self-deception" of all those who did not actively strive to save
themselves from a doom that was supposedly both clearly visible and inevitable.”). (These quotes are taken from “Victims-in-Waiting: Backshadowing and the Representation of
European Jewry,” New Literary History, Vol. 29, Nr. 4, 1998, pp. 625-651).
Lang is not exactly warning against backshadowing in
discussing Levi (it’s not as if Levi himself should have known of the
circumstances of his fate) but the tendency to see his end as predictable or inevitable
is something Lang clearly wants us to be alert to. And it is a reasonable request.
Rosenfeld convincingly argues,
however, that our knowledge of the “end” of the story of the author’s life
bears heavily on how we might read its earlier phases. His counterfactual employing of Anne
Frank (which itself relies on Philip’s Roth own counterfactual) makes this
point very well. We would be
missing much of the point of her diary if we remained unaware of her ultimate
fate.
It’s a similar point that I’ve made
with reference to “clockstopper counterfactuals.” Lang is effectively asking readers to
stop the clock of Levi’s life before
his tragic death and evaluate his work without knowing the end of the
story. This can be likened to film
critics who resist telling readers the ending of a whodunnit by claiming a
desire to resist “spoilers.”
(Conversely, the phrase “spoiler alert” is now commonly appended to
reviews that give readers a heads-up of what’s coming). Lang’s point is well-taken, but
ultimately artificial. We cannot
roll back the clock of Levi’s life, imagine that his fate were otherwise, and
still plausibly interpret his work with the same sensitivity as if we retain an
awareness of what is to come.
The fact remains that where we end a
story determines how we view it. This
is equally true of history and counterfactual history.
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