“…my lies, those lies born of pity, had made her happy; and to make a person happy could never be a crime…a lie that made others happy was more important than truth itself.”
Or was it? In Beware of Pity, Stefan Zweig explores this question and comes squarely on the side that unless it’s entirely self-sacrificing, pity is poisonous, sapping your will and rendering you incapable of insight or adequate decision-making.
Too much time has passed between finishing this book and sitting down to write this review. I’ve forgotten all of my immediate impressions. I do remember having violent reactions to the events of the latter half of the book, yelling, “nooo that’s the opposite of what I want you to do!” And I still cringe when I revisit some pages I annotated because of the decisions made and the disastrous consequences. Zweig is undoubtedly a great writer with potent psychological insights, and I thought this novel’s concept was very compelling and the entire opposite of prosaic or run-of-the-mill. The plot and characters were subservient to the idea or message that Zweig was trying to convey, but the characters still felt very real.
We followed a very sensitive protagonist who felt everything deeply. I think some might find it sensationalistic or overdramatic at times, but I just thought it so vulnerable and oftentimes relatable, especially the despair and the self-degradation, the disparaging monologues, and the genuine joy at discovering yourself capable of making someone else happy. He would have back-and-forth conversations in his mind and second guess other people’s motivations but drew toward them anyways, overpowered by pity and the intoxication of feeling needed. He had an entirely too relatable fear of other people’s expectations and too much responsibility being pushed on his unqualified shoulders, and immediately upon learning that someone did not expect much from him, he felt such a sense of relief rather than feeling insulted of appearing incapable.
Compassion made him into a better person until it became an obsession, till it led to deception. I found myself rooting for him to be more selfish, then to be more cold-hearted and analytical, then to simply be more sensible. He made some genuinely horrible decisions, but I found him such a sympathetic character that I forgave him all of it. And Zweig was not afraid to reveal in his protagonist the darkest of thoughts, like him not believing an invalid could “dare to love,” to desire sexually, but coming to realize that they are indeed the ones who desire more passionately, because they “feel they can only justify their earthly existence by loving and being loved.” Or on an evening, feeling as though he was God and the Kekesfalva family “his creatures” because he had given them happiness and they adored him. Or him referring to Edith as a “half-woman” or “not a real woman.” He was highly flawed and had questionable thoughts, which just made him seem more realistic.
I love the structure of the novel and how it’s transparently a writer telling another person’s story—I particularly enjoyed the author’s insights when he kind of broke the wall and revealed his process or some writer’s secrets. Once I finished the book, I had to go back to the beginning before the story within the story to remind myself how the older version of our protagonist had introduced the story and how he had ended up processing all of the events. I’m already looking forward to a future reread.
“For the first time in my life I began to realize that it is not evil and brutality, but nearly always weakness, that is to blame for the worse things that happen in this world.”
