[In the following review, Brookner admires Sebald's disquieting description of anxiety, displacement, and solitary travels in Vertigo.]

A fine array of symptoms is on offer in Vertigo, the first volume of what would become a celebrated trilogy. In The Emigrants Professor Sebald traced the lives of four exiles; in The Rings of Saturn he took a protracted walk around and across East Anglia, which is now his home. In Vertigo he is on the move again, not on foot, but in a series of displacements no less extreme and rather more disturbing, although he offers no comment on his particular form of experience. In Vienna he was unable to proceed beyond the boundaries of three streets, where he spent his days and part of his nights until his shoes wore out. He also reports, with similar lack of affect, clouded vision and a sensation of weightlessness. In this state he was able to take an excursion with a friend who had suffered lifelong mental illness, in the course of which neither of them appeared to have exchanged a word. Before they parted the friend, Ernst Herbeck, scribbled a note, in irregular unravelling handwriting, in Sebald's diary, and dated it 30 November 1980.

From time to time in this mysterious narrative an objective correlative is sought for these wanderings, these dream states, such as might have been experienced by a mediaeval pilgrim or an early 19th-century German mystic. Thus there are chapters devoted to Stendhal in Italy, to Casanova in Venice, and to Kafka in Riva. These are not very reassuring, overshadowed as they are by the author's own uneasy journeyings. Stendhal, crossing the Alps with Napoleon's army at the age of 17, experiences the first of many enthusiasms; gorgeously uniformed, and with the courage that was to characterise his entire life, he embarked on his own manoeuvres and fell in love with Angela Pietragrua, the first of a succession of women with whom he was largely unsuccessful. Professor Sebald takes him back to Italy in later civilian life, on a journey he may or may not have made in the company of a certain Mme. Gherardi, who may or may not have existed. There are no certainties here, either in Stendhal's life (or at least as Sebald reads it) or in his own. This descent into unverifiability, presented within a framework that implies a rigid purpose, is responsible for that strange mixture of biography and autobiography with which Sebald's name will always be associated. Small, gnomic illustrations add to the unease.

Anxiety pursues him to Venice, where he lies in his hotel room for three days before taking up the story of Casanova who was imprisoned there. Thinking that he is being observed, the narrator takes the train to Verona, where he decides to ‘forfeit everything except my sense of vision’ and devote himself to a study of Pisanello. But he does not appear to be an acutely visual person: those illustrations are hardly more explanatory than the schematic scribbles with which Stendhal enlivened his own texts. In Verona he has the sensation of being surrounded by water, another symptom of displacement. It is clear that his sympathy with untethered lives and objectless perambulation is intimately connected with states of mind too all-pervading to be ignored.

Professor Sebald's own journeys—in Italy, in Austria—turn imperceptibly into fugues in which passing reality plays an insistent part. A mislaid passport, a sceptical glance from a waiter, move him on: train tickets are reproduced in grainy black and white. In Verona he asks a passing tourist to take a photograph of a flock of pigeons, and understands the tourist's refusal to be prompted by his wife's hostility, for naturally Sebald has assumed the tourist to be on his honeymoon, but nonetheless willing to oblige him on receipt of a ten-mark gratuity. The reader, by this stage, is completely hypnotised, not only by the fluency with which one incident yields to another, but by the extreme clarity of the writing. If he does not entirely trust the author's sanity he has certainly been entrapped to such an extent that he fears for his own.

In following the travails of Kafka, our narrator is on obviously familiar, or at least sympathetic, ground, particularly as Kafka, on a journey from Prague to Vienna to attend a congress, slips away and heads for Verona. Here Kafka foreshadows Sebald's own journey, noting the Pisanello mural of St George, seeing the same theatre posters advertising the same opera.

On 21 September Dr. K is in Desenzano on the southern shore of Lake Garda. Most of the townspeople have gathered in the market square to welcome the deputy secretary of the Prague Workers' Insurance Company.

This unconvincing statement is borne out by an illustration of a group of people staring in the same direction. Kafka's own words, in his letters to Felice, are here appropriated, but given an extra dimension of fantasy, in which natural phenomena play their ludic part and episodes replicate other episodes, thus acquiring a totemic significance.

One awaits his return to England with some trepidation. The fourth section—‘Il ritorno in patria’—naturally begins with a series of oblique diversions. The homeland referred to might be the German village of W, where the hotel turns out to be the home of his childhood, or it might be England, finally reached after a long parenthesis, in which the contents of his parents' living-room are meticulously itemised. These journeyings, so inconsequential yet so organic, inspire respect, if not understanding. A curious life of wandering, in itself a sign of fearlessness, and of taking notes in obscure rooms watched over by taciturn landladies, lay a hold on the reader's imagination, as if he too might be tempted to embark on such a life. This would be extremely dangerous. Even on a walk from the National Gallery to Liverpool Street station Sebald has time to ponder on a deserted underground line, as if divesting the city of its inhabitants as he goes.

His solitude brings with it illuminations. Falling asleep over a volume of Pepys, he seems to be back in the Tyrol, until a smell of burnt feathers alerts him to the Fire of London. (He has already encountered the Winter Queen in an express heading for the Hook of Holland). Nothing like Vertigo is likely to be encountered in the course of one's regular reading. One emerges from it shaken, seduced, and deeply impressed. For this is freedom of a sort, and also the price that must be paid if such freedom, such extreme non-attachment, is sought by those unfitted to withstand the terrors which must be their accompaniment.