In the shadowy confines of a Viennese apartment, Thomas Bernhard's "Woodcutters" unfolds a narrative steeped in the acerbic critique of the artistic elite, through the eyes of an embittered writer. The setting—an "artistic dinner" fraught with pretension and hollow camaraderie—serves as the battleground for the narrator's internal war, as he oscillates between disdain and a morbid fascination towards his hosts and their guests. Bernhard masterfully crafts a claustrophobic atmosphere where the late arrival of a celebrated actor intensifies the already palpable tensions, leading to an evening that promises to unravel the façade of cultural sophistication to reveal the pettiness and hypocrisy beneath. With a prose as sharp as the societal critiques it levies, "Woodcutters" is an unflinching examination of the disillusionment with the Viennese art scene, where the pursuit of acclaim often eclipses genuine artistic endeavor. Bernhard's narrator, with a venomous wit and an eye for the tragicomic, dissects the lives entangled in this cultural web, revealing the despair and isolation that festers at its heart. This novel is not merely a narrative; it is a relentless questioning of the value of art and the cost of its creation, making "Woodcutters" a profound commentary on the human condition and the paradoxes that define it.