Book Review | Journey Into The Past by Stefan Zweig

Birth: November 28, 1881, Austria

Death: February 22, 1942, Brazil


Stefan Zweig was born in 1881 in Vienna, Austria. In addition to being a novelist; was also a playwright, journalist and biography writer. His recognition in the world of literature provided with stories like The Burning Secret, Chess, Fear, Amok, Confusion...


I would like to share with you Journey Into The Past by Stefan Zweig.



Again Stefan Zweig, again a great story. I am not being surprised for this anymore. I should state that, a situation like disliking any book written by Stefan Zweig is not possible for me. I read all the books of the author excitedly and with pleasure, and I read this book with the same feelings. Regardless of their subject matter, each book of Zweig is a masterpiece.


In this short book, Stefan Zweig gives us a great sensuality while reading. The subject is based on the lives that were blown away by the First World War and a forbidden love in this process. The most striking moment of this wonderful story is waiting for an exquisite narrative that shows us that the time cannot remain the same for our two lovers who reunite after the time flowing like sand.


Like all Zweig books, I highly recommend reading this book, which I liked and read.


Quotes from Journey Into The Past by Stefan Zweig


“But love truly becomes love only when, no longer an embryo developing painfully in the darkness of the body, it ventures to confess itself with lips and breath. However hard it tries to remain a chrysalis, a time comes when the intricate tissue of the cocoon tears, and out it falls, dropping from the heights to the farthest depths, falling with redoubled force into the startled heart.” /Stefan Zweig
“From that first meeting he had loved this woman, but passionately as his feelings surged over him, following him even to his dreams, the crucial factor that would shake him to the core was still lacking - his conscious realization that what, denying his true feelings, he still called admiration, respect and devotion was in fact love - a burning, unbounded, absolute and passionate love. Some kind of servile instinct in him forcibly suppressed that realization; she was too distant, too far away, too high above him, a radiant woman surrounded by a circle of stars, armoured by her wealth and by all that he had ever known of women before. It would have seemed blasphemous to think of her as a sexual being, subject to the same laws of the blood as the few other women who had come his way during his youth spent in servitude...” /Stefan Zweig
“No, this was different. She shone down from another sphere, beyond desire, pure and inviolable, and even in his most passionate dreams he did not venture so far as to undress her. In boyish confusion, he loved the fragrance of her presence, appreciating all her movements as if they were music, glad of her confidence in him and always fearing to show her any of the overwhelming emotion that stirred within him, an emotion still without a name, but long since fully formed and glowing in its place of concealment.” /Stefan Zweig
“But love truly becomes love only when, no longer an embryo developing painfully in the darkness of the body, it ventures to confess itself with lips and breath. However hard it tries to remain a chrysalis, a time comes when the intricate tissue of the cocoon tears, and out it falls, dropping from the heights to the farthest depths, falling with redoubled force into the startled heart.” /Stefan Zweig
“He listened yet more intently to what was within him, to the past, to see whether that voice of memory truly foretelling the future would not speak to him again, revealing the present to him as well as the past.” /Stefan Zweig
“Madness,” he exclaimed to himself, in astonishment, faltering. “Madness! What do they want? Once again, once again!” War once again, war that had so recently shattered his whole life? With a strange shudder, he looked at those young faces, staring at the black mass on the move in ranks of four, like a square strip of film running, unrolling out of a narrow alley as if out of a dark box, and every face it showed was instantly rigid with bitter determination, a threat, a weapon. Why was this threat so noisily uttered on a mild June evening, hammered home in a gently dreaming city? “What do they want? What do they want?” The question still had him by the throat. Only just now he had seen the world in bright, musical clarity, with the light of love and tenderness shining over it, he had been part of a melody of kindness and trust. And suddenly the iron steps of that marching throng were treading everything down, men girding themselves for the fray, men of a thousand different kinds, shouting with a thousand voices, yet expressing only one thing in their eyes and their onward march, hate, hate, hate.” /Stefan Zweig

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