The Man Without Qualities just so happens to have a distinctive texture. Musil’s prose is a pile of ballet slipper–colored tulle. It is over-ripe fruit, sugar congealing at its center.
There’s a persistent stream of adjectives and adverbs which deny the reader firm ground: weich (soft) and variations on this word (bauchigweich, belly-soft; weichwollig, woolly-soft). His world inhabits a soft remove from the reader: things are floating, shadowy, tender, fluid, blurred or indistinct, shimmering, glimmering, slippery, veiled (schwebend,schattenhaft, zärtlich, fließend, verschwommen, schimmernd, flimmernd, schlüpfrig, verschleiert). Other extra-soft adjectives might appear only once or twice, but to great effect: opalisierend (opalescent), umwölkt (cloudy, but with the “um” suggesting the clouds are pressing in around you in contrast to more common words for “cloudy” like wolkig or bewölkt), wogend (billowing, undulating). Even loneliness is softly rendered: someone or something is einsamkeitsüberglänzt (glossed over with loneliness — I imagine the loneliness like the sugar syrup on the surface of a donut), another moment is mondlicheinsam (moonily lonely).
The counterpoint to this plunging softness is the novel’s abundance of filing cabinet words. Each page is studded with nationalities (Austrian and Hungarian, obviously — but also fair amounts of Prussian, Italian, you name it); there are religions and schools of religions (Jewish, Protestant, Catholic), systems of thought (philosophical, political, historical-political, constitutional, societal, moral, religious, scientific, artistic).
Initially the filing-cabinet words feel like not much more than evidence of the novel’s vaulting ambition — the very thing that meant Musil died with it unfinished; the desire to depict, not just some guy, but everything and everyone surrounding him, sprawling out to the edges of the universe (or what once probably felt like an entire universe: Vienna at the outset of the twentieth century). But it comes to me in a rush that the filing-cabinet words are the door frame: the attempt to impose order and intellectual rigor on the softness of life itself. Qualities acknowledges the constraints of reality — that, as the narration would have it, “If one wants to pass through open doors easily, one must bear in mind they have a solid frame.”
I'm Certain About the Man Without Qualities