The Woman on the Stairs - Couverture rigide

“Schlink, a professor of law in both Germany and the United States, writes with lawyerly precision, and his protagonist’s midlife search for meaning is thought-provoking and surprisingly tender.” —Bookpage

“Bernhard Schlink's The Woman on the Stairs runs on taut suspense, as an unnamed elderly Germany lawyer rediscovers a painting that triggers a cascade of memories. Decades earlier, a femme fatale ensnared him in a romantic web, along with her affluent husband and a volatile artist, only to flee from them all. Seeing the painting again compels the protagonist to seek out his wayward muse, but their reunion doesn't play out quite the way he's fantasized.” —Oprah.com ("Thrillers You Won't Be Able to Put Down")

“A page-turner. . . . Bernhard Schlink’s latest novel is a reminder that his style and his stories are unique, mysterious, and deceptively simple. He writes about big themes like love, obsession, betrayal, and moral dilemmas. . . . He is, in short, a philosopher-writer with an interest in history, politics and what makes people tick. . . Passages illuminate the suffering and isolation that each character feels. But more than that, they shine a light on Schlink’s brilliance as a contemplative writer who, through simple prose and complex characters, meditates on life and all its challenges.” —The New York Journal of Books

“At the end of this clever but melancholy novel readers are left with some answers to some questions but with others still to ponder. And that’s a satisfying ending because it keeps the novel alive after the last page has been turned.” —Washington Times
 
“A mysterious, character-driven, and history-enriched story. . . . Schlink’s prose captivates.” —Booklist

“Exquisite. . . . Schlink offers a profoundly moving meditation on how one’s life is affected by the choices one makes along the way.” —Publishers Weekly (Starred Review)

“[A] poignant meditation on recrimination and regret.” —Library Journal

"A daring, hugely emotional work of literature." —Dagmar Kaindl, News 
 
"[Schlink] has succeeded in writing a veritable thriller, which subtly and expertly intertwines perceptions of art and contemporary political events." —Hendrik Werner, Weser-Kurier
 
"A gripping novel about what happens when life’s plans fall apart." —Nina May, Hannoversche Allgemeine Zeitung
 
"Flawlessly simple prose. Bernhard Schlink is a master. . . . His writing is understandable, transparent and intelligent. Seemingly effortless, he manages to create a variety of complex characters, tangled plots and moral dilemmas." —Eckhard Fuhr, Die Welt

"Bernhard Schlink’s The Woman on the Stairs flows with great style between fiction and the politics of the day. The novel is gripping and intelligent, offset with a good portion of thoughtfulness." —Jens Frederiksen, Rhein-Main-Press

1
 
Perhaps you will see the painting one day. Long lost, suddenly resurfaced—all the museums will want to display it. By now, Karl Schwind is one of the most famous and expensive painters in the world. When he turned seventy, I saw him in every paper, on every channel. Still, I had to look a long time before I recognized the young man in the old.
 
The painting, I recognized immediately. I walked into the last court of the Art Gallery and there it hung. It moved me as it had when I entered the parlour of Gundlach’s villa, and saw it for the first time.
 
A woman descends a staircase. The right foot lands on the lower tread, the left grazes the upper, but is on the verge of its next step. The woman is naked, her body pale; her hair is blonde, above and below; the crown of her head gleams with light. Nude, pale and blonde—against a gray-green backdrop of blurred stairs and walls, the woman moves lightly, as if floating, towards the viewer. And yet her long legs, ample hips, and full breasts give her a sensual weight.
 
I approached the painting slowly. I felt awkward, just as I had back then. Then, it was because the woman who, a day before, had sat in my office in jeans, blouse, and jacket approached me in the painting naked. Now I felt awkward because the painting brought up what happened back then, what I’d gotten myself into, and what I had soon banished from memory.
 
Woman on Staircase, the label read. The painting was on loan. I found the curator and asked him who had lent the painting. He said he couldn’t disclose the name. I told him I knew the woman in the painting, and the owner of the painting, and that its ownership would likely be contested. He furrowed his brow, but again said he couldn’t tell me the name.