Stefan Zweig

Beware of Pity

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'Zweig's fictional masterpiece' GUARDIAN
'An intoxicating, morally shaking read… A real reminder of what fiction can do best' Ali Smith
The only novel written by one of the most popular writers of the twentieth century
In 1913, young second lieutenant Hofmiller discovers the terrible danger of pity. He had no idea the girl was lame when he asked her to dance—so begins a series of visits, motivated by pity, which relieve his guilt but give her a dangerous glimmer of hope.
Stefan Zweig's unforgettable novel is a devastating depiction of the betrayal of both honour and love, amid the disintegration of the Austro-Hungarian Empire.
Part of the Pushkin Press Classics series: timeless storytelling by icons of literature, hand-picked from around the globe.
Translated by Anthea Bell
Stefan Zweig (1881–1942) was born in Vienna, into a wealthy Austrian-Jewish family. He studied in Berlin and Vienna and was first known as a poet and translator, then as a biographer. Zweig travelled widely, living in Salzburg between the wars, and was an international bestseller with a string of hugely popular novellas including Letter from an Unknown Woman, Amok and Fear. In 1934, with the rise of Nazism, he moved to London, where he wrote his only novel, Beware of Pity. He later moved on to Bath, taking British citizenship after the outbreak of the Second World War. After a short period in New York, Zweig settled in Brazil, where in 1942 he and his wife were found dead in an apparent double suicide. Much of his work is available from Pushkin Press.
This book is currently unavailable
506 printed pages
Copyright owner
Bookwire
Original publication
2011
Publication year
2011
Publisher
Pushkin Press
Translator
Anthea Bell
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Quotes

  • has quoted3 months ago
    To a certain extent action takes my mind off my troubles, although my uncomfortable memories are still churning away inside my head, and there’s a lump in my throat like a sponge soaked in bitter gall.
  • has quoted3 months ago
    The more I pictured it, the more I thought about it, the more absurd ideas came into my fevered mind. At that moment it seemed to me a hundred times easier to exert a little quick pressure on the trigger of my revolver than to suffer the infernal torments of the next few days, that helpless waiting to find out whether my comrades had yet heard of my folly, whether the whispering and grinning had already begun behind my back. I knew myself only too well; I knew I would never have the strength to withstand the mockery and scorn and tittle-tattle once it began.
  • has quoted3 months ago
    I begin to feel elated, buoyant, even boisterous.

    How my bestie sounds to me when she speaks English:

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