Maud Newton

It was after discussing Margaret with my mother that I stopped trying to talk about my experiences. Instead, I became obsessed with the notion that I would, eventually, write them down.

Pre-teen novels were my frame of reference. I envisaged a story in the downbeat, questioning vein of “Are You There God? It’s Me Margaret” or “My Darling, My Hamburger.” But unlike those books, mine would be true, and, because I could not see beyond the sphere of my own unhappiness, it would be called, “And You Think Your Family is Crazy.” I shudder to think of it now.

I guess it’s not surprising, in the Oprah era, that so many other people had the same idea. Nowadays bookstores are overrun with narratives that could be sold under exactly the title that so appealed to my adolescent self. It’s hard to dispute writer Ben Yagoda’s assertion that the memoir has become the “central form” of this cultural moment. Whether it has, as he also contends, supplanted fiction remains to be seen.

But I hope he’s wrong.

Mavis Gallant

Why do novelists write essays? Most publishers would rather have a novel. Bookshops don’t know where to put them. It’s a rare reader who seeks them out with any sense of urgency. Still, in recent months Jonathan Safran Foer, Margaret Drabble, Chinua Achebe and Michael Chabon, among others, have published essays, and so this month will I. And though I think I know why I wrote mine, I wonder why they wrote theirs, and whether we all mean the same thing by the word “essay”, and what an essay is, exactly, these days.

Reif Larson talks about writing and the unfinished work of Nabokov is discussed.

Javier Marias

Poetry Dispatch No. 299 | November 15, 2009

MARK TERRILL: Part II
Germany

Editor’s Note: The Atlanta Review and the guest editor for this issue, Mark Terrill, are to be congratulated for bringing together a special International Features Section: “The Poetry of Germany.” In all honesty, there isn’t a bad poem in the batch. I could have easily chosen six other poems, six other poets. Every poem in this collection says it…gets it right, holds you still in time and place, leaves you both wondering…and in a state of wonder. Germany, for certain, past, present, future lives and breathes in these lines.

Anyone who knows me, my history, work, websites, workshops, talks, passions, knows I am a lover and advocate of the literature of other countries and cultures. I think it was there from the very beginning, having gown up in an ethnic family, another language and way of life. When I began to write (my first stories for sure) it was other cultures, I turned to for a sense of story, structure, theme: Russian, Czech, Polish, German, Hungarian, Jewish, Greek, Scandinavian, South American, Far Eastern…

I wish there were more of this these days, more translations in New York publishing circles. More publishers willing to take the risk. We need to share each other’s stories and poems. We had this once, back in the 70’s, when Phillip Roth edited a series of translations (mass market paperbacks…f$2.95 up), “Writers from the Other Europe” for Penquin Books.

Roth described his efforts and reasons in part: “The purpose of this paperback series is to bring together outstanding and influential works of fiction by Eastern European writers. In many instances they will be writers who, though recognized as powerful forces in their on cultures, are virtually unknown in America. It is hoped that by reprinting selected Eastern European writers in this format and with introductions that place each work in its literary and historical context, the literature that has evolved in “the other Europe” during the postwar decades will be made more accessible to an interested American readership.”

Two of the books from that series that I treasure most are Milan Kunderas’, LAUGHABLE LOVES and Bruno Schulz’s, THE STREET OF CROCODILES.

Here are six contemporary poets from a collection of almost forty chosen by Mark Terrill—an American writer living in German since the 1980’s. (Scroll down or seek: “Poetry Dispatch #297”). He has a good eye. A good sense of what remains in the heart and soul of Germany today. One thing for certain—a past that continues to haunt.

I was especially pleased to see that the final selection is, perhaps THE voice of Germany past, present, future: Günter Grass. –Norbert Blei

memoir

by Gerald Fiebig

The Second War, the war of 39 to 45,
Begins when you identify your own inner Third Reich
—Momus, Three Wars, 1987

& then, just like any other aging war criminal
who suddenly knows that his time’s up
you will feel the urge to foul yourself with self-pity
& indulge your remorse.
& then, when the sugar bowl next to your cup
will conjure up the sugar loaf mountain
of your picturesque exile—then
the girl from ipanema will fail to appear.

& then, just like any other arsonist with a cause to defend
you will feel the urge to talk about what you read
in the books, what you touched in the bodies
before you burned both.

& then, on a night perhaps, on a night just as hot
as this, as hot as the sand of the copacabana, as hot
as the bodies when you touched them, in fever,
as hot as their ashes, that only cooled when you’d gone
you may want somebody to listen to you
talking about the past that you tried to forget.
& then you may want to speak in a voice with a name
known only to you, the name from the passport you burned.
& then everyone will fail to appear. & then you will start
to talk to yourself. & just then you will notice
that whatever you wanted to forget all those years
but wanted to tell now in the voice you disowned

is already forgotten. your doctor has seen you;
not mengele, not goebbels—dr. alzheimer.
& then you will pause for breath, between silence
& silence. & then you will choke..

[From: Atlanta Review, GERMANY, edited by Mark Terrill, Spring / Summer 2009]…P.O. Box 8248, Atlanta, Georgia, 31106, $6]

I Live in Germany

by Kersten Flenter

I live in Germany but
Many say I look younger
With the calm of a scarecrow
I stand here and watch my life
From outside
Forget the number with the soul, man
Or the state of mind
It’s something organic—
In the womb you acquire
Heart lungs eyes arms
And later you grow angst disappointment
And melancholy as well
And still the question is:
Where to go while being watched by
Three Brandenburger skinheads
Where to look when
Refrigerator doors shut behind children
Take the reason
Why you’re here
And subtract it from what you see
And when you realize
That it’s your own feet
Which are standing in these shoes
Tell them they can go

translated by Mark Terrill and the author

[From: Atlanta Review, GERMANY, edited by Mark Terrill]

ice floes

by Norbert Hummelt

once again the ice is breaking and she tells
me again how something was dawning and
was at an end: the old stove… the cold war…
in my head the machine is running slowly then
all at once transformation’s there: body-warm
water is beginning to flow again ice riding in floes
on the rhine we can read about this in a chronicle
the cuban crisis not long past he was only in town
in the mornings you see there wasn’t so much
traffic then quiet in the crib or in his arms the one
born after his grandson listens to the sounds that
enclosed him we had only just got a telephone
and there was a stillness like the one just now
the call came as all the snow was already
thawing the earth split the way it was forty
years ago even if the fractures are not so visible
you sit in his armchair made of the old wood

translated by Catherine Hales

[from GERMANY, edited by Mark Terrill]

Miniatures (Three Excerpts)

by Marie T. Martin

Gastro II

The restaurant in the freight yard lies hidden behind an entire business of empty factories, which are not illuminated at night. Only in front of one restaurant are standing torches. While eating it can happen that a train passes through the dining room. screeching and loaded with empty tanks, so that for a while all conversation is impossible.

Nights

My pillow, I’ve discovered, makes noises at night. If I press my face into it, I can hear quite clearly: ocean sounds, the cry of the gulls, and somewhat less clearly, the cry of the sailors. Only once did I hear the voice of a woman.

Day Trip

I went for a walk along the river with a friend. A boat was chained up at a dock. We sat in the boat to rock ourselves, then the chain loosened itself and the boat set off. Quickly we left the city and the land behind us and already with the appearance of the first star we found ourselves in foreign waters and from the shore we heard people calling, in a totally unknown language.

translated by Mark Terrill

[from GERMANY, edited by Mark Terrill]

This Winter

by Volker Sielaff

as you came
and I burned tangerine peels
and asked you where / have you been?
as I laid a bath towel around your shoulders
and said I don’t want / to know
as I smiled
and the black bow in your hair / loosened
as you said me neither

translated by Mark Terrill

[from GERMANY, edited by Mark Terrill]

Where to Flee

by Günter Grass

when all islands are sold,
aevery cave is watched by sleepless eyes,
aaand on grandmother’s skirt,
aaawhere occasionally refuge was to be found,
aaaaa note is stuck
aaaaaaon which capital letters spell out OCCUPIED?

Stay then,
aride out the changing weather
aaand, as learned,
aaaspit against the wind—
aaaanot yet
aaaaahas everything been said.

translated by Mark Terrill

[from GERMANY, edited by Mark Terrill]

ATLANTA REVIEW: NEW GERMAN POETRY

Atlanta Review – German poetryThe Spring/Summer 2009 issue of the Atlanta Review with the international feature on Germany which I guest-edited is out now and available in tastefully and competently stocked bookstores or via the AR website. A single issue costs $6; a one-year subscription costs just $9.99 and includes one free issue. Check out the AR site for sample poems from the issue and ordering info. Includes previously unpublished translations of work by Günter Grass, Peter Handke, Rolf Dieter Brinkmann, Silke Scheuermann, Nicolas Born, Jörg Fauser, Monika Rinck, Ernst Jandl, Anne Dorn and many others. Translators include Alistair Noon, Cathy Hales, Rosmarie Waldrop, Mark Terrill and many others.

I’ve been a bit on hold recently as I’ve been waiting for something. It hasn’t happened yet.

In the Meantime:

A really excellent post about a reading epiphany (if that’s an adequate description) from This Space; quite disarming.

A very good piece by Boyd Tonkin about some new and re translations of German novels; he’s often a resoundingly lone voice when discussing translated fiction. It’s telling that these are only published because of the brief week’s window provided by there being lots of pretty pictures of oversized dominoes falling on top of each other – imagine the gargantuan effort of translating, editing and marketing an already published book like The Tin-Drum, months of work of up to twenty intelligent, underpayed people coordinated for such a small window. The idea presumably being that ‘Germany’ is on lots of people’s minds so they will be more likely to buy books by ‘German’ writers. One can but hope that next week, when another word is big on the news and there are other pretty pictures, and once the books are moved off the tables back towards the nether-regions of the shop, enough copies have been sold so as not to have put everyone involved off publishing another book in translation for a while.  Also, I didn’t know that Nick Hornby doesn’t read fiction in translation. It’s no big loss to literary criticism (although no serious literary publication should ever let him on its pages until he agrees to stop being…xenophobic or racist? both?) but it’s a surprising position for an Arsenal fan, what would Arsene think?

Now that I’ve started I don’t seem to be able to stop…

An article by Lorrie Moore on Clarice Lispector. As a friend said to me; why do American writers always have to take a survey? More worryingly, and annoyingly, the week after it was published in the NYRB, La Nacion published an article by Tomas Eloy Mártinez basically saying ‘look, the Americans are talking about a South American writer! She’s quite importan, you know.’

And speaking of La Nacion..

Angry bolañomyth bashing by Horacio Castellanos Moya. I was a bit annoyed with myself when I saw that this came out in English because I had read it in the Saturday paper when it came out and it didn’t occur to me that it might be something worth pitching for translation. I didn’t take it particularly seriously for the following reasons: One, in explicitly claiming the writer as a friend Castellanos Moya undermines his argument – he is effectively trying to construct his own myth. Two, it’s too angry; when faced with the conversation in the café you would pointedly ask the waiter to make it a decaf and try to change the subject. Three, for all the ‘North American’  (a bad slip for a Latin American writer as he’s included Mexico and Canada in the mix) angrying-at, the article is in response to an article by a North American (another friend.) Four, as the writer of a recently translated work into English that was exceptionally well-received but perhaps did not sell quite as many copies there is the danger that the grapes in the Castellanos Moya household might be accused of having gone sour. Five, The article came amidst a whole bunch of other articles in La Nacion about the Bolañomyth. And six, of course bo0ks are marketed!

It’s a fun read though.

Den tyske forfatteren Günter Grass skriver i boken “Mitt århundre” – en boksamling mer eller mindre oppdiktede, små prosastykker om hvert av årene fra 1900 til 1999 – for året 1938 om en tysk historielærer som med datoen 9. november ikke er opptatt av 9. november 1989, men samme året i 1938. Det er datoen for krystallnatten, natten da hele det tyske samfunnet går til angrep på jødisk liv og eiendom, for å hevne drapet på en tysk diplomat foretatt av polsk-tysk jøde. I den lille tre siders historien til Grass er det lektor Hösle som underviser i historie, og en av skoleelevene som forteller, og gjennom den smått uinteresserte skoleeleven får vi den nødvendige distansen både til krystallnatten og Berlinmurens fall, og til den tyske lærerens historieundervisning. Den blir flittig kritisert på foreldremøtene, gode tyske besteborgere  anklager læreren for “fortidsbesatthet”.

Jeg er ingen stor fan av Günter Grass, men akkurat denne historien har gjort at siden jeg leste denne boken, alltid har hatt helt klart i hodet at krystallnatten og Berlinmurens fall skjedde samme dag, samme natt, og at det var et lite stykke uti november. Det gjør meg også oppmerksom på hvor usannsynlig rik og problematisk tysk historie fra det forrige århundret er, et århundre som egentlig stort sett omfatter hele den tyske stats levetid. Denne staten har vært full av enorme nederlag og seire, ufattelige katastrofer og like ufattelige gjenreisninger, redselsregimer på begge ytterpunkter av den politiske skalaen, og begge uten større problemer med å finne frivillige til å utføre ugjerningene regimet påkrevde, også ugjerninger uten sidestykke i verdenshistorien. Hva er det egentlig med tyskerne og den tyske historien fra det forrige århundre? Hvordan kan en stat og et folk pådra seg så mange verkende sår over en så kort periode, og være så åpen og redelig i forsøk på å lege disse sårene igjen?

I det første er det mange stater som kan måle seg, i det siste står tyskerne alene. Det er bare der viljen til å rette opp i feilene virkelig har vært til stede, og man i dag har et demokrati som står seg som et av de aller beste i verden.

Mot en slik bakgrunn blir den utrolige Berlinmuren bare en av mange ting. Rivingen av Berlinmuren er den første, store historiske hendelsen som fant sted i min levetid, og som jeg allerede når det skjedde, skjønte var betydningsfullt. Berlinmuren stod der da jeg var født, og jeg visste at den var et både symbol og en meget konkret sak i kampen mellom øst og vest under den kalde krigen. Jeg visste at Øst-Tyskland var kommunistisk, og at Vest-Tyskland ikke var det, og jeg hadde også noen forestillinger om hva dette innebar. Jeg visste at Berlinmuren hindret folk å reise fra den ene siden til den andre.

Siden har jeg selvfølgelig fått vite mye mer om denne vanvittige muren, som ble reist så å si fra den ene dagen til den neste.  Plutselig en dag i 1961 var den der, det var ikke lenger mulig å gå fra øst til vest, slik det merkelig nok hadde vært mulig like siden krigen. En vanlig utbredt misforståelse er at muren straks ble reist for å skille den sovjetiske delen fra de franske, britiske og amerikanske etter andre verdenskrig. Muren er atskillig nyere.

Jeg har vært 3 ganger i Berlin, og jeg har rukket å besøke museene som har med muren å gjøre. Det smått konroversielle museet ved Checkpoint Charlie har jeg vært ved hver gang. Det er kontroversielt, fordi det ikke er opplagt hva det er som gjør at amerikanerne skal tjene penger på Tysklands vanskelige historie, og dette museet er amerikansk. Det er også litt usmakelig hvordan amerikanerne og alle vi i vesten, egentlig, trykker på for å vise at vi hadde rett gjennom hele den kalde krigen, og at de kommunistiske regimene var akkruat så grusomme som vi hele tiden sa. Historien kan godt være litt balansert, selv om det er seierherrenes historie som også her blir skrevet.

Men trass i at museet er kontroversielt, så er jeg der hver gang. Det skyldes naturligvis at det er så mye interessant å se der inne. Og siden jeg nå en gang er i en situasjon der jeg egentlig ikke har tid til å skrive bloggposter, skal jeg inntil denne posten eventuelt bli utvidet, bare skrive litt om den ene filmen som blir vist på et av de mange TV-apparatene der inne.

Det er en seiersfilm fra det som må være 10. desember 1989, eller der omkring. Muren er ikke bare åpnet, men vanlige tyske mennesker er også i gang med å gyve løs på den med hammer og meisel, for å ødelegge den. I en scene er det en gammel mann som klatrer opp en stige, for å sette seg oppå den og hamre løs noen biter. Han er ikke så sprek som han en gang var, det går stivt oppover, og han har litt problemer bare med det å forlate stigen, og sette seg overskrevs over muren. Så tar han frem utstyret sitt, hammer og meisel også for ham, men han eier ingen balanse i det hele tatt, og jeg antar at alle som ser det må tenke som jeg, at han der vel umulig kan greie å hamre løs noe. Det klarer han da heller ikke, med en gang han begynner å hamre på skrå inn mot meiselen, ramler han ned bak muren på andre siden, filmen skifter til et annet klipp, og alt forsvinner.

This is a coincidence. I’m reading Gunter Grass’ The Tin Drum and have raved about it to several people even though I’m only a quarter of the way in. While I was reading it, I thought, “This could use a new translation.” And my wish has come true! To mark the book’s 50th Anniversary it will get all-new translations overseen by Grass himself. From The Observer:

But it’s Grass’s dazzling use of language that sets The Tin Drum apart, as he spins a dense verbal web alive with wordplay and innovation. It’s no coincidence that Oskar enjoys a stint with a jazz band, as there is an uninhibited, free-flowing musicality to the telling of his life story.

To mark The Tin Drum’s 50th anniversary, its publishers around the world have commissioned a series of new translations, overseen by Grass himself. Breon Mitchell has reinstated much of the rhythm of the German original, as well as restoring some overtly sexual references thought too shocking for British audiences half a century ago. Given Grass’s close involvement with this new translation, it is fair to call this the definitive version of arguably the most important German novel of the postwar era.

In case you’re not familiar with The Tin Drum, here’s an excerpt from The Guardian’s appraisal:

First published 50 years ago this week (on 6 October 1959), it is, technically, an incredible piece of art, a melange of bildungsroman, memoir, allegory, grotesquerie and pure reverie. On a superficial level it tells the story of Oskar Matzerath: incarcerated maniac, self-created dwarf, paranoiac, possessor of supernatural gifts, vindictive genius, fallen angel, miniature tyrant, obsessive beater of the titular drum. Oskar is all of these things and none of them; the ultimate unreliable narrator.

The book charts his progress, and that of the independent port city of Danzig/Gdansk, and greater Germany, and the world as a whole. It is odd, profound, sprawling, poetic, often unnerving. But more than this, never have I read something that so exquisitely and lucidly captures the dazed, eerie strangeness of our misfortunate times.

To paraphrase Francis Ford Coppola’s line about Apocalypse Now, The Tin Drum is not about the 20th century; it is the 20th century.

The Tin Drum by Günter Grass | Book review | Books | The Observer
The Tin Drum summarised the 20th century in three words | Darragh McManus | Books | guardian.co.uk
Review: Peeling the Onion by Gunter Grass | Books | The Observer
Gunter Grass: I needed time to reveal my Waffen-SS past | World news | The Guardian

“Yo solo tengo unas cuantas certezas. Sé que es mejor amar que odiar, la justicia que la injusticia, la verdad que la mentira, aunque la literatura es una gran mentira pero bien contada…”

Es un fragmento de un libro (bastante regular) de Elena Ponitaowska, La piel del cielo. Resulta que últimamente me ha dado por reflexionar qué es la Cultura en sí, globalmente. Qué es el arte, qué la música, qué la literatura, para qué un pintor, y un novelista, y un poeta. Y no digamos ya un teórico de la literatura, todo el día leyendo obras, deduciendo intenciones, midiendo versos, hablando de corrientes, discutiendo con otros como él todo el día. ¿Y todo esto para qué? De verdad necesito una respuesta rápida o tendré que aceptar que estoy tirando años a la basura.

Un ingeniero construye puentes por los que pasa la gente. Un médico cura al enfermo, al que se siente mal. Así muchos y muchos oficios tienen una repercusión positiva en la Vida del ser humano. ¿La Cultura también? Gran cantidad de gente muere sin haber leído el Quijote, otras muchas han muerto sin ni siquiera saber leer.. ¿y qué? ¿Su vida era más triste por eso? ¿Es igual de necesario un médico que un artista para el hombre? Porque yo pienso desde el punto de vista del hombre, que al fin y al cabo, es el protagonista de toda esta parafernalia que es la vida.

Voy a cortar aquí, no quiero enrollarme, quiero saber opiniones, verdades que me devuelvan en cierta parte la ilusión de cuando escogía un modo de vida. Si es necesario, haré una segunda entrada del tema. Un apunte más: el otro día iba en el metro y un hombre tocaba el violín. La música me conmovió, a lo mejor es una tontería, pero en ese momento me sentí feliz. Así de estúpido: una música me hizo feliz diez segundos. A esto me refiero, ¿realmente contribuye a la felicidad la cultura? ¿O es simplemente un entretenimiento…?

“En la devastación general sólo resplandecían las palabras. Y donde los príncipes se habían humillado, el prestigio recaía en los poetas. A ellos y no a los poderosos, les estaba asegurada la inmortalidad.” Günter Grass, Encuentro en Telgte.

Este breve texto es fenomenal, pero es literatura y aunque bien escrita, no deja de ser mentira…

As minhas andanças actuais e incertas pelo domínio da crítica adorniana tiveram origem – confesso-o – numa entrevista dada por Rebecca Solnit à revista The Believer (edição de Setembro, com versão online aqui). Aí, a ensaísta afirmava vigorosamente algo que me deixou absorto durante algum tempo, numa altura em que o sol de Outubro ainda permitia torrar o tempo livre em fim de semanas pachorrentos e exteriores.

Apolitical is a political position, yes, and a dreary one. The choice by a lot of young writers to hide out among dinky, dainty, and even trivial topics—I see it as, at its best, an attempt by young white guys to be anti-hegemonic, unimposing. It relinquishes power—but it also relinquishes the possibility of being engaged with the really interesting and urgent affairs of our time, at least as a writer. The challenge is how can you not be the moralizing, grandstanding beast of the baby boomers but not render yourself totally ineffectual and—the word that comes to mind is miniature. How can you write about the obscure things that give you pleasure with a style flexible enough to come round to look at more urgent matters?

Tenho vários problemas com este género de argumento, e o primeiro reside invariavelmente na minha dificuldade em ultrapassar os próprios termos em que é formulado (o que me perturba um pouco porque me vejo perfeitamente instalado nessa hoste de young white guys que renunciam ao seu poder, whomever the fuck she means). E como a acusação é proferida por uma pessoa loquaz como Solnit, o meu pasmo inicial é acompanhado da impressão indelével que o meu intelecto acabou de ser varrido pelo chão – e nem sequer com grande delicadeza. Só depois recordo que tudo isto parte da posição de que existe uma ligação hierarquizante entre o objecto poético e a actividade literária, o que implica desconsiderar grande parte do núcleo objectivo tido por irrelevante.

Theodor W. Adorno, que é basicamente quem ela está a parafrasear quando diz que a escolha do caminho apolítico na criação literária é de facto política (“uma obra de arte comprometida anula a magia de uma outra obra de arte que se contenta em ser um fetiche, um passatempo para aqueles que gostariam de dormir durante o dilúvio que os ameaça, num apoliticismo que é na verdade profundamente político”, Compromisso), dedicou-se longamente ao tema do compromisso literário, partindo do Qu’est-ce que la litérature? que Jean-Paul Sartre escrevera em 1947 e criticando o francês pelo esvaziamento operado pela sua noção de compromisso enquanto realização íntima de humanidade. Tendo Sartre chegado à conclusão que a intemporalidade da arte é tanto mais acentuada quanto mais se encontrar desligada da personalidade subjectiva que a criou (e os exemplos históricos abundam), não pode senão concluir que o compromisso, para alcançar relevância intemporal, tem de ser mais do que uma mera escolha pessoal, dele se exigindo que represente um mecanismo de realização interior da humanidade que nos é ínsita. Se aceitássemos isto, no entanto, todo o compromisso seria justificável.

Adorno é também o responsável pelo dictum que fulminou gerações de artistas nascentes e segundo o qual escrever poesia depois de Auschwitz seria bárbaro. A afirmação foi entendida à letra por muitos escritores revoltados e ansiosos por demonstrar a legimitade da sua arte infante, e vários de entre eles, deparando-se, por um lado, com o fracasso do seu génio (que sempre lhes sobreviria) e, por outro, com a imaculada retórica de Adorno, chegaram mesmo a atribuir-lhe a racionalização e origem da sua inglória. A realidade era mais prosaica (grande parte deles eram simplesmente maus, ou leram mal Adorno), mas o que interessa considerar é que mesmo um autor como Günter Grass necessitou de se libertar do famoso julgamento adorniano e encontrar algum meio de justificação da sua arte, motivos que expôs na conferência transcrita em Escrever Depois de Auschwitz.

Grass é franco neste aspecto: depois de Adorno, vívíamos na Ascese – e ascese é nome que ele consagra ao período de raivosa auto-justificação artística durante o pós-guerra alemão. Esses foram anos especialmente difíceis para a chamada Geração Flakhelfer, aqueles jovens alemães demasiado novos para terem conhecido combate oficial mas que tinham sido cegamente arrancados à sua vida normal e imergidos num clima de euforia propagandística e violência militar.  Claro que se Günter Grass tivesse sido verdadeiramento franco, poderia ter adiantado também parte do conteúdo do infame Descascando a Cebola, opera non grata cujo subtítulo poderia ser “estive a moralizar-vos durante todas estas décadas e afinal alistei-me nas Waffen SS de livre vontade“. Escrever Depois de Auschwitz, ainda assim, é uma excelente reflexão sobre a consciência do compromisso e da finalidade da arte no seio de uma geração muito particular, feita por um homem que bebeu das suas inquietações como forma de vencer um momento de Ascese pessoal.

Não quero alongar-me muito mais sobre este tema, até porque a burilação alcançada por Adorno merece reflexão intensa antes de ser contestada ou aperfeiçoada. Por outro lado, Solnit não realiza sequer tacitamente a distinção entre arte de compromisso e arte de tendência, o que pode ainda ter algum mérito. A primeira, desde Sartre, tem vindo a ser descrita como o conjunto de ideias ou acções destinadas a operar uma mudança na realidade exterior, ainda que indirectamente, o que neste contexto pode ser reconduzido ao activismo literário ou até à antiga noção realista de écrivain engagé. A segunda refere-se a um compromisso no sentido final do termo, originando a reflexão atrás resenhada que se tornou agudamente relevante no século de todas as tormentas. Existe ainda a apatia, que na minha opinião não é a mesma coisa que a arte voluptuária (ou em linguagem mais corrente, a arte pela arte, tradicionalmente cara aos franceses). Uma trama de sentidos, como se vê, que ainda está por desfiar.

Seja como for, é precisamente sobre os “urgent matters“ a que Solnit alude que a literatura tem mais problemas em legitimar a sua presença (sobre isto, ver a entrada anterior com os excerptos de Compromisso sobre a traição das vítimas face às quais estamos comprometidos). O melhor é encerrar com uma sua tirada mais romântica, para não dizer maravilhosa, em que a mesma senhora revela o seu energético e comovente compromisso.

I still think the revolution is to make the world safe for poetry, meandering, for the frail and vulnerable, the rare and obscure, the impractical and local and small, and I feel that we’ve lost if we don’t practice and celebrate them now, instead of waiting for some ’60s never-neverland of after-the-revolution. And we’ve lost the revolution if we relinquish our full possibilities and powers.

(Günter Grass zu seinem Buch “Die Box” im Gespräch mit Ulrich Wickert bei youtube.)

Mittwoch | 14.10.2009 | 21:00 Uhr | Eintritt frei

klein stadt GROSS: Lesung und Vernissage

“Schampus gibt’s woanders!” lautet der markige Untertitel des Kompilationsmeisterwerkes klein stadt GROSS.
Seit dem 12. Oktober darf sich Greifswald auf einen Marathon der Veröffentlichungsfeierlichkeiten freuen, immerhin sind 18 hiesige Bands, Solokünstler und Musikprojekte auf dem Silberling vereint.
Was für Musiker zutrifft, gilt nicht weniger für die bildenden Künstler. Mit dem 28seitigen Booklet, an dem 9 Künstler mitgewirkt haben, und in katalogähnlicher Form ihre Werke präsentieren, ist “klein stadt GROSS – Schampus gibt’s woanders” nicht nur in musikalischer, sondern auch in bildend-künstlerischer Hinsicht die umfassende Werkschau einer Stadt.

Ein Teil der Record Release Feierlichkeiten wird natürlich auch im Café Koeppen realisiert. Dazu sind Sie heute Abend sehr herzlich eingeladen!
Die Fotografin Nanne Springer stellt ihre Arbeiten, die nach den Texten von Stephan Rehfeld entstanden sind, im Café aus. Stephan Rehfeld ist an diesem Abend ebenso im Café zu Gast und wird zur Eröffnung der Exposition aus seinen Texten lesen. Musikalisch umrahmt wird das Ganze von Lofi Deluxe. Ein gedanken- und gefühlstransformatorisches Experiment von Wort zu Bild, hin zu Musik und wieder zurück.

Der Eintritt ist frei.

Die CD kann man selbstverständlich im Café Koeppen erwerben.

Weitere Infos zum Projekt unter:
www.schampusgibtswoanders.de
www.myspace.com/kleinstadtgross

Die Fotos sind bis zum 15. November im Café Koeppen zu sehen.
—-
Freitag | 16.10.2009 | 20:00 Uhr | Lesung | Eintritt: 5,-/ 3,- Euro ermäßigt

“RestWärme” – Lyrik-Nacht

mit Andreas Altmann, Silke Peters, Jan Wagner und Judith Zander

Gemeinsam mit der Literaturzeitschrift „Wiecker Bote“ präsentiert das Literaturzentrum Vorpommern eine Lyrik-Nacht mit preisgekrönten Dichterinnen und Dichtern. Eine Auswahl ihrer schönsten Gedichte werden Judith Zander, Andreas Altmann, Silke Peters und Jan Wagner lesen.

Unter dem Titel „Restwärme“ erklingt zeitgenössische Lyrik in ihrer thematischen und stilistischen Vielgestalt.

Die jüngste Autorin des Abends ist die 1980 in Anklam geborene Dichterin Judith Zander. Nach ihrem Studium in Greifswald besuchte sie das Deutsche Literaturinstitut in Leipzig und gewann 2007 den renommierten open mike-Wettbewerb in Berlin.
Zur Zeit lebt Judith Zander als Stipendiatin im GEDOK Atelierhaus in Lübeck.

Der 1963 in Hainichen/Sachsen geborene Andreas Altmann unternimmt mit seinen Texten den „Versuch, durch die Verschmelzung von Sprache, Ich und Natur einen Ort zu erschaffen, an dem die Melancholie des Unverortetseins aufgehoben wird“ (NDR). Für sein unverwechselbares poetisches Werk ist ihm u. a. der Christine-Lavant-Lyrikpreis und der Erwin-Strittmatter-Preis zuerkannt worden.

Die Arbeiten der Stralsunder Lyrikerin Silke Peters zeichnen sich durch eine sehr dichte Sprache aus. Ihre poetischen Landschaften sind genauestens erkundet. Gleich einer Gesteinsforscherin legt Silke Peters, die 1967 in Rostock geboren wurde und in Greifswald studierte, mit ihrer Sprache die Schichten eines Ortes, einer Region und einer Landschaft frei.

Für seine präzise Sprache, seine stimmigen Bilder und sein müheloses Spiel mit den Formen wird Jan Wagner, der 1971 in Hamburg geboren wurde, von der deutschen Literaturkritik gefeiert. Als Übersetzer englischsprachiger Lyrik und Herausgeber der internationalen Lyrikanthologie „Die Außenseite des Elements“ lebt der studierte Anglist in Berlin.

Mit freundlicher Unterstützung der Universitäts- und Hansestadt Greifswald und des Landes Mecklenburg-Vorpommern.

Der Eintritt beträgt 5,- und 3,- Euro ermäßigt.
Karten gibt es im Vorverkauf im Café Koeppen, im Antiquariat & Buchhandlung Dr. Ulrich Rose und in der Greifswald Information

—-

AUSSTELLUNG

bis 7. November 2009

„Ich natürlich, oder?!“, soll im Jahre 1981 Gabriel Garcia Márquez einem Journalisten am Tag der Verleihung des Nobelpreises für Literatur auf die Frage geantwortet haben, ob er wisse, wer der diesjährige Preisträger sei. Doch Márquez’ Freude war verfrüht. Nicht er wurde gewählt, sondern Elias Canetti, einer der zwölf deutschsprachigen Autorinnen und Autoren, denen die Stockholmer Nobel-Stiftung diese hohe Auszeichnung von 1901 bis heute zuerkannt hat. Márquez hatte jedoch nicht lange Grund, enttäuscht zu sein. Denn als erster Kolumbianer erhielt er bereits 1982, ein Jahr nach Canetti, den Literaturnobelpreis.

Ein Dutzend deutschsprachiger Nobelpreisträger für Literatur – wer waren die eigentlich? Die jüngeren dürften noch allgemein in Erinnerung sein: Elfriede Jelinek im Jahre 2004 und Günter Grass 1999. Heinrich Böll (1972) und Hermann Hesse (1946) werden vielen ebenfalls noch spontan einfallen; vielleicht auch Gerhart Hauptmann (1912). Aber die komplette Liste bekommen nur wenige zusammen. Ein Grund mehr also, die Wanderausstellung der Arbeitsgemeinschaft Literarischer Gesellschaften und Gedenkstätten in Greifswald zu präsentieren. Ergänzend zu den ausgezeichneten Autoren sind gleichermaßen einige besondere frühe Ausgaben ihrer Werke, die die Universitätsbibliothek Greifswald freundlicherweise zur Verfügung gestellt hat, in der Ausstellung zu sehen.

ÖFFNUNGSZEITEN:

Dienstag bis Samstag, 14.00 Uhr bis 18.00 Uhr
Der Eintritt ist frei.

CAFÉ KOEPPEN
Italienische und Wiener Kaffeespezialitäten, Zeitschriften, Bücher,
Brettspiele
Öffnungszeiten: Montag – Freitag ab 12.00 Uhr

Herta Müller. German-speaking recipient of the Nobel Prize in Literature, 2009.

The announcement of Herta Müller’s Nobel Prize for Literature to be presented in Stockholm this December brings the number of German-speaking authors having received the prestigious award to three in the last 10 years:  Günter Grass received the award in 1999 and the Austrian Elfriede Jelinek claimed the prize in 2004.   The Nobel Prize is awarded generally to candidates who have bestowed ”the greatest benefit on mankind” – and specifically in literature to those who have written ”in an ideal direction”.   

These specifications may be vague, but what is clear is that the members of the Swedish Academy have seen fit to identify German-speaking authors with disproportionate regularity as having leading voices in world literature.  This should be no surprise to anyone familiar with German literary tradition over the past 1000 years, but it bears repeating that the German language and culture are still sources of valuable treasure to world culture today, and provide yet one further example of why learning German and about German-speaking countries is by no means a superfluous activity.

Ich freu mich total für Frau Müller! Sie hat ihn wirklich verdient!

Doch. Nicht oft, aber manchmal passiert es, daß selbst ein Dauernörgler und misanthropischer alter Ätz-Texter wie ich reine, unvermischte Freude empfindet, über etwas, was „da draußen“ vor sich geht. Das oft extrem vertrottelt & verkalkt wirkende Komitee in Stockholm hat den Literatur-Nobelpreis an Herta Müller vergeben! Seit gestern Mittag 13.00 Uhr  juble ich still vergnügt vor mich hin. Gibt es also in 0,0001% aller Fälle auch mal Gerechtigkeit? „Der Mensch ist ein grosser Fasan auf der Welt“ war Mitte der Achtziger das erste Buch von ihr, das allein wegen des anmutig-rätselhaften Titels meine Aufmerksamkeit weckte. Danach gehörte sie, und das blieb so, nicht nur zum äußerst exklusiven Kreis noch lebender AutorInnen, die ich reinen Herzens verehre, sondern auch zum noch kleineren Kreis jener wenigen „Gerechten“, aufrechter, tapferer, menschenwürdiger Menschen, die die Existenz unserer Spezies notfalls rechtfertigen.

Herta Müller war für mich seit Mitte der Achtziger immer ein Beleg (wenn Menschen denn ein „Beleg“ sein können) für zwei Dinge: a) daß es Menschen gibt, die äußerlich unscheinbar, weich und verletzlich wirken, aber im  inneren unbeugsam wie der legierte, millionenfach gefaltete Härtestahl eines Samurai-Schwertes sind: Gewalt, Terror, perfider Psycho-Druck, Verleumdungen, Lügen, die bis heute andauern – der ganze widerwärtige Apparat der Securitate, des rumänischen Geheimdienstes der Ceaucescu-Ära, konnte Herta Müller nicht brechen, nicht zum Schweigen bringen, sie nicht vom Schreiben abhalten! – Und b) daß es möglich ist, warmherzig, mitfühlend, menschenfreundlich zu empfinden, ohne auch nur einen Hauch von Falschheit (in der Literatur: Kitsch) zu produzieren.

Herta Müllers Prosa ist poetisch, eigenwillig, metaphernstark, kompromißlos und zart zugleich – all das aber nicht im Sinne von Kritikerliteratur: Ihre Werke sind lesbar, sogar mit Vergnügen und Genuß lesbar! –, vor allem aber ist Herta Müller nicht „wie“. Literaturwissenschaftler wie ich lernen ja immer das Komparative als Einordnungsprinzip zu nutzen. Frau Müller ist … „wie Kafka als Frau“? Wie eine wiedergeborene Achmatova? Wie … nein! Herta Müllers Stimme ist einzigartig und unverwechselbar! Daß sie, die Banater Schwäbin, deutsch schreibt, ist eine Ehre für unsere Sprache.

Die letzten Male, als deutschsprachige Literaten den Nobelpreis bekamen, senkte ich eher so  schamerrötend den Blick (Böll? DER unsägliche, sprachlich absolut unbegabte, hölzerne, linkskatholische Moralin-Kitschier? Und dann noch der bornierte Poltergeist und selbstverknallte Geniedarsteller Grass, der bloß ein einziges gutes Buch zustande brachte? Oder gar, ich bitte um Verzeihung, die bescheuerte Madame E. Jelinek mit ihren neurotischen Obsessionen? Gott! Wirf Hirn ab über Stockholm! – Tut mir Leid, so empfand ich…); nun aber bin ich versöhnt und froh. Schon als Oskar Pastior den Büchner-Preis bekam, freute ich mich. Und jetzt: Herta Müller! Ich persönlich hatte zwar einen anderen Favoriten auf der Stockholmer Shortlist: Bob Dylan, mein Groß- und Jugendidol. – Aber die Entscheidung von gestern beglückt mich noch mehr.

Herzlichen Glückwunsch, Frau Müller. – Für die, die ihr Werk noch nicht kennen: Müller ist ein Name, den man sich merken muß. Müller. Herta Müller. Literatur-Nobelpreis 2009!

My scanner is up and working! And with its resurrection comes a lovely cover for my (now regular) Book Cover Sunday post. I have seen some similar versions of this cover around on the net, but I’ve never seen this exact one. Finished the book this morning after a long while of on offing; really enjoyed it, going to have to check out some more Günter Grass in a while.

Author: Günter Grass
Title: Cat & Mouse
Publisher: Penguin Books
Year: First published 1961, I believe this is the 1971 reprint cover.

Gunter Grass is a major player in Germany’s Vergangenheitsbewältigung (coming to terms with the past), a thorn in the side of the establishment, part of the establishment, winner of the Nobel Prize for literature, and a former Waffen SS member.  Like most of his books, Crabwalk explores the impacts of the past on the present.  The book is narrated by Paul Pokriefke, a journalist who is struggling to understand his relationships with his mother, his ex-wife, and his son who has committed a terrible crime.  As with all of Grass’s book the root of all these problems lie in past events that have been repressed or ignored.

In 1936, a Nazi party functionary, Wilhelm Gustloff, was killed by a Jewish student in Switzerland. He becomes a ‘martyr’ for the Nazi party, and a ship in the Strength Through Joy fleet is named after him. Paul Pokriefke’s mother, Tulla, has happy memories of cruising the Baltic on the Wilhelm Gustloff, but her obsession with the ship has deeper and darker origins.  In January 1945, when Danzig was surrounded by the Red Army, a heavily pregnant Tulla was one of over 10,000 refugees and soldiers who crammed aboard the ship to escape. The ship was torpedoed shortly after leaving shore, and over 9000 people died.  Paul was born, or so his mother tells him, at the moment the ship sank, his first cries mingling with those of thousands of children drowning in the freezing sea.

As Paul grows up in East Germany, his mother tells this story over and over.  The teenage Paul  thinks he has escaped his origins when he moves to West Berlin not long before the borders are closed.  But after German reunification in 1989, his mother is back, and so is the story.  By this time he’s married, has a son Konrad, and has divorced.  Konrad becomes Tulla’s audience for the telling and retelling of the sinking of the Wilhelm Gustloff, and he becomes obsessed with it, setting up a website chronicling the full story and calling for  recognition of the tragedy as a war crime.

On the site, Konrad debates with another young man, Wolfgang, who assumes the persona of the Jewish student who shot Wilhelm Gustloff. They agree to meet, in Schwerin, where Wilhelm Gustloff is buried.  Wolfgang spits on the memorial.  Konrad shoots and kills him.

During the trial, Paul Pokriefke struggles to understand how this happened.  His ex-wife blames him for being an absent father.  He blames his ex-wife for being too liberal.  Tulla defends Konrad’s actions and blames West Germany for ignoring the suffering of its citizens during the war, especially those like her who were permanently displaced from what is now Poland.  Paul, his ex-wife, and the dead boys parents meet in a bar after the verdict, collectively and awkwardly wondering how, when they thought they were doing everything right as parents, it seems they were doing everything wrong.

At the very end of the book, Paul visits his son in a juvenile detention centre several times.  Konrad has been building a model of the Wilhelm Gustloff, supplied by his grandmother.  On the last visit, he deliberately smashes it until his hand bleed, asking “are you happy now, dad?”.  On returning home and switching on his computer, Paul comes across a neo-nazi website that exalts the ‘martyrdom’ of Konrad Pokriefke. It doesn’t end, he thinks, it never will.

The title Crabwalk is a reference to the process of moving forwards while appearing to move backwards or sideways.  It echoes the way the characters need to scuttle back and forth across the wreckage of the past in order to understand the present disaster they find themselves in.  The German title is Krebsgang, and Krebs is also the German word for cancer.  I don’t know if that was a deliberate play on words by Grass, but it may well be a reference to the way that Germany’s continuing uneasy relationship with WWII and the divided years that followed, is eating away at the society from the inside.

Crabwalk is an enjoyable book.  The characters all have their flaws – Konrad is self-righteous, Paul is a bit of a loser, Tulla is slightly nuts – but they are well drawn.  Unlike Grass’s earlier books, which are very allegorical to the point of being slightly irritating, the metaphors and symbolism in this book are more subtle which allows the characters to shine through and be more like real people than are many in his earlier work.  The only slight wrong note was Grass inserting himself into the narrative as an unnamed older figure that Paul occasionally seeks guidance from in his writing.  I didn’t think this was needed.

Crabwalk
Gunter Grass
Faber, 2002

Und was ist politische Lyrik? Das ist Lyrik, wird ein literarisch gebildeter Mensch sagen, die einen Missstand benennt und dabei Position bezieht. Also Lyrik im Dienste der Aufklärung, Bertolt Brecht und seine Nachfolger wie etwa Günter Grass’ Anti-Vietnamkrieg-Gedicht „In Ohnmacht gefallen“, Hans Magnus Enzensbergers „Ins Lesebuch für die Oberstufe“ und Alfred Andersch mit seinem „Paragraph 3(3)“.

Bei einem derart vorgeprägten Begriff wie dem der politischen Lyrik kann und muss ein Band wie „Alles außer Tiernahrung“ irritieren, der dem Leser „Neue politische Gedichte“ vorstellen will, denn die in dieser Anthologie veröffentlichten Autoren – größtenteils Lyriker, die zwischen 25 und 40 Jahre alt sind – spielen den Ball an, ohne ihn ins Tor zu schießen, wenn ihr Sujet überhaupt erkennbar ist. Politische Sachverhalte wie die Migration in die ‚Festung Europa‘ in Björn Kuhligks Gedicht „Die Liebe in den Zeiten der EU“ oder Arbeitslosigkeit und Entfremdung in der Großstadt in Stan Lafleurs Text „tauben“ werden durch einige gezielt geäußerte Begriffe assoziativ im Leser angesprochen – ungefähr so, als ob ein Musiker wenige Töne einer Melodie erklingen lässt und sich darauf verlässt, dass der Zuhörer dann das gesamte Lied im Ohr hat. Einige wenige Autoren, wie Adrian Kasnitz, der in „am bankomat“ die Auswirkungen der Konsumgesellschaft thematisiert, oder Gerald Fiebig, der sich in „nach der industrie“ mit dem Niedergang Detroits befasst, werden deutlicher in ihrer Darstellung, ohne dass sie dem Leser die Utopie einer besseren Gesellschaft aufzeigen oder ihn konkret zum Handeln auffordern. Dadurch wird diese Anthologie zu einem Dokument der Postmoderne und zu einer Standortbestimmung, was Lyrik heute im politischen Sinne zu leisten vermag. …

Gut gefällt, dass es dem Herausgeber Tom Schulz geglückt ist, neben etablierten Stimmen, wie Monika Rinck, Adrian Kasnitz oder Ron Winkler, das Potential von Dichtern, die bisher weniger in Erscheinung getreten sind, wie Markus Roloff, Florian Voß oder Simone Hirth, zu verdeutlichen. Wer „Lyrik von Jetzt“ oder ähnliche Anthologien mag, wird auch diesen Band zu schätzen wissen, auch wenn die Gedichte von Autoren wie Marcel Beyer oder Thomas Kunst stilistisch von denen der „LvJ“-Generation abweichen und obwohl die Gedichte des Herausgebers wegen ihres überzogenen Hanges zur Originalität von allen Texten am wenigsten überzeugen. / Andreas Hutt, literaturkritik.de

Tom Schulz (Hg.): Alles außer Tiernahrung. Neue politische Gedichte.
Rotbuch Verlag, Berlin 2009.
144 S., 16,90 EUR.
ISBN-13: 9783867890793

“El gobierno del espectáculo, que ostenta actualmente todos los medios desde falsificar el conjunto tanto de la producción como de la percepción, es dueño absoluto de los recuerdos, así como es dueño incontrolado de los proyectos que forman el porvenir más lejano. Reina solo en todas partes: ejecuta sus juicios sumarios.”

Guy Debord, Comentarios sobre la sociedad del espectáculo (Gracias Moro)

Günter Grass contó en Im Krebsgang, cómo los rusos (los buenos) hundieron con un par de torpedos un barco con nuevemil niños y refugiados alemanes (los malos) en 1945. Le llamaron nazi, con un Nóbel bajo el brazo. No es muy conocido, que en USA (los superbuenos) también hubo campos de concentración, donde recluyeron, torturaron, y aniquilaron, a miles de personas, o que algunas islas del Pafífico están repletas de cuevas donde quemaban vivos a los japoneses (los malos. Sobretodo los de Hiroshima y Nagasaki, que debían ser horribles personas). Una guerra es una guerra, y punto.

Es sabido que los ganadores escriben la Historia y, lo que es peor, deforman el lenguaje adaptándolo a las necesidades de cada momento, como si se tratara de vulgares feriantes. Es decir que para nosotros, lo que los alemanes hicieron con los judíos fue un genocidio, pero lo que USA hizo con los japoneses fueron, o bien acciones de guerra (lanzar dos bombas atómicas, arrasar Tokio…), o bien acciones a prisioneros de guerra.

De este modo, la Historia se cuenta del siguiente modo: Hitler fue un loco asesino que ganó las elecciones, y luego con unos señores raros, asesinos y malos, quiso aniquilar a un pueblo (errante, al que habrá que darles un terruño, en un momento dado), que se imponía al pueblo alemán para lanzarle a la locura de la guerra, sólo por salir al mar. Afortunadamente (musiquita) los americanos vinieron a ayudar a los inocentes franceses (lo de Alsacia fue un quítame allá esas pajas), y al honorable y resistente Reino Unido.

El sistema nazi era, primordialmente un sistema tiránico por parte de lo económico (el capital, pero lo omito por no parecer un desfasao pegacarteles), que busca exactamente lo mismo que el neoliberalismo, con unos métodos bien parecidos (el beneficio prima, la guerra como fuente de reactivación económica, las minorías como enemigos, racismo marcado por diferencias económicas -esto es, color de piel-, violencia, superioridad de la raza dominante…) y, aunque se diferencian porque el neoliberalismo respeta las libertades individuales, la realidad tiende a igualar ambos modelos: con los gobiernos neoliberales, desde Thatcher hasta Bush, pasando por Nike, Microsoft o Shell, se ha percutido en dos direcciones: la invisibilidad y el engaño.

Por invisibilidad me refiero a que la libertad se resume en Burguer o McDonnalds, El País, o El Mundo, en qué hacer con el sueldo, en decisiones nada molestas para el sistema, inocuas, vulgares, secundarias, con cuya toma, reforzamos al propio sistema, en tanto que lo aceptamos. Cualquier decisión que pueda plantearse un cambio de las cosas, cae en un reducto de lo cómico o esperpéntico, apaleado por los medios, políticos, y demás bienpensantes. La alternativa es invisible. El ejemplo más claro es que cuando han caído bancos, aseguradoras, y el sistema económico se ha venido a pique, la capacidad para generar alternativas es tan débil, está tan desactivada, que no ha existido alternativa alguna. La gran solución ha sido: (redoble) esperar a que todo pase.

Por engaño me refiero a que no se puede ser liberal de cintura para arriba, y no serlo de cintura para abajo. La doctrina económica liberal es difícilmente creíble si se acompaña de un pensamiento moral reaccionario y trasnochado. La libertad y la igualdad son faros a los que nunca llega ningún barco. Todos sabemos que al despertar del sueño americano, los negros tienen sus barrios, los inmigrantes los suyos, los blancos otros, y los superblancos sus privadísimos barrios. Hasta en España sucede. Cuando hablan del nazismo, nos enseñan lo importante que fue la publicidad, en control de las mentes y anhelos de los ciudadanos… omito comparación, por obvia. Desde que el mundo neoliberal campa a sus anchas, y se acabó la Historia (como dijo el hijoputa de Fukuyama), vemos torturas en campos de concentración, nos quitan el champú en los aeropuertos, aguantamos las historias de la hija de Belén Esteban, o llevamos un móvil con GPS que localiza en qué water cagamos a cada instante y, aquí viene la lección magistral amigos, no sólo lo hemos elegido nosotros, sino que nos sentimos afortunados por ello.

Es por todas estas cosas, y por otras muchas más, por las que la figura del fürer me hace mucha gracia. Lo juro, me da risa, me parece tan cómico como el traje de ejecutivo de Leo Bassi. Así me me voy a encerrar este finde, y a darle forma al cortometraje sobre Hitler, homenajeando a El Guateque. Será un descojono.

99 Prozent dessen, was man in der DDR halt Kunst nannte, taugt natürlich nichts. Das ist immer so und ist nirgends anders. Aber die DDR hatte so eine Weise, in diesen 99 Prozent ganz besonderen Mist zu bieten, denn es kam dort zum künstlerischen Unvermögen immer noch diese zwanghafte Art, politische Bekenntnisse abzulegen, die Hammer-und-Sichel-Lyrik, die Wir-packen-das-Romane und die Bisschen-dagegen-Filme. Lourdes für Atheisten, “Schwarzwaldklinik” für Unsentimentale, Micky Maus für solidarisch Gesinnte. – Aus und vorbei.

Wir sprechen hier von Kunst im engeren Sinne, im Sinne von Dauer. So viel Ewigkeitsahnung trägt doch jeder in sich, dass er weiß, dass mit solcher Kunst nicht Christa Wolf und ganz sicher nicht Günter Grass gemeint ist. Wir sprechen aber zum Beispiel von Peter Hacks, von Heiner Müller, von dem erst noch zu entdeckenden Alfred Matusche, vom eben gestorbenen Jochen Berg. Die BRD hatte auch wen – oje, ich überlege gerade, wen ich nun nennen soll. Na ja, irgendwen wird sie gehabt haben, aber keinen jener Art und Güte. / André Thiele, taz 1.8.

André Müller im Gespräch mit Günter Grass, FR 31.7.

In Ihrem jüngsten Gedichtband “Letzte Tänze” feiern Sie Ihre sexuelle Potenz. Ein Gedicht trägt den Titel “Heftige Stöße”. In einem anderen heißt es: “Komm, lieg bei mir, solang mein Einundalles steht …”

Darin drückt sich eine Dankbarkeit aus, dass es noch geht in meinem Alter.

Dankbarkeit wem gegenüber?

Na, ihm gegenüber, dass er noch steht.

Gelänge die Erektion nicht mehr, das wäre das Ende?

Das will ich nicht sagen. Ich würde es mit Bedauern feststellen, aber ich würde ganz gewiss weiterschreiben.