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Sebald has done what every writer dreams of doing.?Out of exquisitely attuned feeling for the past, Sebald fashioned an entirely new form of literature. I've read his books countless times trying to understand how he did it. In the end, I can only say that he practiced a kind of magic born out of almost supernatural?sensitivity.He is an addiction, and, once button-holed by his books, you have neither the wish nor the will to tear yourself away.An extraordinary palimpsest of nature, human, and literary history.In Sebald's writing, everything is connected, everything webbed together by the unseen threads of history, or chance, or fate, or death... beautiful and unsettling, elevated into an art of the uncannyan art that was, in the end, Sebald's strange and inscrutable?gift.Think of W.G. Sebald as memory's Einstein.This is very beautiful, and its strangeness is what is beautiful... One of the most mysteriously sublime of contemporary writers. And here, inSublime.The first thing to be said about W. G. Sebald's books is that they always had a posthumous quality to them. He wroteas was often remarkedlike a ghost. He was one of the most innovative writers of the late twentieth century, and yet part of this originality derived from the way his prose felt exhumed from the?nineteenth.Few writers have traveled as quickly from obscurity to the sort of renown that yields an adjective as quickly as German writer W. G. Sebald (1944 - 2001), and now?Ostensibly a record of a journey on foot through coastal East Anglia,
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