The Death of Virgil by Hermann Broch (1945)

If mental exercise is for the brain as physical exercise is for the body, then I have just completed the mental equivalent of a full marathon. This is the most challenging book I have ever read; it took every bit of my stamina and perseverance to finish it.

One reason for my difficulty is that I had not trained my brain properly for the task. I judge that for a full appreciation of the work I should have had complete familiarity with Virgil's works, particularly of The Aeneid; a grounding in philosophy, particularly in that of German philosophers; a knowledge of the musical structure of a symphony; and more knowledge about the life experiences of the author than can be gained from Wikipedia. Obviously this is a book designed for the well-prepared, not for the dilettante reader.

The plot, such as it is, covers the last 24 or so hours in the life of the poet Virgil. The book is divided into four sections, the first part being his arrival by boat to a seaside town in the entourage of Caesar Augustus and his journey by liter through a mob and horrific scenes to a palace. The second section, the longest by far, is his stream-of-consciousness interior monologue during his "dark night of the soul," as he thinks back on his life's work and about many philosophical issues. This culminates in his decision to destroy The Aeneid because he believes it is a perjury which only enchants, failing to tell life truths. (At least that is my understanding.) The third section recounts Virgil's conversations the next morning with two friends and with Augustus, as they try to persuade him to change his mind about destroying his masterwork. The last section is a stream-of-consciousness hallucinatory account of Virgil's journey into death.

Another reason for my difficulty with the book is that while I was struggling to understand the ideas and concepts I was also often struggling just to understand the sentences. The translator of the book from German to English says in her note at the end of the book that it contains sentences which are "probably among the longest in the world's literature." I can't even count the number of times I lost the thread of a sentence and had to search back for the start and begin again.

All the above is in no way an indication that I did not perceive that this is a book which should be much praised. Often it is hypnotically poetic; it is obviously the product of an impressive intellect; it invites introspection about the true value of one's life. It is important to me because I was able to finish it and even understand it in part, stumbling as I was.