Stefan Zweig (1881-1942) is one of the great writers to whom I frequently return.  *The World of Yesterday: Memoirs of a European*  (Acantilado, 2011) is the sincere testimony of an intellectual who lived his time intensely within the world of letters, a world marked by the glory of Viennese culture and the tragedies of the two world wars of the 20th century. Zweig saw himself as Austrian, Jewish, a writer, a humanist, and a pacifist. His European spirit transcended any nationalism and any totalitarian ideology, such as fascism in Italy, National Socialism in Germany, and Bolshevism in Russia (see p. 5).

His writings reveal the spirit of tolerance characteristic of his lifestyle: live and let live. He was averse to the apodictic stances of those who sought to confine the world of life within a few mathematical equations, ignoring the inherent nature and malleability of human affairs, in which diverse vital and rational forces converge, lending such varied aromas, flavors, and textures to personal biographies. The humanist education he received in his childhood and adolescence facilitated his dedication to literature. His university years accentuated his love for the humanities, a field in which he moved with ease, whether in Austria, France, or England.

He was a pacifist throughout his life. He dedicated one of his later biographies to Erasmus of Rotterdam, which he considered a veiled self-portrait. He notes: “I must say—and I am not ashamed to publicly confess this flaw—that heroism is not part of my character. In all dangerous situations, my natural attitude has always been to avoid them, and on more than one occasion I had to swallow the reproach—perhaps justified—of being indecisive, a reproach that had so often been leveled at my revered teacher from a different century, Erasmus of Rotterdam (p. 248).” And perhaps Zweig, like his beloved Erasmus, failed in his attempt to “block the path of unreason with reason” (p. 411).

He is overwhelmed by the loss of sanity he witnesses. He points out how, in the First World War, words had power and were credible. Rolland was thus the moral conscience of Europe: “I was fully aware that the friend before me was the most important person of that moment in our world, that it was the moral conscience of Europe speaking to me. At that moment, I was able to realize all that he was doing and had done with his extraordinary service to the cause of mutual understanding. Working day and night, always alone, without anyone’s help, without a secretary, he followed the declarations and demonstrations of all kinds and from all countries; he corresponded with countless people who sought his advice on matters of conscience; … he felt the responsibility of living through historic times and the need to be accountable to future generations (p. 287).” In contrast, during the First World War, the writer’s words have no foundation, no impact, no power. The chaos unleashed by Hitler shatters all the ideals of civilization and humanism for which he worked.

In his writings, Zweig doesn’t dwell on superfluous digressions, and I appreciate that. He noted: “Nine out of ten books that fall into my hands I find full of superfluous descriptions, dialogues riddled with chatter, and unnecessary secondary characters; they are too long and, therefore, too uninteresting, too lacking in dynamism. Even in the most famous masterpieces of the classics, I am bothered by the abundant sandy and monotonous passages, and I have often presented to publishers the audacious project of one day publishing all of world literature in a synoptic series, from Homer to  The Magic Mountain , by way of Balzac and Dostoevsky, with drastic cuts to specific superfluous passages; then all those works, which undoubtedly possess a timeless content, could breathe new life into our era (p. 344).” A debatable opinion, certainly; However, I find it a lucid comment: there are unnecessarily tiresome digressions in some books.

The stellar moments of Viennese high culture shine through in Zweig’s writing. The fear, the destruction, the profound fall of the soul’s Christs—as César Vallejo described them—left in the wake of the two world wars are horrifying. Human beings, generally speaking, yearn for order, peace, the end of war. Yet, here and there, violence persists; but also, havens of peace and hope emerge. Each generation lives its time and contributes to shaping the world. Stefan Zweig was a true European. He wrote and lived with a fundamental idea: the spiritual unity of Europe. There is, therefore, a European spirit, just as there is a human spirit. There is a yesterday, a today, and a tomorrow, whose history is not linear. The world has a present and a future brimming with hope. A world capable of improvement, in which not a single drop of dew is superfluous.