du gratulierst ihr von herzen?

oh ja: es ist doch eine stimme für die freiheit, gegen die unterdrückung.

findest du?

sicher: sie arbeitet sich an der gewalt einer bösfiesen diktatur ab und fordert so die freiheit der welt. das ist schon eine große sache. humanität. menschlichkeit.  (müller ist so übrigens ein kontrastprogramm zur figur von berlusconi, über die wir gestern sprachen und schrieben.)

aber philip roth.

das stimmt: der wäre wohl dran gewesen. aber der nobelpreis kann nicht “gerecht” sein. deshalb soll man ihn auch nicht überbewerten.

er lässt aber die verkaufszahlen hochschnellen.

aber ja: für alle zeiten. dann kommt noch der hinweis “nobelpreisträgerin” auf das buch – und dann verkauft sich alles leichter und besser. flutsch!!!

dann ist der nobelpreis dynamit für den verkauf.

man kann es so sagen.

bei herta müller gibt es noch ein phänomen.

welches?

das ist die “nachpreisung”.

was meinst du damit?

kaum eine autorin hat soviele preise hintereinander erhalten. das ist schon auffällig.

fast jahr für jahr!

das ist die “nachpreisung”. die anderen preiskommittees sagen sich: da können wir nichts mehr falschmachen. sie hat diesen preis und jenen. da kann keiner was sagen, wenn wir ihr auch noch einen preis geben.

dann sind alle auf der sicheren seite.

genau: niemand kann klagen. und gegen die unterdrückung zu schreiben … also für die freiheit des geschundenen menschen, das macht sich für jedes preiskommittee gut.

dann sind das (diese preise in der auffälligen abfolge) also ketten, die logisch und unlogisch zugleich sind?

bisweilen. herta müller kann sehr gut schreiben. aber die ganze tretmühle der literaturpreise und derer, die sie in teils wechselnden besetzungen mit den immer gleichen gesichtern vergeben, das ist wieder ein weiteres thema.

du gönnst ihr den preis?

aber sicher: ich habe ein realgedicht geschrieben, deshalb. ich habe also von ihr noch profitiert, im künstlerischen sinne. ihre preisliste wurde nämlich zu meinem realgedicht.

NACHPREISUNG
- Realgedicht –

1981: Adam-Müller-Guttenbrunn-Förderpreis des Temeswarer Literaturkreises
1984: Aspekte-Literaturpreis
1985: Rauriser Literaturpreis
1985: Förderpreis zum Literaturpreis der Stadt Bremen
1987: Ricarda-Huch-Preis
1989: Marieluise-Fleißer-Preis
1989: Deutscher Sprachpreis, gemeinsam mit Gerhardt Csejka, Helmuth Frauendorfer, Klaus Hensel, Johann Lippet, Werner Söllner, William Totok, Richard Wagner
1990: Roswitha-Preis
1991: Kranichsteiner Literaturpreis
1992: Deutscher Kritikerpreis
1994: Kleist-Preis
1995: Europäischen Literaturpreis Prix Aristeion
1995/96: Stadtschreiber von Bergen
1997: Literaturpreis der Stadt Graz
1998: Ida-Dehmel-Literaturpreis und den International IMPAC Dublin Literary Award
1999: Franz-Kafka-Preis der Stadt Klosterneuburg
2001: Cicero-Rednerpreis
2002: Carl-Zuckmayer-Medaille
2003: Joseph-Breitbach-Preis (zusammen mit Christoph Meckel und Harald Weinrich)
2004: Literaturpreis der Konrad-Adenauer-Stiftung
2005: Berliner Literaturpreis
2006: Würth-Preis für Europäische Literatur und Walter-Hasenclever-Literaturpreis
2007/08: Stipendium Internationales Künstlerhaus Villa Concordia
2009: Heine-Ehrengabe der Heinrich-Heine-Gesellschaft Düsseldorf
2009: Nobelpreis für Literatur

Copyright für die Liste, allerdings nur in der Form als erklärtes Realgedicht, liegt bei Klau|s|ens in allen Schraibwaisen und Schreibweisen, u.a. als Klau=s=ens oder Klau?s?ens oder Klau$s$ens, geschrieben am 8.10.2009, in Königswinter-Oberdollendorf, am Tag, als der Nobelpreis für Herta Müller bekanntgegegeben wurde. REALGEDICHTE von Klausens siehe: http://www.klausens.com/realgedichte.htm

und außerdem habe ich ein gedicht geschrieben, was ihr zum preis gratuliert.

DIE EHRENSHERTAWERTE NOBELMÜLLER

Wer so das Dunkle hat erlebt …
Und es dann neu in Freiheit
Gar so hoch erhebt … zur höchlich
Sprache erster Kennung kalter
Fakten aus Diktatur und Katarakten …
Und dadurch erkennt Human-Tristesse
Als sei, meint: iss’ … ja aller Ehrung stolz gewiss.
Auch fress … damit die neue Zeit hell ereilt
Des Glückes, das in uns doch bebt!

——-
KLAUSENS, für Herta Müller, 8.10.2009
- Mit den besten Wünschen zum verdienten Nobelpreis
Copyright Klau|s|ens in allen Schraibwaisen und Schreibweisen, u.a. als Klausens oder Klau(s)ens oder Klau%s%ens, geschieben am 8.10.2009, Donnerstag, als der Nobelpreis LITERATUR für Herta Müller bekanntgemacht wurde

dann kann niemand etwas sagen?

niemand! ich gratuliere ihre von herzen, und es ist ja auch schön, dass wieder mal eine frau einen preis bekommt.

und philip roth?

ich sagte, dass es keine gerechtigkeit gibt. alles ist nur ein spiel.

aber der aufdruck “nobelpreis” sichert doch umsätze, erbringt doch geld.

philipp roth hat genug davon. insofern …

und wenn wir nun auf unsere romane endlich mal NOBELPREIS aufdrucken würden? nur mal so als idee …

ORIGINALVERSION mit Fettdruck und allen Bildern
und allen Links bei KLAUSENS BLOGG (mit 2 G !!!)
KLAU|S|ENS – LOG – W E L T L I N G
http://klausens.blogg.de

HOMEPAGE VON KLAU|S|ENS: http://www.klausens.com

Im September 08 nahm ich mal wieder einen Bleistift in die Hand um ein ca. 65-70 Seitigen Comic zu zeichnen. Welch Mammut-Projekt mich da erwartete habe ich damals schon geahnt, vor allem deswegen, seit gut 10 Jahren nichts mehr gezeichnet zu haben (aus Gründen diverser Pflichterfüllungen!), aber Schritt für Schritt und mit aller Ruhe ging es vorwärts. Die ersten Seiten sehen schon etwas abenteuerlich aus, leiden sie doch unter einem katastrophalen Strich. Doch nur um besser zu werden, habe ich das Projekt in Angriff genommen, da mir ganz andere Stories im Kopf herumschwirren, die einem etwas mehr Qualität abverlangen als “Pater Hiob – Dynamit im Sarg” – eine kleine Hommage an die Italo-Western der 60er und 70er Jahre, wie Django oder Sabata.

Nun, nach gut einem halben Jahr sind die Seiten fast fertig und Pater Hiob wird bald mit Farbe und Text zum Leben erweckt, Seite für Seite wird dann auf breitseite.net und drunkduck.com als Web-Comic erscheinen. Kritik und Anregungen sind immer erwünscht.
Den Leidensweg der ersten Zeichnungen kann man im Comic-Forum nachverfolgen.

Hier das aktuellste Bild, mit dem ich mich etwas in Photoshop probiert habe, womit ich mich die nächsten Wochen und Monate rumschlagen werde:

Irie und Hiob

Also bleibt dran!

Am 08.02.2009 wurde um 13:10 die Richtfunkanlage im Frohnauer Forst gesprengt. Wir waren natürlich Live dabei und haben tolle Fotos geschossen. Die Fotos könnt ihr euch auf unserer Fotoseite ansehen. Desweiteren haben wir noch tolle Filmaufnahmen machen können und hoffen euch im Verlauf des Jahres ein weiteres “Videos On Tour” Video zu präsentieren.

Hier einen kleinen Vorgeschmack auf die Fotos Viel Spass damit!

Funkturm in Frohnau wird gesprengt

A dispetto di tutto, i fautori del Federal Reserve Act crearono le dodici corporation bancarie private, dotandole dell’assoluto monopolio della valuta degli Stati Uniti, non solo delle note della Federal Reserve, ma di tutta la valuta, visto che il Federal Reserve Act prevedeva misure per avere l’oro e altra moneta vigente dal popolo degli Stati Uniti, dando in cambio note della Federal Reserve, che non sono denaro, ma solamente promesse di pagamento di denaro. Dal giorno malefico in cui tutto questo fu fatto il monopolio iniziale si è esteso mediante viziosi emendamenti al Federal Reserve Act e mediante gli illeciti e vili operati del Federal Reserve Board e delle banche della Federal Reserve.

Signor presidente del Congresso, quando un mercante cinese vende capelli umani a un parruccaio parigino ed emette al parruccaio una fattura in dollari, le banche della Federal Reserve possono acquistare la sua fattura al parruccaio e poi utilizzarla come garanzia per le note della Federal Reserve. Così il governo degli Stati Uniti paga il mercante cinese e non ottiene niente in cambio se non un dubbio diritto sui capelli cinesi.

Signor presidente del Congresso, se un distillatore scozzese desidera spedire un carico di whisky negli Stati Uniti, può emettere fattura in dollari al contrabbandiere acquirente; e dopo che il contrabbandiere ha accettato la fattura, firmandola, il distillatore scozzese può inviare la fattura al nefasto open discount market di New York City, dove il Federal Reserve Board e le banche della Federal Reserve la acquisteranno e utilizzeranno come garanzia per una nuova emissione di note della Federal Reserve. Così il governo degli Stati Uniti paga il distillatore scozzese per lo scotch prima che venga spedito; e se viene perduto durante il viaggio, o se la guardia costiera lo distrugge, le banche della Federal Reserve cancellano la perdita e il governo non recupererà mai il denaro pagato al distillatore scozzese. Mentre noi tentiamo di far rispettare la proibizione, il Federal Reserve Board e le banche della Federal Reserve finanziano il business della distillazione in Europa e pagano le fatture dei contrabbandieri con il credito pubblico del governo degli Stati Uniti.

Signor presidente del Congresso, se un fabbricante di birra tedesco spedisce birra in questo Paese ed emette fattura in dollari, le banche della Federal Reserve acquisteranno la fattura e la utilizzeranno come garanzia per le note della Federal Reserve. Così, le banche della Federal Reserve obbligano il nostro governo a pagare la birra del fabbricante di birra tedesco. Perché dovrebbe essere permesso al Federal Reserve Board e alle banche della Federal Reserve di finanziare l’industria della fabbricazione della birra in Germania, in questo modo o costringendo piccole e spaurite banche degli Stati Uniti a prendere i titoli del birrificio di Isenbeck e della banca tedesca per l’industria della birra?

Signor presidente del Congresso, se la Dynamit Nobel in Germania desidera vendere al Giappone dinamite da usare in Manciuria o in qualunque altro posto, essa può emettere ai clienti giapponesi fattura in dollari e inviare la fattura al nefasto open discount market di New York City, dove il Federal Reserve Board e le banche della Federal Reserve la acquisteranno e la utilizzeranno come garanzia per una nuova emissione di note della Federal Reserve, mentre nello stesso tempo il Federal Reserve Board aiuterà la Dynamit Nobel immettendo i titoli della Dynamit Nobel nel sistema bancario degli Stati Uniti. Perché dovremmo mandare i nostri rappresentanti alla conferenza sul disarmo a Ginevra, mentre il Federal Reserve Board e le banche della Federal Reserve obbligano il nostro governo a pagare i debiti giapponesi ai fabbricanti di munizioni tedeschi?

Signor presidente del Congresso, se un coltivatore di fagioli cileno desidera coltivare dei fagioli e venderli a un cliente giapponese, egli può emettere al giapponese fattura in dollari, farla comprare dal Federal Reserve Board e dalle banche della Federal Reserve e ottenere il denaro di questo Paese a spese del popolo degli Stati Uniti ancor prima di piantare i fagioli nel terreno.

Signor presidente del Congresso, se un tedesco in Germania desidera esportare merci in Sud America o in qualunque altro posto, egli può emettere al suo cliente fattura in dollari, venderla agli Stati Uniti e ottenere il denaro da questo Paese ancor prima di spedire o addirittura produrre le merci.

Signor presidente del Congresso, per quale ragione la valuta degli Stati Uniti dovrebbe essere emessa in virtù dei capelli cinesi? Per quale ragione dovrebbe essere emessa in virtù dei capricci di un parruccaio? Per quale ragione dovrebbe essere emessa in virtù della birra tedesca? Per quale ragione dovrebbe essere emessa in base al raccolto di fagioli, non ancora piantati, da coltivare in Cile per il consumo dei giapponesi? Per quale ragione il governo degli Stati Uniti dovrebbe essere obbligato a emettere miliardi di miliardi di dollari ogni anno per pagare i debiti di uno straniero a un altro straniero? È per questo che i depositanti della banca nazionale hanno tolto il denaro dalle nostre banche e lo hanno mandato all’estero? È così che lo hanno perso? Perché il credito pubblico del governo degli Stati Uniti e altro denaro appartenente ai nostri depositanti della banca nazionale dovrebbero essere utilizzati per supportare fabbricanti di birra stranieri, narcotrafficanti, distillatori di whisky, parruccai, mercanti di capelli, coltivatori di fagioli cileni, etc.? Perché i nostri depositanti della banca nazionale e il nostro governo dovrebbero essere obbligati a finanziare fabbriche di munizioni in Germania e in URSS?

Nicht nur ich bin eine Bombe der Originalität. Auch meine Umgebung erfindet immer mal wieder die eine oder andere “Weisheit” des Tages. In diesem Fall ist es eine Weisheit, welch ihren Ursprung in den Gehirnwindungen meines Freundes, Daníju, machte.

Wie nennt man hochexplosive Katzen? Dynamietz!

Greez pf

Två män med kopplingar till Hells Angels greps i torsdags när de lastade in 70 kilo dynamit i ett förvaringsskåp på Malmö centralstation.
Synd om Malmö som fått kriminalitet de inte gjort sig förtjänt av. Kriminalitet av allsköns blandning.

Om det varit invandrare som man tagit hade media meddelat:
“Två svenska män greps i torsdags när de lastade in 70 kilo dynamit i ett förvaringsskåp på Malmö centralstation.”

Inte undra på att man blir paranoid.

I almost forgot.. the new Dynamite Deluxe single has been released today.

Watch the video here:

I think its ok..
The album will be released at january 25th.

En del av er har kanske undrat litet över den brutalitet som framskymtade i den serie som Lennart Lundborg tecknade år 1958 och som jag visat här under december (tack Lennart). Det var just det här med dynamiten, varför förknippade Lennart den med arkeologiska utgrävningar? Jag fick ett brev från Lennart som skriver som följer:

Det gick ju litet brutalare till på de arkeologiska undersökningarna på fototornets tid. Vi sprängde stubbar för att fotografierna skulle bli bättre. För arbetarna blev detta ett avbrott i det monotona grävandet – hela gravfält skulle ju friläggas innan vi öppnade “fyndgömmorna”. “Dynamiten” skulle jag idag emellertid inte rekommendera.”

Så vitt jag vet är dynamitanvändningen inom arkeologin ganska ovanlig nuförtiden… även om jag måste erkänna att jag vid några tillfällen gärna hade rivit av ett par rejäla salvor. Lennart vittnar också om att den fältarkeologiska foto-estetiken frodades redan på 1950-talet. Vad gör man inte för en fin bild på sina mörkfärgningar, träpinnar och framrensade stenar? Kanske någon är sugen att testa dynamit för att få en riktigt fin bild nästa gång det är dags!?

De av er som orkat läsa den här bloggen kanske minns Lennart Lundborgs tecknade serie från Grävsvinet 1959. Den handlar om arkeologen som hittar en guldgubbe och som återkommen till huvudstaden belönas med en medalj av kungen. Har du inte läst den eller vill fräscha upp minnet: kolla här (eller här om du vill se hela serien på ett bräde)! Nu har Åsa ML aka Ting & Tankar (tack!) landat den serie som föregick tidigare publicerade verk. Den nu aktuella strippen kom ut året innan, 1958. En annorlunda berättelse. Ganska brutal, med inte helt ortodoxa grävmetoder. Jag ska inte babbla mer om detta. Döm själva!

Nach meiner digitalen Revolution hat der Unruheherd weitere Intelligenz gegenwärtiges Werbung gefunden. Nun führe ich die Reihe fort.

“Du Mama…”

“Ja?”

“Wenn Papa tot ist, kauf ich mir meinen eigenen Ponyhof.”

Das ist doch schön. Die Plagen wissen schon wie sie unserer Lebensversicherung verzocken. Das zeigt uns zumindest Cosmos Direkt. Die Tochter will einen Ponyhof, die Frau ne Finca. Wieso dann ne Lebensversicherung abschließen?

“Ich glaub wir sind zu gut versichert.”

Da schnapp ich mir doch lieber ne Geliebte und verbring mit ihr meinen Lebensabend und bring auch mit ihr mein Erspartes unter die Leute – das kurbelt die Wirtschaft an und sorgt dafür, dass die vorhandenen Mordpläne meiner Tochter und meiner Frau umsonst sind.

Nach so einem heiße Thema ziehen wir uns lieber warm an. Dank dem neuen Colgate Max Fresh stehen wir im Skianzug im Bad und putzen die Zähne. Ja nee, ist klar. Also ich wohn weder im ewigen Eis, noch habe ich vergessen die Heizkosten zu bezahlen.

Die Explosion ultimativer Frische möcht ich nicht erleben. Ich hab noch alle Zähne im Mund und so soll es auch bleiben – da kann mir so eine Explosion gestohlen bleiben. Die einzige Person die mit Explosionen Zähne putzt – und Fische fängt ist, Chuck Norris. Eine Stange Dynamit am Morgen vertreibt Kummer und Sorgen, sowie Plaque, Zahnstein und Zahnbelag.

So cool wie Colgate ist, kann man sich sicher auch das Hirn mit vereisen. Das hat einen ähnlichen Effekt wie LSD. Auf solch einem Trip müssen die Werbefuzzis, PR-Magnaten von Congstar sein.

Das letzte Mal, das ich solche Bilder gesehen hab, war bei Monty Python Ihre poppig bunte Werbung mit Handys, fliegenden @’s, Burgerschachteln und Mündern kann nur einem Vollrausch entstanden sein.

Für mich hat die Fast-Food-Congstarwerbung einen faden Beigeschmack. Ab und an ist Fast-Food ok, auf Dauer bringt’s aber nur Gesundheitsschäden mit sich.

Zum Schluss noch eine ältere Werbung – speziel für alle Biologen, Genetiker, Informatiker und Elektroniker. Simyo. Weil einfach, einfach einfach ist.

Da nimmt man sich ne alte Sim-Karte, tröpfelt da ein wenig Nährmedium auf und bringt das Einfachheitsgen auf. Ist das nicht toll? Jetzt können schon Gene auf Simkarten verpflanzt werden. Nach genmanipulierten holländischen Tomaten, bestrahltem Soja jetzt auch noch genmanipulierte Simkarten. Wo bleibt da Greenpeace oder die BITKOM?

Für welche Zielgruppen all die Werbung auch gemacht sein soll, ich bin scheinbar zu unnormal als das mich auch nur eine von ihnen anspricht.

In Brazil, a Speedy Novelist
Finds Formula for Success;
Dynamite Helps the Plot

SAN JOSE DOS CAMPOS, Brazil — José Carlos Ryoki de Alpoim Inoue, the world’s most prolific novelist, has a problem you wouldn’t expect: Almost nobody knows who he is. You won’t see him hobnobbing with the literati, or signing movie deals. A rare autograph seeker mistook Mr. Inoue for another Brazilian record-holder, the fellow who bounced a soccer ball off his head for 19 hours straight.

Yet Mr. Inoue can claim a truly astonishing oeuvre. Some authors aspire to produce a trilogy of books, the more ambitious a whole shelf.

Mr. Inoue measures his output in entire walls of novels. “Here they are — or at least some of them,” he says, pointing to two walls of his study that are covered with shelves full of his works. Production on such a grand scale doesn’t leave Mr. Inoue much time for literary appreciation. “Truthfully, I haven’t even read all the books I’ve
written.”

For the pulp-fiction king, that’s a perfectly understandable oversight. Mr. Inoue, known to millions of Brazilian readers by such pseudonyms as Tex Taylor, K. Luger and Billy Smart, has turned out 1,039 books since abandoning a medical career to start writing a decade ago.

Most of his works — which are usually between 100 and 200 pages — are easy-to-read Westerns with titles such as “Oh, Those Texans” and “Priest or Bandit?”

Mr. Inoue, who writes exclusively in Portuguese, won’t make anybody’s short list of Nobel candidates, but he lays claim to the title of fastest literary gun in the West: He has churned out complete chapters during trips to the bathroom; a whole book while having his truck worked on in a garage; a novel and its sequel in an afternoon on the beach — where he also wrote the entire 14-page newspaper for the coastal village in which he was then residing. (He moved a couple of years ago to San Jose, a quiet town near Sao Paulo, partly to be unburdened of daily journalism.)

When the Guinness Book of World Records recently affirmed Mr. Inoue’s No. 1 ranking in titles published, the award certificate was already 15 books out-of-date by the time it arrived from England. In the peculiar literary milieu inhabited by Mr. Inoue, tennis elbow is more of a threat than writers’ block. Burnout is a problem only insofar as it affects his computer keyboard, which must be replaced every five months. An exclusive contract with a publisher is impractical, since Mr. Inoue writes books faster than 10 Brazilian pulp presses combined are able to publish them. “Brazil hasn’t yet developed the capacity to absorb me,” says the pipe-smoking 49-year-old author,
whose father was Japanese and mother was Portuguese.

Some Brazilian critics aren’t impressed with Mr. Inoue’s style. He has branched out into slightly higher-grade schlock, primarily detective and adventure tales, he has also attracted admirers. “Some of his books wouldn’t be put to shame next to certain foreign books that occupy the bestseller lists,” writes Okky de Souza, of Brazil’s largest magazine, Veja.

What’s the secret of his prodigious output? Mr. Inoue gets asked the question so often that he did what you might expect: He set aside an afternoon and wrote a guide for aspiring hack writers.

” The plot has to be dictated by the taste of the readers and by the necessity of the market,” he writes, eschewing all pretense to producing art. Mr. Inoue generally shies away from political novels: “The reality of the scandals always far surpasses fiction.” He also shuns crusading works about the oppressed. “Nobody likes to identify with misery.”

Pulp tenderfoots are advised to begin by setting down their first inspiration, be it a dialogue, a description or an action scene. The writer can worry later whether the passage fits in Chapter 1 or Chapter 10. “The important thing is to abandon inertia — even if it means walking sideways like a crab,” Mr. Inoue writes.

The author also recommends alternating between several projects at the same time. Say that Jay Windy, a nom de plume Mr. Inoue reserves for his most flamboyant Western dramas, is stuck for inspiration. Mr. Inoue might then try tapping the imagination of Charles Hardwood, the pseudonym he uses for his laconic World War II fictions.

Before he had adopted any of his 39 literary alter egos, Mr. Inoue worked for a decade as a surgeon in a public hospital. Even in the operating room, though, he was a frustrated cowboy, known for wearing boots and Western jeans under his white operating gown.

In 1986, Mr. Inoue took a shot at writing about the American West — even though he himself had never traveled further west than Newark, N. J. In 10 days, he tapped out the 128 pages of “MacLee’s Colts,” the saga of an aging pistolero. Two weeks after he sent the manuscript to a publisher, an envelope came back with a check for the equivalent of $30 and a terse note: “Write some more.” He did. To support a wife and two children — comfortably, but not lavishly — on the meager pulp paychecks, Mr. Inoue developed a system allowing him to write up to three books a day. The formula covers everything from the maximum number of characters (20), to the minimum number of killings (five), to the obligatory number of romantic scenes (two, and tame ones at that). Woe to the unfortunate characters who happen to be on the page when Mr. Inoue runs into a snag with the plot. ” Dynamite,” he says, “resolves a lot of narrative complications.”

By 1991, Mr. Inoue entered the literary record books, passing a Spanish romance novelist who had written 700 books. As he has moved beyond Western settings, Mr. Inoue has tried adopting what is, by his lights, a more painstaking literary approach. “I like doing one book in three days, rather than three books in one day,” he says. A milestone in this new phase was “And Now, President?” a tale of a U.S. president whose conniving counselors slip him a slow-acting poison that mimics the effects of AIDS. Besides selling an impressive 35,000 copies, the 1992 work was also the first book Mr. Inoue ever wrote under his own name.

The author also spends time coaching his 22-year-old son, who already has written a score of pulp novels. “He’s beginning young enough to be really productive,” Mr. Inoue says.

The old man himself isn’t washed up yet, though. One night at around 10, with several bills stacked next to his computer as motivation, Mr. Inoue starts to type.

The yarn begins in an airport, where Mr. Inoue’s fictional hero, adventure novelist Roy Hamilton, is accosted by a gorgeous, mysterious female passenger. Against his better judgment, Roy is lured away by this femme fatale. Soon he is peering down the business end of her .45, the start of the adventure that will embroil him in a high-speed chase with corrupt cops and a firefight with drug traffickers. By the end of the story, Roy has acquired a wife, a fortune in stolen drug money and a new identity.

Mr. Inoue finishes writing the 195-page book at 5:30 a.m., having consumed most of a packet of pipe tobacco and half a pot of coffee. Stumbling, bleary-eyed, outside to get some breakfast, he is stopped by a newsboy hawking the morning paper. The world-champion wordsmith demurs. “Who has time to read anymore?” he asks.

Wall Street Journal, by Matt Moffet

Truth Is Stranger
Than Pulp Fiction:
1 Writer, 1,039 Books
In Brazil, a Speedy Novelist
Finds Formula for Success;
Dynamite Helps the Plot

SAN JOSE DOS CAMPOS, Brazil — José Carlos Ryoki de Alpoim Inoue, the world’s most prolific novelist, has a problem you wouldn’t expect: Almost nobody knows who he is. You won’t see him hobnobbing with the literati, or signing movie deals. A rare autograph seeker mistook Mr. Inoue for another Brazilian record-holder, the fellow who bounced a soccer ball off his head for 19 hours straight.

Yet Mr. Inoue can claim a truly astonishing oeuvre. Some authors aspire to produce a trilogy of books, the more ambitious a whole shelf.

Mr. Inoue measures his output in entire walls of novels. “Here they are — or at least some of them,” he says, pointing to two walls of his study that are covered with shelves full of his works. Production on such a grand scale doesn’t leave Mr. Inoue much time for literary appreciation. “Truthfully, I haven’t even read all the books I’ve
written.”

For the pulp-fiction king, that’s a perfectly understandable oversight. Mr. Inoue, known to millions of Brazilian readers by such pseudonyms as Tex Taylor, K. Luger and Billy Smart, has turned out 1,039 books since abandoning a medical career to start writing a decade ago.

Most of his works — which are usually between 100 and 200 pages — are easy-to-read Westerns with titles such as “Oh, Those Texans” and “Priest or Bandit?”

Mr. Inoue, who writes exclusively in Portuguese, won’t make anybody’s short list of Nobel candidates, but he lays claim to the title of fastest literary gun in the West: He has churned out complete chapters during trips to the bathroom; a whole book while having his truck worked on in a garage; a novel and its sequel in an afternoon on the beach — where he also wrote the entire 14-page newspaper for the coastal village in which he was then residing. (He moved a couple of years ago to San Jose, a quiet town near Sao Paulo, partly to be unburdened of daily journalism.)

When the Guinness Book of World Records recently affirmed Mr. Inoue’s No. 1 ranking in titles published, the award certificate was already 15 books out-of-date by the time it arrived from England. In the peculiar literary milieu inhabited by Mr. Inoue, tennis elbow is more of a threat than writers’ block. Burnout is a problem only insofar as it affects his computer keyboard, which must be replaced every five months. An exclusive contract with a publisher is impractical, since Mr. Inoue writes books faster than 10 Brazilian pulp presses combined are able to publish them. “Brazil hasn’t yet developed the capacity to absorb me,” says the pipe-smoking 49-year-old author,
whose father was Japanese and mother was Portuguese.

Some Brazilian critics aren’t impressed with Mr. Inoue’s style. He has branched out into slightly higher-grade schlock, primarily detective and adventure tales, he has also attracted admirers. “Some of his books wouldn’t be put to shame next to certain foreign books that occupy the bestseller lists,” writes Okky de Souza, of Brazil’s largest magazine, Veja.

What’s the secret of his prodigious output? Mr. Inoue gets asked the question so often that he did what you might expect: He set aside an afternoon and wrote a guide for aspiring hack writers.

” The plot has to be dictated by the taste of the readers and by the necessity of the market,” he writes, eschewing all pretense to producing art. Mr. Inoue generally shies away from political novels: “The reality of the scandals always far surpasses fiction.” He also shuns crusading works about the oppressed. “Nobody likes to identify with misery.”

Pulp tenderfoots are advised to begin by setting down their first inspiration, be it a dialogue, a description or an action scene. The writer can worry later whether the passage fits in Chapter 1 or Chapter 10. “The important thing is to abandon inertia — even if it means walking sideways like a crab,” Mr. Inoue writes.

The author also recommends alternating between several projects at the same time. Say that Jay Windy, a nom de plume Mr. Inoue reserves for his most flamboyant Western dramas, is stuck for inspiration. Mr. Inoue might then try tapping the imagination of Charles Hardwood, the pseudonym he uses for his laconic World War II fictions.

Before he had adopted any of his 39 literary alter egos, Mr. Inoue worked for a decade as a surgeon in a public hospital. Even in the operating room, though, he was a frustrated cowboy, known for wearing boots and Western jeans under his white operating gown.

In 1986, Mr. Inoue took a shot at writing about the American West — even though he himself had never traveled further west than Newark, N. J. In 10 days, he tapped out the 128 pages of “MacLee’s Colts,” the saga of an aging pistolero. Two weeks after he sent the manuscript to a publisher, an envelope came back with a check for the equivalent of $30 and a terse note: “Write some more.” He did. To support a wife and two children — comfortably, but not lavishly — on the meager pulp paychecks, Mr. Inoue developed a system allowing him to write up to three books a day. The formula covers everything from the maximum number of characters (20), to the minimum number of killings (five), to the obligatory number of romantic scenes (two, and tame ones at that). Woe to the unfortunate characters who happen to be on the page when Mr. Inoue runs into a snag with the plot. ” Dynamite,” he says, “resolves a lot of narrative complications.”

By 1991, Mr. Inoue entered the literary record books, passing a Spanish romance novelist who had written 700 books. As he has moved beyond Western settings, Mr. Inoue has tried adopting what is, by his lights, a more painstaking literary approach. “I like doing one book in three days, rather than three books in one day,” he says. A milestone in this new phase was “And Now, President?” a tale of a U.S. president whose conniving counselors slip him a slow-acting poison that mimics the effects of AIDS. Besides selling an impressive 35,000 copies, the 1992 work was also the first book Mr. Inoue ever wrote under his own name.

The author also spends time coaching his 22-year-old son, who already has written a score of pulp novels. “He’s beginning young enough to be really productive,” Mr. Inoue says.

The old man himself isn’t washed up yet, though. One night at around 10, with several bills stacked next to his computer as motivation, Mr. Inoue starts to type.

The yarn begins in an airport, where Mr. Inoue’s fictional hero, adventure novelist Roy Hamilton, is accosted by a gorgeous, mysterious female passenger. Against his better judgment, Roy is lured away by this femme fatale. Soon he is peering down the business end of her .45, the start of the adventure that will embroil him in a high-speed chase with corrupt cops and a firefight with drug traffickers. By the end of the story, Roy has acquired a wife, a fortune in stolen drug money and a new identity.

Mr. Inoue finishes writing the 195-page book at 5:30 a.m., having consumed most of a packet of pipe tobacco and half a pot of coffee. Stumbling, bleary-eyed, outside to get some breakfast, he is stopped by a newsboy hawking the morning paper. The world-champion wordsmith demurs. “Who has time to read anymore?” he asks.

FONTE: Wall Street Journal, by Matt Moffet

Truth Is Stranger

Than Pulp Fiction:

1 Writer, 1,039 Books
In Brazil, a Speedy Novelist
Finds Formula for Success;
Dynamite Helps the Plot

SAN JOSE DOS CAMPOS, Brazil — José Carlos Ryoki de Alpoim Inoue, the world’s most prolific novelist, has a problem you wouldn’t expect: Almost nobody knows who he is. You won’t see him hobnobbing with the literati, or signing movie deals. A rare autograph seeker mistook Mr. Inoue for another Brazilian record-holder, the fellow who bounced a soccer ball off his head for 19 hours straight.

Yet Mr. Inoue can claim a truly astonishing oeuvre. Some authors aspire to produce a trilogy of books, the more ambitious a whole shelf.

Mr. Inoue measures his output in entire walls of novels. “Here they are — or at least some of them,” he says, pointing to two walls of his study that are covered with shelves full of his works. Production on such a grand scale doesn’t leave Mr. Inoue much time for literary appreciation. “Truthfully, I haven’t even read all the books I’ve
written.”

For the pulp-fiction king, that’s a perfectly understandable oversight. Mr. Inoue, known to millions of Brazilian readers by such pseudonyms as Tex Taylor, K. Luger and Billy Smart, has turned out 1,039 books since abandoning a medical career to start writing a decade ago.

Most of his works — which are usually between 100 and 200 pages — are easy-to-read Westerns with titles such as “Oh, Those Texans” and “Priest or Bandit?”

Mr. Inoue, who writes exclusively in Portuguese, won’t make anybody’s short list of Nobel candidates, but he lays claim to the title of fastest literary gun in the West: He has churned out complete chapters during trips to the bathroom; a whole book while having his truck worked on in a garage; a novel and its sequel in an afternoon on the beach — where he also wrote the entire 14-page newspaper for the coastal village in which he was then residing. (He moved a couple of years ago to San Jose, a quiet town near Sao Paulo, partly to be unburdened of daily journalism.)

When the Guinness Book of World Records recently affirmed Mr. Inoue’s No. 1 ranking in titles published, the award certificate was already 15 books out-of-date by the time it arrived from England. In the peculiar literary milieu inhabited by Mr. Inoue, tennis elbow is more of a threat than writers’ block. Burnout is a problem only insofar as it affects his computer keyboard, which must be replaced every five months. An exclusive contract with a publisher is impractical, since Mr. Inoue writes books faster than 10 Brazilian pulp presses combined are able to publish them. “Brazil hasn’t yet developed the capacity to absorb me,” says the pipe-smoking 49-year-old author,
whose father was Japanese and mother was Portuguese.

Some Brazilian critics aren’t impressed with Mr. Inoue’s style. He has branched out into slightly higher-grade schlock, primarily detective and adventure tales, he has also attracted admirers. “Some of his books wouldn’t be put to shame next to certain foreign books that occupy the bestseller lists,” writes Okky de Souza, of Brazil’s largest magazine, Veja.

What’s the secret of his prodigious output? Mr. Inoue gets asked the question so often that he did what you might expect: He set aside an afternoon and wrote a guide for aspiring hack writers.

” The plot has to be dictated by the taste of the readers and by the necessity of the market,” he writes, eschewing all pretense to producing art. Mr. Inoue generally shies away from political novels: “The reality of the scandals always far surpasses fiction.” He also shuns crusading works about the oppressed. “Nobody likes to identify with misery.”

Pulp tenderfoots are advised to begin by setting down their first inspiration, be it a dialogue, a description or an action scene. The writer can worry later whether the passage fits in Chapter 1 or Chapter 10. “The important thing is to abandon inertia — even if it means walking sideways like a crab,” Mr. Inoue writes.

The author also recommends alternating between several projects at the same time. Say that Jay Windy, a nom de plume Mr. Inoue reserves for his most flamboyant Western dramas, is stuck for inspiration. Mr. Inoue might then try tapping the imagination of Charles Hardwood, the pseudonym he uses for his laconic World War II fictions.

Before he had adopted any of his 39 literary alter egos, Mr. Inoue worked for a decade as a surgeon in a public hospital. Even in the operating room, though, he was a frustrated cowboy, known for wearing boots and Western jeans under his white operating gown.

In 1986, Mr. Inoue took a shot at writing about the American West — even though he himself had never traveled further west than Newark, N. J. In 10 days, he tapped out the 128 pages of “MacLee’s Colts,” the saga of an aging pistolero. Two weeks after he sent the manuscript to a publisher, an envelope came back with a check for the equivalent of $30 and a terse note: “Write some more.” He did. To support a wife and two children — comfortably, but not lavishly — on the meager pulp paychecks, Mr. Inoue developed a system allowing him to write up to three books a day. The formula covers everything from the maximum number of characters (20), to the minimum number of killings (five), to the obligatory number of romantic scenes (two, and tame ones at that). Woe to the unfortunate characters who happen to be on the page when Mr. Inoue runs into a snag with the plot. ” Dynamite,” he says, “resolves a lot of narrative complications.”

By 1991, Mr. Inoue entered the literary record books, passing a Spanish romance novelist who had written 700 books. As he has moved beyond Western settings, Mr. Inoue has tried adopting what is, by his lights, a more painstaking literary approach. “I like doing one book in three days, rather than three books in one day,” he says. A milestone in this new phase was “And Now, President?” a tale of a U.S. president whose conniving counselors slip him a slow-acting poison that mimics the effects of AIDS. Besides selling an impressive 35,000 copies, the 1992 work was also the first book Mr. Inoue ever wrote under his own name.

The author also spends time coaching his 22-year-old son, who already has written a score of pulp novels. “He’s beginning young enough to be really productive,” Mr. Inoue says.

The old man himself isn’t washed up yet, though. One night at around 10, with several bills stacked next to his computer as motivation, Mr. Inoue starts to type.

The yarn begins in an airport, where Mr. Inoue’s fictional hero, adventure novelist Roy Hamilton, is accosted by a gorgeous, mysterious female passenger. Against his better judgment, Roy is lured away by this femme fatale. Soon he is peering down the business end of her .45, the start of the adventure that will embroil him in a high-speed chase with corrupt cops and a firefight with drug traffickers. By the end of the story, Roy has acquired a wife, a fortune in stolen drug money and a new identity.

Mr. Inoue finishes writing the 195-page book at 5:30 a.m., having consumed most of a packet of pipe tobacco and half a pot of coffee. Stumbling, bleary-eyed, outside to get some breakfast, he is stopped by a newsboy hawking the morning paper. The world-champion wordsmith demurs. “Who has time to read anymore?” he asks.

FONTE: Wall Street Journal, by Matt Moffet

Truth Is Stranger
Than Pulp Fiction:
1 Writer, 1,039 Books
In Brazil, a Speedy Novelist
Finds Formula for Success;
Dynamite Helps the Plot

SAN JOSE DOS CAMPOS, Brazil — José Carlos Ryoki de Alpoim Inoue, the world’s most prolific novelist, has a problem you wouldn’t expect: Almost nobody knows who he is. You won’t see him hobnobbing with the literati, or signing movie deals. A rare autograph seeker mistook Mr. Inoue for another Brazilian record-holder, the fellow who bounced a soccer ball off his head for 19 hours straight.

Yet Mr. Inoue can claim a truly astonishing oeuvre. Some authors aspire to produce a trilogy of books, the more ambitious a whole shelf.

Mr. Inoue measures his output in entire walls of novels. “Here they are — or at least some of them,” he says, pointing to two walls of his study that are covered with shelves full of his works. Production on such a grand scale doesn’t leave Mr. Inoue much time for literary appreciation. “Truthfully, I haven’t even read all the books I’ve
written.”

For the pulp-fiction king, that’s a perfectly understandable oversight. Mr. Inoue, known to millions of Brazilian readers by such pseudonyms as Tex Taylor, K. Luger and Billy Smart, has turned out 1,039 books since abandoning a medical career to start writing a decade ago.

Most of his works — which are usually between 100 and 200 pages — are easy-to-read Westerns with titles such as “Oh, Those Texans” and “Priest or Bandit?”

Mr. Inoue, who writes exclusively in Portuguese, won’t make anybody’s short list of Nobel candidates, but he lays claim to the title of fastest literary gun in the West: He has churned out complete chapters during trips to the bathroom; a whole book while having his truck worked on in a garage; a novel and its sequel in an afternoon on the beach — where he also wrote the entire 14-page newspaper for the coastal village in which he was then residing. (He moved a couple of years ago to San Jose, a quiet town near Sao Paulo, partly to be unburdened of daily journalism.)

When the Guinness Book of World Records recently affirmed Mr. Inoue’s No. 1 ranking in titles published, the award certificate was already 15 books out-of-date by the time it arrived from England. In the peculiar literary milieu inhabited by Mr. Inoue, tennis elbow is more of a threat than writers’ block. Burnout is a problem only insofar as it affects his computer keyboard, which must be replaced every five months. An exclusive contract with a publisher is impractical, since Mr. Inoue writes books faster than 10 Brazilian pulp presses combined are able to publish them. “Brazil hasn’t yet developed the capacity to absorb me,” says the pipe-smoking 49-year-old author,
whose father was Japanese and mother was Portuguese.

Some Brazilian critics aren’t impressed with Mr. Inoue’s style. He has branched out into slightly higher-grade schlock, primarily detective and adventure tales, he has also attracted admirers. “Some of his books wouldn’t be put to shame next to certain foreign books that occupy the bestseller lists,” writes Okky de Souza, of Brazil’s largest magazine, Veja.

What’s the secret of his prodigious output? Mr. Inoue gets asked the question so often that he did what you might expect: He set aside an afternoon and wrote a guide for aspiring hack writers.

” The plot has to be dictated by the taste of the readers and by the necessity of the market,” he writes, eschewing all pretense to producing art. Mr. Inoue generally shies away from political novels: “The reality of the scandals always far surpasses fiction.” He also shuns crusading works about the oppressed. “Nobody likes to identify with misery.”

Pulp tenderfoots are advised to begin by setting down their first inspiration, be it a dialogue, a description or an action scene. The writer can worry later whether the passage fits in Chapter 1 or Chapter 10. “The important thing is to abandon inertia — even if it means walking sideways like a crab,” Mr. Inoue writes.

The author also recommends alternating between several projects at the same time. Say that Jay Windy, a nom de plume Mr. Inoue reserves for his most flamboyant Western dramas, is stuck for inspiration. Mr. Inoue might then try tapping the imagination of Charles Hardwood, the pseudonym he uses for his laconic World War II fictions.

Before he had adopted any of his 39 literary alter egos, Mr. Inoue worked for a decade as a surgeon in a public hospital. Even in the operating room, though, he was a frustrated cowboy, known for wearing boots and Western jeans under his white operating gown.

In 1986, Mr. Inoue took a shot at writing about the American West — even though he himself had never traveled further west than Newark, N. J. In 10 days, he tapped out the 128 pages of “MacLee’s Colts,” the saga of an aging pistolero. Two weeks after he sent the manuscript to a publisher, an envelope came back with a check for the equivalent of $30 and a terse note: “Write some more.” He did. To support a wife and two children — comfortably, but not lavishly — on the meager pulp paychecks, Mr. Inoue developed a system allowing him to write up to three books a day. The formula covers everything from the maximum number of characters (20), to the minimum number of killings (five), to the obligatory number of romantic scenes (two, and tame ones at that). Woe to the unfortunate characters who happen to be on the page when Mr. Inoue runs into a snag with the plot. ” Dynamite,” he says, “resolves a lot of narrative complications.”

By 1991, Mr. Inoue entered the literary record books, passing a Spanish romance novelist who had written 700 books. As he has moved beyond Western settings, Mr. Inoue has tried adopting what is, by his lights, a more painstaking literary approach. “I like doing one book in three days, rather than three books in one day,” he says. A milestone in this new phase was “And Now, President?” a tale of a U.S. president whose conniving counselors slip him a slow-acting poison that mimics the effects of AIDS. Besides selling an impressive 35,000 copies, the 1992 work was also the first book Mr. Inoue ever wrote under his own name.

The author also spends time coaching his 22-year-old son, who already has written a score of pulp novels. “He’s beginning young enough to be really productive,” Mr. Inoue says.

The old man himself isn’t washed up yet, though. One night at around 10, with several bills stacked next to his computer as motivation, Mr. Inoue starts to type.

The yarn begins in an airport, where Mr. Inoue’s fictional hero, adventure novelist Roy Hamilton, is accosted by a gorgeous, mysterious female passenger. Against his better judgment, Roy is lured away by this femme fatale. Soon he is peering down the business end of her .45, the start of the adventure that will embroil him in a high-speed chase with corrupt cops and a firefight with drug traffickers. By the end of the story, Roy has acquired a wife, a fortune in stolen drug money and a new identity.

Mr. Inoue finishes writing the 195-page book at 5:30 a.m., having consumed most of a packet of pipe tobacco and half a pot of coffee. Stumbling, bleary-eyed, outside to get some breakfast, he is stopped by a newsboy hawking the morning paper. The world-champion wordsmith demurs. “Who has time to read anymore?” he asks.

FONTE: Wall Street Journal, by Matt Moffet