Can we trust Sebald’s words? It doesn’t matter. The fragmented motifs, repeated images, are scattered throughout the texts and sweep you along to a conclusion, at which there magically appears sense to the whole. Verily, the field has been thoroughly sniffed out. I imagine it’s something like listening to a piece of classical music, if I were to listen to classical music.
Over at The Millions, Tom Mitchell indulges in a Sebald-esque recount of a short trip with his son while considering his feelings for the work of the German-British author.
