Orfeo by Hans-Jürgen Greif

Publisher: Véhicule Press, Paperback $19.95, ISBN: 978-1-55065-231-4, Page count: 200 pp., Released 2008

The best pleasures are not of the flesh, but of the mind, spinning desire that the body longs to feel, even as a weaker imitation of thought. Imagine stealing the perfume of a crush to remind you of denied hungers, or repeatedly stroking the path of a lover’s fingers until the flesh becomes angry and raw. It’s this essence of desire that Hans-Jürgen Greif explores in his novel, Orfeo.

Through Greif’s richly sensual world, we watch unfold the relationships of music critic Wagner, his wife Kirsten, and Orfeo, who was castrated and orphaned after a tragic accident, but who emerges with an unusual and rare vocal gift. Greif’s portrayals of desire are shaped by each character’s imperfections—Orfeo, the boy who is but is not a man; Kirsten, the woman who is beautiful, but lacks depth of emotion and has never loved; Wagner who lives well and expresses emotions openly, but is unaware of his profound loneliness—as well as the power of Orfeo’s voice; no one is unaffected. Wagner, hearing Orfeo sing, realizes that “he thought he knew the music [of Mozart] well, but Orfeo had shown him that he had not truly known the meaning of the aria.” The true meanings of love and desire are as slippery and difficult to grasp; you think you know both, but Greif intriguingly suggests otherwise.

Greif relies heavily on the “celestial” beauty of Orfeo’s voice as a vehicle for change; it’s difficult, however, to emulate the power of music through words. A superb writer should invite you, the reluctant guest, to sink deeply into an overstuffed chair, listen to a subject of which you know nothing, and end up staying well past midnight. I enjoyed the conversation, found it even pleasurable, but left at a polite hour.