This "sex hell" novel was somewhere between realistic and satirical, or perhaps symbolic. The realistic element made it too horrible to be funny, but the non-realistic elements made it too weird to be truly horrible. While the writing (or was it the translation?) seemed somewhat uneven, at least it had the virtue of brevity, and as an overall confection it was all oddly entertaining. The author notably hung out with Kafka and Max Brod in Prague cafes, but he was evidently able to resist becoming a Kafka imitator and followed his own writerly mission. As the suffering everyday person behind the author, though, he clearly needed "help" of a kind he was doomed never to get. ( )

A dark and depressing book. I didn't enjoy this, but that's not to say the author isn't talented. The main character has paranoia and neurosis and was not nurtured in the least growing up. As such, he is unsuccessful in his dealings with everyone, from his workplace to his landlady. He doesn't know how to stand up to people, so they walk all over him. I'm pretty sure the attendant killed the landlady, but he doesn't defend himself because he doesn't know how to act with other HUmans. ( )

If I had to describe this book in one word it would be "depressing." Or maybe " grotesque." Or "perverse." You get the idea. The book was written in 1920/21, but was not published until 1923. The author had reservations, fearing scandal, and the publisher feared obscenity charges.

Franz Polzer is a bank clerk in an unnamed central European city. He was abused as a child by his father and aunt, and still suffers from nightmares in which they feature prominently. Franz is a tortured individual, neurotic and perhaps detached from reality, but is able to manage day-to-day life by maintaining extreme control and order over every aspect of his life. He has boarded for years with Frau Pogue, a widow who manages the details of everyday living for him, although he has never been in the same room with her for more than a few minutes. The slightest deviaiton in routine creates havoc for Franz.

Franz's orderly life starts to disintegrate when Frau Pogue begins insinuating herself into his life, at first in somewhat innocent ways, by pressuring him to accompany her on Sunday outings. Her demands soon become more extreme, and she forces herself on him sexually. He thinks about moving, but is paralyzed by fears--where should he look; did he have the strength to handle the effort; people are dishonest and might take advantage of him; how could he face Frau Pogue; if he snuck out in the night, how would he get his things; there might be children in the new building; etc. etc.

"Sleep eluded him. He knew he would not be able to bear all these worries. Maybe he would become ill and have to miss a few days at the bank. Work would pile up on his desk. A new pile came every day, and by the time he returned it would have grown into an enormous heap."

Franz's one social contact was with Karl, a friend from his childhood. Karl is now suffering from an unnamed disease which causes abcesses all over his body and which has resulted in his being a multiple amputee. Karl now faces the amputation of an arm. When the possibility arises that Karl may have to become a boarder at Frau Pogue's after the operation (Karl's wife Dora has accused him of sexual torture; Karl has accused Dora of staying with him only for his money), Franz becomes more unhinged. His anxiety is manifest by his obsession with ensuring that all of his things are in order:

"He realized by counting his things he could make sure that nothing had been stolen, but that told him nothing about other types of losses. It was possible that moths would eat holes in all his clothing and underwear, making them unwearable, and that since he had never thought of this before perhaps they already had."

Franz begins to use his nights "to conduct a precise inventory of all his possessions. He listed everything on a sheet of paper in order to be sure."

When Karl does in fact become a boarder at Frau Pogue's after his operation, he is accompanied by an attendant, a former butcher who still possesses his butcher knives, which he keeps wrapped in a blood-stained white apron. Franz's breakdown accelerates:

"Everything Franz Polzer had dreaded began to come true. The door had been opened. Now that order had been destroyed, only lawlessness could follow. A gap had been created and the unforseen broke through it, spreading fear. The maimed man lay in the room with the furniture that was covered with white sheets. At night one heard him groan. The pus ate deeper into the flesh, and oppressive dreams tormented him. Polzer listened. Death was in the house, waiting."

As I said, depressing...grotesque...perverse. While this doesn't make The Maimed a bad book--indeed it is a well-written and compelling book--it is a distasteful book. My recommendation is that you read it at your own risk.

(One reviewer on Amazon suggested that in essence, this book is the literary equivalent of the artistic expressionism movement, which was going on contemporaneously. I agree.) ( )

The previous reviewer does the content of the book justice. I would only add that the Twisted Spoon Press edition is very nice, both in terms of the quality of paper and the content, although there are a few typos that can sometimes distract you as you're reading. The short biography at the end of the novel is very useful if you're never heard of this author before, and the artwork is interesting (it's by Paul Rut).

Brilliant, oppressive, claustrophobic book of a paranoid schoolteacher who thinks his pupils are out to get him. Reminds me of Kafka, and is very funny in a black comedy kind of way. Out of print in Dutch :( To give you an idea of the quality: after publishing his first two short stories, Thomas Mann (!) already wrote that 'this is a talent we will hear more from'. Stefan Zweig(!) wrote: 'put an exclamation mark behind this name!'
But his first novel, this one, shocked Hungary. Zweig saw a sick love of the poisenous fumes of the soul, of damp, sweaty, disgusting situations'. But at the same time he called the book 'great and horrid, luring and disgusting, unforgettable though you would love to forget it as soon as possible'. Another reviewer said he was of the same caliber as Kafka. ( )