Bruno Schulz’s “The Cinnamon Shops”: A Personal Dive into Surreal Fiction

How I Found Out About Schulz

I first heard about Bruno Schulz while reading Philip Roth’s essays and interviews.

Roth talked up Schulz’s writing as something special, mixing the ordinary with the weird in a way that sticks with you.

If you’re into Roth or odd fiction, keep reading.

A Quick Look at Bruno Schulz

Bruno Schulz was a Polish-Jewish writer and artist born in 1892 in Drohobych, a small town in what was then the Austro-Hungarian Empire.

He lived a low-key life, teaching art at a high school while creating drawings, paintings, and a couple of story collections.

His work didn’t get much attention during his lifetime, and he was killed by a Nazi officer in 1942 during the Holocaust.

Some of his manuscripts were saved and published later. I’ll share more details on his background toward the end.

What “The Cinnamon Shops” Is About

“The Cinnamon Shops” (original Polish title “Sklepy cynamonowe”) came out in 1934.

It’s a set of linked short stories set in Schulz’s hometown.

The main character is a kid based on Schulz, living with his family above their fabric shop.

His dad, Jacob, is this quirky guy who runs the business but gets into all sorts of strange projects—like raising birds or obsessing over bugs.

The stories start with daily events but shift into bigger ideas about life, change, and what reality even means.

The title story is about wandering into a shady part of town full of fake shops selling spices and junk—it’s all about getting lost in illusions.

As you read, the town feels alive, almost like a character itself, with streets that twist and buildings that hide secrets.

Schulz uses these settings to explore how memory warps what we think is real, turning a simple walk home into a journey through hidden layers of existence.

Why It Feels Like Kafka Meets Borges

Schulz’s book feels like Kafka and Borges teaming up, but with its own twist.

Kafka brings the absurd, everyday horror—think of his stories where normal life flips into something trapped and illogical, like a guy waking up as a bug in “The Metamorphosis.”

In Schulz, you see that in how the father changes: he doesn’t just transform once; it’s ongoing, like when he shrinks and hides in walls or commands bird flocks that overrun the house.

It’s that same sense of being stuck in a system you can’t escape, but Schulz makes it more about family and home rather than bureaucracy.

The dread is quieter, tied to personal decay instead of some distant authority.

Borges adds the puzzle side, with his love for infinities, fake histories, and questions about what’s real.

His stories often play with mirrors, libraries that go on forever, or books that contain everything.

Schulz does something similar by turning small things into big metaphors: a shop becomes a universe, a dummy a god.

In “The Cinnamon Shops,” the narrator gets lost in streets that multiply like Borges’ forking paths, where every turn leads to more illusions.

It’s intellectual but not cold—Schulz warms it with sensory details, making the riddles feel lived-in.

Together, Kafka’s unease and Borges’ mind-bends create Schulz’s unique mix: absurd events that lead to deep thoughts, without clear answers.

For example, the father’s bird experiments echo Kafka’s control obsessions, but they spiral into Borges-like myths about creation, where birds represent endless possibilities gone wrong.

This combo makes the book feel both trapped and expansive, like a dream you can’t wake from but want to explore more.

What draws people to this blend is how Schulz grounds it in his world.

Kafka’s Prague is alienating, Borges’ Buenos Aires abstract, but Schulz’s Drohobych is intimate, drawn from his life.

Yet he elevates it: a storm isn’t just weather; it’s a force rewriting reality, much like how Borges rewrites history or Kafka twists fate.

Schulz feels more poetic and less detached, with the personal touch making the weirdness hit closer.

It’s why the book stays with you—you’re not just thinking; you’re feeling the shifts, and it makes you question your own routines in new ways.

The Autobiographical Side and How It Turns Metaphysical

A lot of the book draws from Schulz’s own childhood in a Jewish family running a shop.

It begins with simple memories—like hot summers, family habits, or the changing seasons—but slowly moves into deeper stuff.

The dad’s wild ideas start sounding like thoughts on creation and the universe, maybe pulling from Jewish mysticism.

His monologues expand from shop talk to cosmic rants, blending personal quirks with big questions.

It’s like watching personal stories grow into questions about existence, time, and death.

Early on, the kid watches his father measure cloth or chat with customers, but then the father dives into ideas about matter coming alive or time looping.

What feels like a kid’s view of home life becomes a lens on bigger chaos on why do things fall apart, or how does memory hold us.

Schulz doesn’t spell it out; he lets the shift happen naturally, so by the end, you’re pondering your own life through his.

This progression mirrors how autobiography can turn inward. Schulz’s real father was ill and eccentric, much like Jacob, whose decline symbolizes broader loss—maybe of tradition, innocence, or stability in pre-war Europe.

The metaphysical creeps in subtly: a bird isn’t just a pet; it’s a symbol of the soul’s flight or God’s failed experiments.

It makes the book personal yet universal, pulling you from concrete details to abstract wonders. The family shop, full of fabrics and customers, becomes a stage for these transformations, showing how everyday spaces hold hidden depths.

The Dreamy Style, Long Sentences, and Latent Sexuality

The writing has a dream feel, where things shift without clear lines between real and imagined.

You read and suddenly the scene changes, like in sleep when one thought melts into another.

Schulz builds this with long sentences that pile on details, one after another, creating a flow that pulls you along.

It’s like Thomas Mann, where the prose takes its time, describing a room’s light, the fabric’s texture, a scent in the air, all linking to emotions or ideas.

For instance, he might start with the father at dinner, then expand to his thoughts on stars, insects, and human limits, all in one breath.

It mimics how dreams ramble, making the ordinary feel vast. The sentences create rhythm, almost hypnotic, drawing you deeper without rush.

That dreamy quality ties into the hidden sexuality, which isn’t overt but everywhere.

Descriptions linger on bodies—dummies with smooth curves, fabrics that drape suggestively, or the father’s rants that hint at urges bubbling under.

It’s latent, like Freudian slips in the narrative: a tailor’s shop becomes charged with intimacy, mannequins stand for idealized desires.

This adds unease, making innocent scenes feel loaded.

In dreams, sex often hides in symbols, and Schulz uses that—birds mating wildly, storms as releases.

The style reinforces it: long sentences build tension, like holding back, then release in bursts of imagery.

It’s not erotic for shock; it deepens the psychology, showing how repressed feelings shape our world.

Reading it, you sense the subconscious at work, turning a family story into something primal.

This approach demands focus—you can’t skim; the rhythm draws you in, rewarding with insights.

Compared to straightforward plots, it’s refreshing, like wandering fog where shapes emerge slowly. The dreaminess makes rereads revealing, as new layers appear each time.

My Favorite Stories

A few stories really stood out for me, and I’ll dig into them because they capture what makes the book special.

First, the mannequin story, “Treatise on Tailors’ Dummies.”

It’s basically the father giving this intense speech about shop mannequins, treating them like they’re the pinnacle of creation.

He goes on about how they’re pure form, without the mess of real bodies—immortal, elegant, but also empty.

What I like is how it starts funny, with the dad ranting at dinner, but turns serious: he calls them “pagan idols” and imagines them taking over, multiplying in secret.

It plays with ideas of art versus life, fake beauty hiding flaws. The latent sexuality shines here. The dummies as perfect lovers, untouched and tempting.

Schulz describes their wax skin and poses in ways that feel intimate, adding creepiness.

Why it sticks: it mirrors modern obsessions with ideals, like social media filters, but in 1930s terms.

It’s short, but packs philosophy, humor, and unease.

The family listens in awe and horror, making it feel like a snapshot of dysfunction turning profound.

Next, “Mr. Karol”.

This one’s brief but packs a punch. It’s about the narrator’s uncle, a guy who’s given up on life, spending days in bed or shuffling around.

Schulz paints his routine in detail: slow meals, naps, staring out windows, all in a stuffy room.

What elevates it is how boredom becomes a character (stagnant, almost alive, sucking energy from everything).

The hidden sexuality creeps in with descriptions of his soft body, lazy movements that suggest unspent energy turning inward, like desires folded away.

I like it because it’s relatable: who hasn’t felt that drag of routine? But Schulz twists it into horror, where inaction is a slow death.

The uncle’s isolation feels Kafkaesque, trapped in his room like a prisoner, while the metaphysical hits with thoughts on wasted potential and time’s cruelty.

It’s a standout for showing Schulz’s skill at mining depth from quiet moments.

There are no big events, just profound observation. The ending lingers, with the uncle as a warning of what happens when life stalls.

The title story, “The Cinnamon Shops,” is my top pick—it’s the heart of the book.

The kid’s sent to fetch something at night but gets sidetracked into this hidden district of shops.

They’re not real stores; they’re fronts with exotic names, dim lights, and goods that promise wonders but deliver fakes (spices that aren’t spicy, books with blank pages).

Schulz describes the streets winding endlessly, the air thick with cinnamon and mystery, shadows playing tricks.

The adventure feels mixed with loss. The narrator knows he shouldn’t be there, but the pull is strong, like chasing a forgotten dream.

It’s Borges-like in the maze quality—paths that loop, illusions everywhere—and Kafka in the underlying trap, like you can’t really escape the pull back to reality.

The dreamy style peaks here. Sentences stretch with sensory overload, scents blending with shadows, making you feel the disorientation.

Sexuality hides in the seductive shops, tempting like forbidden fruit, with clerks that leer subtly.

Why it’s great?

Because it captures childhood wonder turning adult awareness, where excitement fades to disillusion.

I reread it for the atmosphere as it feels like a memory you half-invent, vivid yet slipping away.

The return home, empty-handed, underscores the theme of elusive desires.

These stories connect through themes like transformation in mannequins, stagnation in Mr. Karol, illusion in the shops.

Each builds on the last, making the collection feel whole, with echoes across pieces.

Other Key Elements and Themes

Stories like “Birds” show the dad trying to control nature with his bird collection, which goes wrong and ties into ideas of overreach.

He imports eggs from afar, hatches exotic species, and soon the attic’s chaos—feathers everywhere, birds fighting, escaping into the house.

It’s funny at first, but turns dark, symbolizing hubris and nature’s revenge.

“The Gale” has a big storm that shakes everything up, showing how fragile normal life is.

Winds rip roofs, flood streets, and in the aftermath, the world feels reborn but scarred, with debris as reminders of disruption.

Overall, the book builds a sense that the world is always changing, with stuff rebelling against rules.

Matter isn’t inert; it’s rebellious, like in the father’s theories where atoms plot revolutions.

These elements tie back to the autobiographical roots, turning personal anecdotes into cosmic commentary.

Influence and Adaptations

Schulz has shaped writers like Cynthia Ozick and Isaac Bashevis Singer, who mix myth with daily life.

Ozick wrote about him, seeing his work as a bridge between Jewish tradition and modernism.

Singer’s tales of demons in shtetls echo Schulz’s blends of folklore and psychology.

There’s a stop-motion film by the Quay Brothers based on the book that nails its visual side—jerky puppets, dim sets matching the eerie tone.

Schulz’s own drawings were often dark and suggestive, with twisted figures that fit the stories’ undercurrents.

His influence shows in how later authors tackle memory and loss, especially post-Holocaust, keeping his style alive in new forms.

Wrapping Up with More on Schulz

Bruno Schulz was this quiet guy in Drohobych who turned his small-town life into big ideas.

He was short and unassuming, teaching art to kids who probably didn’t get him, while drawing intense, sometimes masochistic scenes and writing stories where dads act like creators and shops hold secrets.

His artwork featured bound figures, erotic poses hinting at inner turmoil.

Killed in 1942 in a random act during the ghetto horrors—shot while walking with a loaf of bread—his work got rediscovered after the war through friends who hid his papers.

He shows how talent can come from anywhere, turning personal struggles into stories that feel timeless.

This isn’t light reading.

The thick writing takes time, but it’s worth it for the depth.

If Philip Roth got you interested.

If you like Kafka or Borges, give it a shot alongside them.

You’ll see the world a bit differently after, noticing how dreams seep into days.