An Inventory of Losses • Judith Schalansky

Not too long ago, while strolling through the world of book bloggers, I came across a book on Uwe’s blog that I almost missed. The name Schalansky sounded familiar, and indeed I had completely forgotten that she is the author of the wonderful Atlas of Remote Islands, which I have already reviewed on Lesestunden. In every respect, the Atlas is a masterpiece, especially in terms of its book design. All the more curious I was to see what the latest work of book designer Judith Schalansky had to offer. The theme also sounded very promising. In the end, to my own surprise, I was disappointed.

An Inventory of Losses takes as its subject a variety of things that have disappeared and are gone forever. It is therefore about disappearance, decay, the transience of all things, and, in that context, about death, forgetting, loss, and dissolution. I found the book’s preface particularly striking. On one page, Schalansky lists things that were lost during her work on the book. On another, she lists what was discovered, created, and gained. Reading these lists is fascinating—it makes one aware of how dynamic and changeable everything in this world is.

In the introduction, Schalansky then reflects on various aspects of transience and takes a broader philosophical view, presenting different thoughts on the subject. It’s clear that she has given the topic a great deal of thought, and so the introduction contains many beautifully expressed insights.

The main part of the book consists of twelve chapters, each exactly sixteen pages long. Each chapter describes something that has been lost. The presentation of the vanished object, however, takes up only the first, at most the second, page and briefly outlines its creation and loss. These are very different losses: the extinct Caspian tiger, lost ancient love songs, a vanished religion, or destroyed buildings. I found the variety well chosen. I had the impression that Schalansky was trying to capture a wide spectrum of possible kinds of disappearance—from the destruction of physical structures to the loss of immaterial things such as fame and recognition.

The remaining fifteen pages of each chapter consist of short texts, stories written in a wide variety of styles. These texts often have only a loose connection to the main theme, and sometimes the reader learns more about the lost object, but often there is almost no relation at all. These stories, which make up the bulk of the book, did not convince me. I do like the author’s writing style—she writes vividly, often with beautifully complex sentences and a pleasant rhythm that brings scenes and places to life before the reader’s inner eye. However, I found the various fragments dull, not very engaging, and aimless. Some of the stories are autobiographical and describe situations from the author’s past, which often did not fit at all and seemed unrelated to the introduced object. For me, the focus was missing. Only the chapter about the love songs of Sappho truly appealed to me.

Nothing can be restored through writing, but everything can be made experienceable. (p. 26)

While reading, I could clearly sense what the author wanted to achieve—to make the experience of loss tangible and to conjure it up through literature. That is exactly what she describes in the introduction. The stories convey different types of loss, but they failed to evoke the emotions in me that would have been necessary to make this sense of loss truly felt. As a result, I found the writing diffuse, with little clarity of direction. The meaning seemed to lie in the overall impression rather than in individual stories. Although factual details are scattered throughout, the reader rarely learns much about the original object itself. I found this disappointing—the individual stories felt dull and drawn-out. There is no narrative arc or subtle punchline. However, I did appreciate the variety of narrative styles across the chapters, which I found skillfully done.

Given the Atlas of Remote Islands, my expectations for the book’s design were naturally high. The book was in fact recognized by the Stiftung Buchkunst. The presentation is of high quality, and one can see the care that went into its creation. Each chapter begins with a black page on which the featured object is only faintly and barely visible—black on black, beautifully visualizing disappearance on a meta-level. You have to hold these pages against the light to see anything at all. The thread binding is strikingly sturdy, grouping each sixteen-page chapter between these black pages, which also looks nice from the book’s edge. The serif typeface is once again finely chosen. A black ribbon marker and a cloth cover would have been a nice touch, but overall, it is a solid edition. It doesn’t quite reach the level of the Atlas; the black color scheme makes it somewhat monotonous. Still, the design suits the content and creates a coherent connection between form and meaning.

Conclusion: With An Inventory of Losses, Judith Schalansky presents a book that, in its own way, attempts to compile a record of things lost. These vanished subjects are only superficially touched upon, while the main focus is on a series of diverse stories that, despite the author’s beautiful, vivid language, did not resonate with me. I found them dull, drawn-out, and aimless, lacking the sharpness or distinctive tone that would have made them impactful. The book is filled with numerous kinds of loss, which are indeed made tangible in the texts. The design is excellent—with its nearly invisible illustrations between chapters and the deep black tones, it captures the theme of disappearance perfectly, though it also makes the book feel a bit somber. Overall, it is a work that neither convinced nor moved me.

Book information: An Inventory of Losses • Judith Schalansky • Suhrkamp Verlag • 252 pages • ISBN 9783518428245