Elias Canetti

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July 15, 1927: The Vienna Palace of Justice Is Burned in a Mass Uprising of Viennese Workers, a Central Experience in the Life of Elias Canetti

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SOURCE: Foell, Kristie A. “July 15, 1927: The Vienna Palace of Justice Is Burned in a Mass Uprising of Viennese Workers, a Central Experience in the Life of Elias Canetti.” In Yale Companion to Jewish Writing and Thought in German Culture 1096-1996, edited by Sander L. Gilman and Jack Zipes, pp. 464-70. New Haven: Yale University Press, 1997.

[In the following essay, Foell explains the impact of the burning of the Vienna Palace of Justice on Canetti's thinking and works.]

I can still feel the indignation that came over me when I picked up the Reichspost; its huge headline read, “A Just Verdict.” There had been shooting in Burgenland [the region of Eastern Austria bordering Hungary], workers had been killed. The court had let the murderers go free. Now the governing party's newspaper called this exoneration a “just” decision, as the headline trumpeted. … From every quarter of Vienna the workers marched in dense processions to the Palace of Justice, whose very name embodied injustice in their eyes. It was an entirely spontaneous reaction, I felt by my own actions just how spontaneous. I rode into the city on my bicycle and joined one of the trains of protesters.


The workers, who were otherwise well-disciplined, who trusted their Social Democratic leaders and were satisfied that those leaders ran the City of Vienna in an exemplary fashion, acted on this day without their leaders. When they set the Palace of Justice on fire, Mayor Seitz stood in their way on a fire truck, his right fist raised on high. His gesture was ineffectual: the Palace of Justice burned. The police were told to shoot; there were ninety dead.

Elias Canetti's autobiographical account of this mass uprising of Viennese workers, and his own minor role in it, written some fifty years after the event, still breathes with the outrage and excitement of the young Canetti's Communist sympathies. But far from leading to revolution and a more just society, the historical events he described had sinister implications for Austrian history and the fate of Austria's Jews. The “workers” who had been killed on January 30, 1927, were demonstrators for the Austrian Social Democratic Party (Sdapö); their attackers were members of the local Frontkämpfer organization (right-wing World War I veterans); Walter Riehl, the lawyer who successfully pleaded that the murderers acted in self-defense, was a Nazi. Although Canetti interprets the largely spontaneous protest against this verdict positively, the ensuing reaction from the political Right, and even from the more conservative Social Democrats (Karl Renner and Julius Deutsch), was not so sanguine: the “crimes” of the horde (foremost among them the destruction of property) were widely attributed to the Social Democrats' failure to educate their followers in proper party discipline, and some of the Social Democratic leaders admitted as much. Predictably, the nascent Austrian Nazi Party blamed the uprising on a “Jewish conspiracy” by the Social Democratic leadership to corrupt their loyal German followers, a ridiculous and untenable argument that would become ever more familiar in this “accelerated time” (Canetti's words). Chancellor Ignaz Seipel, a Catholic priest and political arch-conservative, seized the opportunity to call for a rollback of recently established republican rights, including the right to trial by jury and freedom of the press. The Social Democrats, unsettled, were placed on the defensive; the republic and its liberal constitution of 1920 were called into question.

Thus these events were one of the first clear signs of the end of Austria's First Republic and the coming of fascism. For that reason alone, they might be seen as central to the life of an Austrian-Jewish writer like Canetti, who would emigrate from Austria at the last possible minute (1938), never to return. For Canetti's individual, intellectual development, however, his experience of July 15 has another, though related, dimension. Canetti's central concern is the crowd, a topic to which he would devote over thirty years of study, culminating in the 1960 publication of his idiosyncratic anthropological study, Crowds and Power. The 1927 experience was not Canetti's first encounter with the mass, but Canetti calls this day “perhaps the most decisive day of my life since the death of my father.” For it was on that day that he “realized that the crowd does not need a leader (Führer), all previous theories notwithstanding.” With this seemingly simple statement, Canetti challenges not only the führer phenomenon, but also the strong-arm political conservatism that was urged by the Right in response to July 15. Not least, Canetti's claim contradicts the best-known “mass psychologist” of the day, Sigmund Freud, whose Group Psychology and Ego Analysis Canetti had read and rejected in 1925. So basic is the experience of the mass to Canetti that he posited a “mass drive,” which he placed “next to the sex drive as its equal.” Canetti objects to the reductionism inherent in Freud's theory, claiming that Freud acknowledges neither the phenomenon nor the power of crowd experiences.

Canetti's plea for the irreducibility of experience (and of art) is both his boldest contribution to twentieth-century thought and the most problematic aspect of Crowds and Power. In his desire not to reduce the phenomenon, Canetti often reduces his own thought to description without explanatory or methodological potential. His work is nonetheless an original and independent challenge to the truisms of twentieth-century intellectual life. Four concepts are both central and original to this study: the command and its “sting” (Befehlsstachel), transformation (Verwandlung), the survivor (der Überlebende), and especially his diagnosis of the structure of power. The command, according to Canetti, bears an almost physical sting that lodges itself in the person who carries out the command and remains there unchanged until he or she can discharge it by passing on an identical command to another person. Canetti's description applies especially well to hierarchical structures (such as the military) and to the parent-child relationship (Canetti shows overwhelming sympathy for the child, who receives more commands than any other member of society). Psychologists might call this operation “identification with the oppressor”; Canetti, however, resists psychologizing in favor of the mechanistic metaphor of the sting.

Much of Canetti's research for Crowds and Power consisted of readings in the mythology and practice of world religions, from the mightiest to the most obscure. Canetti sees transformation (or metamorphosis) as a basic element of both literature and religion, and as one of humanity's best hopes. As long as a religion allows and even enables its constituents to transform themselves, Canetti approves; this happens especially in totemistic and animistic religions in which identification with a particular animal, consultation of the animal as an oracle, and even ritual transformation into the animal are holy acts. (An ecological impulse in Canetti's work can be traced to his belief in the central role animals play in preserving the human capacity for transformation.) Once a religion has become too large, however, and ossified in its structures, it tends to regularize and limit the formation of crowds (for example, by encouraging worship together only at certain times), as well as the possibilities for transformation; here Canetti has a sharp eye for pointing out religion's complicity with power. His diagnosis is most biting when applied to the Catholic Church, whose political representatives were the leading voice against the crowd on July 15: “There has never been a state on earth capable of defending itself in so many ways against the crowd. Compared with the Church all other rulers seem poor amateurs” (Canetti 1960, 155). Canetti sees the Church's function as postponing the experience of the “open crowd” indefinitely (that is, until the afterlife); the Church, like the Social Democratic Party in 1927, is to discipline the people and keep them from discovering one another in a revolutionary crowd capable of transforming itself and the world.

Canetti affirms the “open crowd,” the free and anarchical gathering of people that enables their experience of one another and their transformation. The opposite is true of the holder of power, who regiments the masses, separates himself from them, and opposes them, making of them a collection of dead or at least immobile bodies in order to bolster his own feelings of power. This kind of control of the crowd is the opposite of transformation, and death itself is the ultimate enemy of transformation. In “The Survivor” (a section of Crowds and Power also published separately), Canetti amasses examples from world history to demonstrate the deep need of the powerful to pile up ever more corpses in order to “win” and see themselves as the sole survivor. The applicability of these ideas to the aesthetics of fascism and to the Holocaust is apparent.

Crowds and Power ends with a discussion of the similarities between the holder of power and the paranoiac (a reading of the Schreber case without Freud) and with an impassioned complaint against the survivor, the command, death, and the power it serves. But because no methodology is developed that could even pretend to offer solutions to concrete problems (as do Freud's dream analysis and his “talking cure”), the book has not had the influence Canetti might have wished for it. Social scientists view it as a literary work, whereas literary scholars at most apply its insights to Canetti's own works. Although the insights of Crowds and Power might fruitfully be connected to the work of Foucault, Freud, Adorno, Reich, and others, Canetti strongly resisted such comparisons. The sui generis nature of Crowds and Power, combined with the fact that the author held a position defiantly outside of any discipline or professional organization that might promote it, has hindered its reception.

Canetti's lasting literary reputation, sealed by his receipt of the Nobel Prize for literature in 1981, is founded on his first novel, Die Blendung, which was completed in 1932 and published in 1936. Translated as Auto-da-Fé, its title literally means “the blinding.” Canetti has pointed to the relationship between his only novel and the 1927 fire by calling the novel a “fruit of the fire.” Here, Canetti's central notion of the crowd overlaps with anti-Semitism and misogyny. The protagonist (really an anti-hero), Peter Kien, seems to stand apart from the crowd: an individualist and intellectual, his very name (Peter means “rock”) signifies the opposite of the transformation Canetti glorifies. The character's original name, Kant, makes it clear that he stands for the Enlightenment ideal of autonomy. But his lonely scholarly aerie—a self-contained, four-room library at the top of an apartment building—is threatened by a woman and a Jew. First his housekeeper, Therese, swindles him into marriage. This in itself signifies the breakdown of his isolation, but the woman is further associated with the proletarian mass by her rudeness and lack of education, and with the symbolic idea of the mass through the metonymy of water: she wears a blue skirt and at one point “dissolves” into a stream of tears. The “rock” is always worn down by the persistence of water, and Kien is no exception: his new wife throws him out of their apartment after a bitter struggle, and he enters the real space of the mob, the street.

In a cellar bar frequented by denizens of the demimonde, Peter Kien is thrown on the mercy of a Jewish pimp and swindler, Siegfried Fischerle, who gradually acquires most of Kien's money. Fischerle is a brutal caricature of the would-be assimilated Jew: although his first name tries to signify Germanness, his hump is the physical reminder of the Jewish “nature” he cannot shed. A pseudo-intellectual who fancies that he would be a chess champion if he only had the financial backing, Fischerle gradually draws the reader into his plot to bilk Kien and flee to America. Though Fischerle spends Kien's money on a flatteringly tailored suit designed to hide the hump, it is only his brutal murder that “frees” him from the hump once and for all. Fischerle is captured by one of his “wife's” customers and slaughtered like a beast; the attacker carves off his hump, throws it in a corner, and proceeds to make love to the murdered man's wife “all night long.” The connections among Jewishness, women, and prostitution all recall the misogynistic and (self-hating) anti-Semitic theory of Otto Weininger. Although Canetti clearly and prophetically saw the impossibility of Jews being accepted—with or without the “hump” of Jewishness—in mainstream Austrian society, it is less clear to what extent he himself had internalized the negativity he purges in this novel.

Peter Kien, who appears to represent the privileged sons of the haute bourgeoisie (both Karl Kraus and Canetti himself have been suggested as models), is ultimately destroyed, not by women or Jews, but by forces within himself. In a paranoiac panic, he sets fire to his own library and goes up in flames along with his priceless collection of books. Kien projects onto the external world a threat that is no longer present (Fischerle is dead, Therese safely remarried) and commits suicide to escape. The lonely scholar who—like Vienna's conservative leaders—believed himself above the plebeian mass, finally succumbs to its pull within himself. Kien's final self-immolation has also been read as an instance of homosexual panic strongly influenced by Kien's virulent misogyny, a reading supported by his lengthy Weiningerian diatribe against women in the book's penultimate chapter. Whether Kien hates the mass in himself, the woman in himself, or possibly even the Jew in himself (either of which would also symbolize the mass), the mechanism and the result are the same; both rely heavily on the Freudian concept of repression, though Canetti would certainly have preferred a different terminology.

The reception of Auto-da-Fé was cut short by Nazism, the annexation of Austria, Canetti's own flight to England in 1938, and World War II. A second edition, appearing in 1947, also found little response; it was not until the book's third appearance in 1963 that it enjoyed extended critical reception. Canetti's two plays from his Viennese period—The Wedding (1932) and Comedy of Vanity (1934)—suffered a similar fate; both were first premiered in 1965, more than thirty years after they were written. Both plays experiment with turning the crowd into a stage character, and both are deeply pessimistic, even apocalyptic: the first ends in mass death, the second in an eruption of mass narcissism.

With a decidedly Marxist bent, The Wedding portrays a petty bourgeoisie that strives only for property (in the form of real estate and sexual “ownership”). The biblical story of Samson's destruction of the temple forms the play's narrative kernel; the dramatic realization relies on Canetti's theory of the acoustic mask, a technique also used in Auto-da-Fé. In its most extreme form, each person's acoustic mask is an immutable and limited characteristic set of words, expressions, and intonations that both reveal and mask the individual's character but do not foster communication. In this play, a parrot's obsessive repetition of the word “House” offers such an extreme version; the bird is not capable of linguistic communication, but nonetheless wears an acoustic mask that mirrors the materialism of its human surroundings.

The central premise of Comedy of Vanity is a government edict banning mirrors, photographs, or any other human likeness that might promote vanity. Although the content of the edict seems like an extreme interpretation of the biblical first commandment, the form in which it is carried out (a huge bonfire) reflects the book burnings in Nazi Germany shortly after Hitler's seizure of power. It is unfortunate that, like Auto-da-Fé, these early works were denied the full effect they might have had in their own time. (Canetti was, literally, not alone in having his literary career fatefully altered by the war. His wife, the former Veza Taubner-Calderon, whom he married in 1934, was at the time of their marriage a more successful author than her husband, having published several short stories in Vienna's Arbeiter-Zeitung and elsewhere, whereas Canetti had published nothing. Veza's creativity was disrupted by the flight to England, however, and she did not publish for the remainder of her life. Three of her books are now available under the name Veza Canetti.)

Canetti's third play, The Numbered (1952; also translated as Life-Terms, 1982), dramatizes Canetti's most radical philosophical position: his opposition to death. Instead of names, the characters in this play have numbers assigned by a government bureaucrat that signify the age at which they will die. Government regulation and control of death, although they do away with murder and aggression (both pointless, because death is preordained), lead to other undesirable social by-products such as the devaluation of those “destined” to die young. It is taboo to reveal one's birth date, which is engraved in a locket that holds the key to both age and life expectancy; but one citizen becomes skeptical of the entire system, breaks his locket, and discovers that it is empty, a fraud. Perhaps one may read into this taboo—breaking Canetti's wish that death itself may one day be revealed as a fraud.

The tortured history of the reception of Canetti's early works deserves further, biographically based comment, for Canetti's life story both underscores and radically questions his multiple identities as an Austrian, a bearer of German culture, a pan-European citizen, a Jew, and even a literary artist or Dichter. Canetti was born in Ruschuk, Bulgaria, in 1905, to Sephardic Jewish parents who had fallen in love in Vienna after being drawn together by their common love for that city's Burgtheater. Because German was the “secret language” that united his parents in love and literature, the child Elias was attracted to this language and to Vienna long before he himself experienced either. Early in his autobiography, Canetti notes that most of the Sephardic Jews he knew were still Turkish citizens and that the Ottoman Empire had treated them better than it treated Christians. Thus Canetti's earliest identity spans not only Eastern and Western Europe, but also the traditional enemy of a Europe conceived as Christian, the great Muslim empire. The Canetti family moved to Manchester, England, when Elias was five; here, he added French and English to his Spanish (Ladino), Bulgarian, Hebrew, and snippets of Turkish. Canetti did not learn German until age eight, and then under traumatic circumstances: his father's sudden and unexpected death prompted Canetti's mother to take him and his two younger brothers “back” to Vienna, where she forcibly taught him German in a period of three months. It seems likely that this powerful personal legacy played as strong a role as any cultural or literary considerations in Canetti's later unwavering loyalty to the German language while in exile.

These events are related in Canetti's three-volume autobiography, which some critics such as Sander Gilman and Dagmar Barnouw consider his finest work; this appeal seems due in equal measure to the international odyssey of the life itself and to the vivid engagement with which it is told. The three volumes—The Tongue Set Free, The Torch in My Ear, and The Play of the Eyes—offer a highly readable, but also very subjective, account of European intellectual and cultural life from 1905 to 1938. Canetti's early travels across Europe not only gave him a core identity as a pan-European, but also mirrored the cosmopolitan nature of what was Habsburg Austria, which prided itself on being a Vielvölkerstaat, or state of many nations. Within this “multicultural” context, however, it was always clear that German language and culture had the upper hand. It is therefore no coincidence that Canetti's mother, a member of the Jewish middle class concerned with economic and social status, would take her sons to the capital and teach them German, rather than returning to the backwater of Ruschuk. Whatever emotional considerations played a role in her decision, they were supported by strong practical incentives.

The “class distinction” between the lowly Eastern Jews and the assimilated German Jews is made palpable in numerous ways in Canetti's autobiography. The beginning of The Tongue Set Free fairly bursts with the child's excitement at the varied experiences his village provides him. He is proud to recite the child's question at Passover (but oddly “translates” the holiday for his readers as “Easter”). Already as a child, however, he is ashamed of a grandfather who claims he speaks seventeen languages, including some Western ones, although he has never left the Balkans. On his only visit back to his extended family in Bulgaria as an adult, Canetti experiences the East as a backward place where individuality is squelched by the demands of family, and he vents his own feelings of oppression in a misogynistic tirade against a female cousin.

Canetti's ambivalence toward his Jewish origins can be seen clearly in his relationships with two father figures who embody different aspects of Jewish heritage and identity. During the early 1930s, Canetti made a daily pilgrimage to the coffeehouse table of a man he called “Dr. Sonne” (Dr. Sun). This solitary scholar was himself an Eastern Jew whose family had lived in Przemysl, and who had published Hebrew poetry under the name Abraham ben Yitzchak. From him, Canetti learned to appreciate the riches of the Sephardic poetic tradition and above all the Hebrew Bible. Discussing Martin Buber's new translation with Dr. Sonne was, Canetti (1980) writes, “my opportunity to learn the wording [of the Prophets] in the original language. Until then, I had avoided such knowledge; it would have made me feel trapped to learn more about things so close to my roots.” Whether Canetti's avoidance of things Jewish was assimilationism, self-hatred, or merely a young adult's rebellion against the limitations of tradition and provenance, it was in some measure shared by Dr. Sonne himself, who participated in a dance of denial: “He never used the word ‘Jew’ to refer to either me or himself” (Canetti 1980).

Another father figure, closer to the Jewish religion but far more removed from Canetti, provokes feelings of shame in the author at his loss of Jewish heritage. In The Voices of Marrakesh, Canetti records his impressions of a trip to Morocco in 1954. He is fascinated by the Mellah, the slum-like Jewish quarter; there, Canetti is overcome by “boundless love” for an acquaintance's father, a scholar of scripture who reads all night. Their meeting takes place in silence, because they have no language in common, and Canetti avoids a second meeting by turning down an invitation to celebrate Purim with the family: “I imagined his father's disappointment at my ignorance of the old customs. I would have done everything wrong, and I could only have said the prayers like someone who never prays. I was ashamed in the face of the old man, whom I loved.” Love and distance, secret communication and silence, reverence and rejection characterize Canetti's paradoxical relationship to things Jewish and non-Western.

It is possible that the sense of shame in the above passage feeds from the guilt of a Holocaust survivor who did not take the Holocaust as an occasion to return to the beliefs and traditions of Judaism, or even to involve himself in the politics of the newly formed state of Israel. Nonetheless, Canetti's moral seriousness gains its full impetus and effect from the Holocaust. His immediate reaction to the war was a form of artistic asceticism: he abandoned his projected “Human Comedy of Madmen,” which would have comprised seven novels in addition to the first, and forbade himself all literary activity until Crowds and Power was completed. He broke the taboo only once, for his third play. As a counterbalance to this work, in 1942 he began to keep an intellectual diary of “jottings” (Aufzeichnungen); these have been published in three volumes spanning fifty years. The jottings are Canetti's most spontaneous, unguarded self-revelation, because they are not structured with an eye to personal mythology as is the autobiography; this has led one scholar (Eigler) to view them as a Derridean “supplement” to the autobiography, a sort of autobiographical repressed. At the same time, the jottings are pruned into aphorisms that are carefully selected and cryptically encoded; many entries of a seemingly personal nature are phrased in the third person so that the reader never knows whether Canetti is revealing something of himself, recording the attitudes of a friend, or making a general observation about human nature.

Aside from the immediate outrage expressed in his entries from the war years, Canetti's first extended reckoning with the war occurs in two essays from 1971, published in The Conscience of Words. “Hitler According to Speer,” Canetti's response to Speer's diaries containing his monumental architectural plans for Berlin, would have become a discussion of fascist aesthetics in the hands of any other writer. But Canetti is interested in the content of this aesthetic, particularly as it concords with his findings in Crowds and Power. The virtuosity with which he applies his own terminology to Speer's and Hitler's plans suggests that Crowds and Power, however early it may have been conceived, was in its execution always guided by the phenomenon of Hitler. Speer's plans are emblems of Hitler's power, not only because of their size, but also because of their intended use in forming and maintaining the crowds on which Hitler depended. Hitler's truest subjects, however, are the masses of dead: the dead of World War I, those he had assassinated, the soldiers who would fall in his own war, and those he gassed. Canetti compares Hitler's paranoiac nature with his own discussion of the Schreber case, the conclusion of Crowds and Power, once more strengthening the impression that the longer work is a response to Hitler.

In the second essay, “Dr. Hachiya's Hiroshima Diary,” Canetti turns to the “other” holocaust. Although he elsewhere makes the threat of nuclear war the most important issue confronting the human race (in The Sundered Future), here Canetti is concerned with the morality of surviving a catastrophe. Canetti repeatedly distances himself culturally from the Japanese doctor, who is a Buddhist and a believer in the emperor, yet he also confesses that he has understood the Japanese better through this piece of writing than any other. No wonder, because Canetti is in the same survivor position as this doctor, who must try to cure the victims of a disease he does not understand. When the doctor pays his respects to the dead by praying for each one of them at the site of their death, the religiously skeptical Canetti seems to concur that such piety is the only way to survive with one's own dignity intact and without succumbing to the crass position of power inherent in survival. It is typical of Canetti that he does not address the question of his own survivorship directly, but displaces it onto a cultural “other.”

In Canetti's penultimate volume of jottings, Die Fliegenpein (The Agony of Flies; 1992), he makes a rare first-person confession that summarizes his difficult position as a secular humanist Jewish writer: “My stubborn resistance to the Bible, which kept me away from it for decades, has to do with the fact that I never wanted to give in to my origin. … I didn't want to lead an intellectual life that was predetermined from the outset, I didn't want a prescribed intellectual life. I wanted to be surprised and overpowered again and again, and thereby gradually become a friend and connoisseur of all that is human. I could not simply accept the preponderance of the Biblical that has marked the world for so long.”

Referring only obliquely to his Jewishness, Canetti seems to include the worldwide influence of Christianity under colonialism in his rejection of the biblical. He thus both claims and rejects not only Hebrew Scripture, but also the New Testament as part of his origin, and he opposes both of these narrowly scriptural traditions to a post-Enlightenment notion of humanity that Canetti always aspired to know in its entirety.

Bibliography

Elias Canetti, Das Augenspiel: Lebensgeschichte, 1931-1937 (Munich: Hanser, 1985); Canetti, Die Blendung (Munich: Hanser, 1963); Canetti, Dramen (Munich: Hanser, 1964); Canetti, Die Fackel im Öhr: Lebensgeschichte, 1921-1931 (Munich: Hanser, 1980); Canetti, Die Fliegenpein: Aufzeichnungen (Munich: Hanser, 1992); Canetti, Das Geheimherz der Uhr: Aufzeichnungen, 1973-1985 (Munich: Hanser, 1987); Canetti, Die gerettete Zunge: Geschichte einer Jugend (Munich: Hanser, 1977); Canetti, Die gespaltene Zukunft: Aufsätze und Gespräche (Munich: Hanser, 1972); Canetti, Das Gewissen der Worte: Essays (Munich: Hanser, 1975); Canetti, Masse und Macht (Hamburg: Claassen, 1960); Canetti, Die Provinz des Menschen: Aufzeichnungen, 1942-1972 (Munich: Hanser, 1973); Canetti, Die Stimmen von Marrakesch (Munich: Hanser, 1978); Veza Canetti, Die gelbe Straße (Munich: Hanser, 1990); V. Canetti, Geduld bringt Rosen (Munich: Hanser, 1992); Friederike Eigler, Das autobiographische Werk von Elias Canetti (Tübingen: Stauffenberg, 1988); Eigler, Essays in Honor of Elias Canetti, trans. Michael Hulse (New York: Farrar, Straus, Giroux, 1987); Kristie A. Foell, Blind Reflections: Gender in Elias Canetti's “Die Blendung” (Riverside, Calif.: Ariadne Press, 1994); Richard H. Lawson, Understanding Elias Canetti (Columbia: University of South Carolina Press, 1991); Barbara Meili, Erinnerung und Vision: Der lebensgeschichtliche Hintergrund von Elias Canetti's Roman “Die Blendung” (Bonn: Bouvier, 1985); and Gerald Stieg, Frucht des Feuers: Canetti, Doderer, Kraus und der Justizpalastbrand (Vienna: Edition Falter im Österreichischen Bundesverlag, 1990).

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