Peter Handke’s latest novel, The Fruit Thief, translated by Krishna Winston, begins with a man going out for a walk. He is waylaid from the first step: Walking barefoot on the grass, he gets stung by a bee. The sting opens up a flood of thoughts—about the weather, a broken shoelace, the anatomy of bees, and whether bee stings are a cosmic sign. He declares, “Suddenly I felt fine about setting out without any map at all.” From there, the narrator begins a strange, sometimes inscrutable journey through provincial towns and fields, across rivers and into darkened woods. He is ostensibly in pursuit of a mysterious woman (the fruit thief), yet all the while our narrator keeps cogitating, describing, elaborating—even though it is unclear whether he wishes (or cares) if his purpose is understood.
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