By GEORGE PROCHNIK [Quarterly Conversation] – Some months before the suicide of Stefan Zweig in February 1942, Klaus Mann bumped into him on Fifth Avenue.
Zweig, whom Mann referred to as “the tireless promoter of striving talents,” held a special place in Mann’s imagination since his early youth. On the publication of Mann’s first books, Zweig’s was “the most heartening and hearty” voice enjoining him to courage. “Go ahead, young man!” Zweig urged in a congratulatory note. “There may be prejudices against you because of your famous parentage. Never mind. Do your work! Say what you have to say!—it’s quite a lot if I’m not mistaken.” Zweig’s high expectations proved inspirational, and Mann, like many other fledgling authors, came to see Zweig as an exemplary patron with a maternally solicitous streak. He heartened the anxious by cajoling them to self-expression and quietly deployed his ample bank account to dissolve logistical obstacles confronting the impecunious.
Yet now, in the middle of New York City in 1941, Zweig looked bizarre—unkempt and entranced. He was so lost in some dark train of thought, Mann wrote, that it took Zweig a while to realize he was being observed. Only when directly addressed did Zweig rouse himself “like a sleep-walker who hears his name,” abruptly metamorphosing into the familiar, polished cosmopolitan of old.
Continued at Quarterly Conversation | More Chronicle & Notices.
