Return to a Classic 
 If you are going to reread a classic, go for the Everyman edition if you can. Go for the beautiful printing, fine paper, and comfortable feel in the hand, even when the novel is as long as this one (722 pages). Go for the informative introductions and historical material. And in this case, go for the lively new translation. 
 I was 19 when I first read Buddenbrooks, the family saga that brought Mann to fame in 1901, at the age of 26. I remember enjoying it then, though I can't recall quite why. Now, almost six decades later, I know exactly why: it may well be the last example of the grand 19th-century novel, filled with well-delineated characters, emotional struggles, fine set pieces, and--a surprise for me--flashes of wit. But significantly, it is a nineteenth-century novel that pokes its nose into the twentieth. Mann is already experimenting with devices that will become part of the new narrative, such as seasoning a third-person description of a character with first- or second-person glimpses of his inner thoughts, or (as in his brilliant penultimate chapter) setting up the readers for a certain conclusion, but letting them decide what that conclusion must be, confirming it only in a later chapter. And of course The Decline of a Family, which is the book's subtitle, is brought about in part by its inability to cope with the methods of a new era. 
 It has always struck me as strange that Mann dared to send his first novel out into the world with that subtitle, almost like Eugene O'Neill calling a play Long Day's Journey into Night. But despite the implication, Buddenbrooks is not at all depressing. This is because the let-down is gentle and never absolute; others in the book endure bankruptcy, disgrace, and even imprisonment, but the Buddenbrooks merely fade into a nostalgic memory. But it is also because of the characters, who remain in the reader's heart even after the supporting structure has collapsed. You could say that the book has three parts: the opening third, which shines with the beauty and spirit of the young heroine, Tony Buddenbrook (Antonie); the middle portion, centered around Tony's brother Tom, head of the family grain firm and a state senator; and the last 150, which focus increasingly on Tom's son Hanno, a sensitive musician who disappoints his father but emerges as the most sympathetic character of all. 
 What was new to me this time was the translation by John E. Woods, in place of the old standard version by H. T. Lowe-Porter. I no longer have a copy to compare, but it strikes me that Woods is lighter, less in awe of his subject. Here is his description of Tony as a teenager: 
 She was really very pretty, little Tony Buddenbrooks was. Flowing from beneath her straw hat was a thick head of blond hair, curly of course, and turning darker with each passing year; and the slightly protruding upper lip gave a saucy look to her fresh little face with its lively grey blue eyes, a sauciness repeated in her small, graceful body. There was self-assurance in the spring of her thin legs in their snow-white stockings. A great many people knew her, and they would greet Consul Buddenbrook's little daughter as she stepped through the garden gate onto the chestnut-lined lane. 
 Woods is also perfect in capturing the unctuous tone of Herr Grunlich, Tony's first serious suitor, buttering up the parents in order to secure the daughter; he reminds me of the slimy Rev. Collins in Pride and Prejudice. Here his is boasting of his knowledge of her grandmother's family: 
 "I have the honor of a slight acquaintance with the family. Excellent people, one and all, such heart, such intellect. Ahem. Indeed, it would be a better world if all families had such qualities. One finds in that family such faith, such charity, such sincere piety, in short, the very ideal of true Christianity; and yet all of it is united with a cosmopolitan refinement and brilliant elegance that I personally find quite charming, Madame Buddenbrook." 
 I was less certain when he characterizes a much later suitor, the Bavarian, Herr Permaneder: 
 "Munich ain't no town for business. Forks want their peace 'n' a mugga beer. And y' certainly wouldn't read no telegram while you're eatin', sure as hell wouldn't. You got another kinda gittup 'n' go this way, damn if y' don't. Thanks heaps. I'll have 'nother glass." 
 Permaneder may come from the other end of Germany, but I'm not sure that the American translocation entirely works--but then again, I've not read the German. On the other hand, his entrance into the novel at around page 300 immediately raises the question of his social status and the Buddenbrooks' as well. Up to now, we have seen them as one of the most prominent families in the city (Lubeck, though not so mentioned). They have money, they have influence, they seem to have taste. It is only now that we see that their status as merchants is entirely a function of their success; they have certainly no pretensions to birth, or much to education; Tom Buddenbrook did not even complete high school. They may not be parvenus like Permaneder--but when, in the middle section, things begin to go wrong, they lack the deep roots to sustain them. 
 Tom marries well, however, a cultured aristocrat from Holland who owns a Stradivarius that she plays beautifully. She passes her musical genes to their only son, Johann, known as Hanno. Mann dedicates these later parts (there are 11 in all) to his brother Heinrich, also an author, and to a friend who was both a painter and musician. For the first time, I began to see the Buddenbrook saga as autobiographical, with himself as the sensitive and utterly non-commercial Hanno. And here Mann offers some of the most evocative writing about music I have ever read in fiction. There is a long passage of several pages late in the book, which serves as a spiritual road map to the travels of Hanno's psyche. But I want to end with an earlier passage, because it combines rhapsodic writing with a very precise explanation of what Hanno in doing, in a semi-improvised Wagnerian sonata he performs with his mother: 
 And now came the ending, Hanno's beloved finale, which was to add the final simple, sublime touch to the whole composition. Wrapped in the sparkling, bubbling runs of the violin, which rang out with gentle, bell-like purity, he struck the E-minor chord tremolo pianissimo. It grew, broadened, swelled slowly, very slowly, and once it was at forte, Hanno sounded the dissonant C sharp that would lead back to the original key; and while the Stradivarius surged and dashed sonorously around the same C sharp, he used all his strength to crescendo the dissonance to fortissimo. He refused to resolve the chord, withheld it from himself and his audience. What would resolution be like, this ravishing and liberating submersion into B major? Incomparable joy, the delight of sweet rapture. Peace, bliss, heaven itself. Not yet, not yet--one moment more of delay, of unbearable tension that would make the release all the more precious. He wanted one last taste of this insistent, urgent longing, of this craving that filled his whole being, of this cramped and strained exertion of will, which at the same time refused all fulfillment and release--he knew that happiness lasts only a moment.