Austerlitz by W.G. Sebald has a little bit of Marcel Proust, something of James Joyce, a dose of Freud and a lot of post-WWII PTSD. The landscape is usually desolate, the lighting dark; the often-abandoned buildings are old, dank and soot-stained, all reeking of imagined history. Even when there are crowds, there is loneliness, setting …
Marjorie Arons-Barron 