Throwback Thursday: The Tartar Steppe and the Birth of Magical Realism
Dino Buzzati knew how to tell a stirring story, and to do it in a way no one had ever seen before. In 1940, the novelist, painter, poet, and playwright published The Tartar Steppe, credited as one of the forerunners in the genre of magical realism. The work of literary fantasy has been called a comment on social alienation, a critique of military life, and an existentialist novel. No matter the label, it’s one of those stories that leaves an impression on everyone who reads it.
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The Tartar Steppe follows the life of Giovanni Drogo, a soldier posted to a distant fort that overlooks the Tartar steppe. From the moment he arrives at the lonely outpost, he longs to head back to the city. As he searches for a way home, Drogo occupies himself with thoughts of his past and musings on the affairs and politics of life in the barracks. Before he knows it, uneventful years have passed and he’s still stuck there. And that’s when the enemy makes its presence known. Their timing couldn’t be worse for Drogo, who is suffering from a sudden illness, though that may turn out to be a blessing in disguise.
It’s not what happens in The Tartar Steppe that makes it such a great novel. It’s what doesn’t happen, and how it’s told.This is a story of metaphors, the kind that linger on the periphery of your perception, elusive. That tantalizing mystique draws you forward like a carrot on a stick. You charge through page after page of subtext and unspoken tension, of events that always seem just over the horizon. By the end, you realize you didn’t actually want that carrot, you just knew you had to chase after it.
An early passage illustrates this beautifully: Drogo is in his quarters trying to sleep and dreaming of home, when he hears water dripping from behind the walls. It momentarily distracts him, then his mind wanders back to the life he left behind. Then water drips again, scattering his attention like leaves on a pond. Eventually Drogo investigates. “Everyone complains, but no one has ever been able to do anything about it,” a soldier tells him. It’s always nice when a book gives you an ah-ha moment with a scene about dripping water.
If this all sounds a bit airy and oblique, never fear—you’re never left stranded in abstract territory. The tale is firmly rooted in characters and their experiences. Buzzati’s lifelong career as a journalist lends his fiction a crisp, practical tone that ensures every philosophical concept stems from something concrete, hooks that make the story relatable, even with miles of metaphor piled on top.
The Tartar Steppe follows the life of Giovanni Drogo, a soldier posted to a distant fort that overlooks the Tartar steppe. From the moment he arrives at the lonely outpost, he longs to head back to the city. As he searches for a way home, Drogo occupies himself with thoughts of his past and musings on the affairs and politics of life in the barracks. Before he knows it, uneventful years have passed and he’s still stuck there. And that’s when the enemy makes its presence known. Their timing couldn’t be worse for Drogo, who is suffering from a sudden illness, though that may turn out to be a blessing in disguise.
It’s not what happens in The Tartar Steppe that makes it such a great novel. It’s what doesn’t happen, and how it’s told.This is a story of metaphors, the kind that linger on the periphery of your perception, elusive. That tantalizing mystique draws you forward like a carrot on a stick. You charge through page after page of subtext and unspoken tension, of events that always seem just over the horizon. By the end, you realize you didn’t actually want that carrot, you just knew you had to chase after it.
An early passage illustrates this beautifully: Drogo is in his quarters trying to sleep and dreaming of home, when he hears water dripping from behind the walls. It momentarily distracts him, then his mind wanders back to the life he left behind. Then water drips again, scattering his attention like leaves on a pond. Eventually Drogo investigates. “Everyone complains, but no one has ever been able to do anything about it,” a soldier tells him. It’s always nice when a book gives you an ah-ha moment with a scene about dripping water.
If this all sounds a bit airy and oblique, never fear—you’re never left stranded in abstract territory. The tale is firmly rooted in characters and their experiences. Buzzati’s lifelong career as a journalist lends his fiction a crisp, practical tone that ensures every philosophical concept stems from something concrete, hooks that make the story relatable, even with miles of metaphor piled on top.
Poem Strip
Paperback
$13.45
$14.95
Poem Strip
By
Dino Buzzati
Translator
Marina Harss
Paperback
$13.45
$14.95
Some of Buzzati’s other works follow in the footsteps of The Tartar Steppe. Poem Strip is a retelling of the Greek myth of Orpheus and Eurydice set in a 1960s Milan, written and illustrated by the author. Flip through the pages and you won’t be able to help wondering about the mysteries he left unsaid. Even his artwork exudes a similar aura. One look at Il colombre, a four-eyed monster creation, and you’ll wonder if the green menace is about to devour an entire city, or just tell you a naughty joke.
Why The Tartar Steppe feels so significant, even 70 years after publication, is the quiet sense of foreboding that dominates the prose. This is a book that makes you believe anything can happen, maybe in the next paragraph. Its exaggerated sense of scale is intriguing, but you’re instantly brought back to Earth when the characters start waxing poetical about their lives back home. It’s haunting, every line and every paragraph, and that mood sticks with you long after you put it down. It’s a foundational work that anyone interested in literary fantasy should explore.
Some of Buzzati’s other works follow in the footsteps of The Tartar Steppe. Poem Strip is a retelling of the Greek myth of Orpheus and Eurydice set in a 1960s Milan, written and illustrated by the author. Flip through the pages and you won’t be able to help wondering about the mysteries he left unsaid. Even his artwork exudes a similar aura. One look at Il colombre, a four-eyed monster creation, and you’ll wonder if the green menace is about to devour an entire city, or just tell you a naughty joke.
Why The Tartar Steppe feels so significant, even 70 years after publication, is the quiet sense of foreboding that dominates the prose. This is a book that makes you believe anything can happen, maybe in the next paragraph. Its exaggerated sense of scale is intriguing, but you’re instantly brought back to Earth when the characters start waxing poetical about their lives back home. It’s haunting, every line and every paragraph, and that mood sticks with you long after you put it down. It’s a foundational work that anyone interested in literary fantasy should explore.