Wim Wenders’ Der Himmel über Berlin (a.k.a. Wings of Desire, if you like your titles a bit more on-the-nose, a.k.a. The Film That City Of Angels Is Just Barely Based On) is undoubtedly a beautiful film to look at. Its visuals are a love letter to Berlin as much as to black-and-white cinematography. It’s also a film containing many gems: the image of many, many angels hanging out at the library, watching over us; Bruno Ganz and Otto Sander sitting in a show car, comparing notes; their conversation about the history of the world; almost every scene that Ganz has with Peter Falk, and the conceit of Falk being an ex-angel himself. There are many quietly beautiful, poetic, even funny moments.

And yet, in spite of the accolades the film has garnered, even after two viewings I can’t shake the impression that it tries way too hard to be poetic, to be art. The worst offender is the poem that the film picks up again and again, Peter Handke’s “Lied vom Kindsein”, that interminable bit of pretentious doggerel that begins with “Als das Kind Kind war…”. Not only does it offer the appearance of depth rather than the real thing, Ganz also keeps falling into this childlike singsong, making it wholly insufferable. It’s a series of idealising clichés about the innocence of childhood that make me want to hunt down the poem’s titular child and send it off to boarding school.

What bothered me even more, though, is the trapeze artist that Bruno Ganz’ Damiel gives up his angelhood for. Her lines – both her thoughts and her dialogue late in the film with newly mortal Damiel – are painfully faux-deep, making me think that if I was Damiel and had just given up immortality for her, I’d feel pretty ticked off right now. That whole last dialogue seems to boil down to “The meaning of life lies entirely in man and woman having it off, and that’s what makes life, like, deep, man!”

I guess that’s my main problem: when the film doesn’t try its damnedest to be deep and poetic, it actually becomes these things. When it aims at depth, it comes off as an overly earnest transcript of one of those conversations first-year students have at 2pm in the morning after lots of cheap red wine. I also had these conversations, I enjoyed them, but there’s a difference between being young and drunk, as much on wine as on one’s sense of understanding of the world and all, and having to sit through them as an outside observer.

I’ll probably end up watching the film again, five years or so down the road, because there are so many people who love it dearly. Perhaps Der Himmel über Berlin just isn’t for me, at least not in its entirety, but I keep thinking there’s something I’ve missed. Or perhaps I missed the opportunity of seeing this film first when I was younger. “Als das Kind Kind war” and all that jazz…

Ab heute ist bald Weihnachten. Früher begann jetzt für mich immer eine stressige Zeit. Ständig stellten die Erwachsenen mir dumme Fragen: “Na, kleiner Mann, was wünschen wir uns denn zu Weihnachten? Eine Modelleisenbahn, einen laubgesägten Zoo mit Milchviehbesatz oder ein gutes Buch?”
Vielleicht noch Karl May: Durch’s wilde Kurdistan oder: Von Bagdad nach Stanbul? So was kann man sich ja heute gar nicht mehr wünschen, ohne in Terrorismus-Verdacht zu geraten. Ich empfehlle daher lieber Peter Handkes Desillusions-Schmarren “Wunschloses Unglück”. Ein Klassiker des Weltekels, der den Untertitel “Ein Leidfaden für die Festtage” verdient hätte. Da stehen so karge Sätze drin wie: “Der Der Saal ist leer. Mein Glas noch voll. Mann, bin ich heute wieder toll.” Ja, der Peter Handke kann sich gut leiden, und einer muss es ja tun.
Die Kids heute haben’s da leichter. Wenn man die nach Weihnachtswünschen fragt, anworten sie nur leicht unwirsch: “Wii, bitte!”

Aber Gemach, es gibt sie noch, die Romantik. Wenn auch gut versteckt in der RTL-Mistgabeldoku “Bauer such Frau”. Da ist alles drin, was das Herz begehrt. Leidenschaft im Hochgebirge: “Als ich mit Dieter zum Höhepunkt kam, genoss ich den Ausblick. Er war gigantisch.” Und Poesie: “Die Eroberung meines Herzens ist schon ein Stück weit vorangekommen.” Lebensklugheit: “Im Badesee macht man andere Bewegungen als im Alltag.” Und natürlich der Klassiker im zwischenmenschlichen Auf und Ab: “Kerschtin, isch liebe disch.”

Jetzt weiß ich, was ich mir zu Weihnachten wünsche: Eine salzige Original-Träne von Amy Winehouse eingefasst in einen uralten Bernstein. Dann wollen wir doch mal sehen, wie lange sich der Amy ihre Gefühlsergüsse halten. Wenn das nicht geht, dann nehm ich ne DVD mit allen Höhepunten aus der “BsF”-Serie. Und falls ich bis Weihnachten doch noch ne richtig fesche  Bäuerin mit Voralberg und Hinterzarten kennenlerne, schreib ich der zum Christfest ins Poesiealbum: “Du bisch die Frau, wo isch niemal los lassen werd.”
Möcht jemand noch ‘n Eiergrog?

Sugiere J que quizá sea mejor quitar la palabra POEMA del posteo DEL ESCUCHAR POCO. He copiado el texto un par de veces para editarlo más poéticamente pero cuando reemplazo palabras se me desvanece, al final lo dejé como estaba. Yo pensaba en Brecht, o en Peter Handke pero sin mucho resultado. A ver si leyéndolos de nuevo. __ (domingo en la mañana: _ introduje muchos cambios, hice lo que pude…)

Période Handke qui se prolonge. Déception des carnets, mais pas de ces entretiens. Très portés sur la géographie au début.

Dans le livre, les lieux, pour le lecteur, sont toujours autres, et plus vastes, et aussi plus fructueux, que si on l’emmène là en lui disant, comme lors d’un pèlerinage ou un voyage guidé, voici l’arbre ou … cela me gêne. Chacun, quand il a lu quelque chose, en a l’image en soi, et il se réjouit de cette image. Mais le modèle est toujours décevant, et plutôt importun, aussi. – Ou alors le lecteur trouve lui-même, il se met en quête et part à la recherche.

Peter HANDKE dans Espaces intermédiaires

Once again, this morning my city was shrouded in dense fog. It’s quite common here, but this time I took some pics with my phone. Here they are:

Posting this reminded me of one of my first attempts at translation. In my German textbook of years long gone by, while I was at the English Language School in Burgas, there was a poem by Hermann Hesse titled “Im Nebel.” I decided to translate it into English so that I could practice both languages. I don’t have the translation any more; I remember I was proud of it at the time and even showed it to my German teacher, whose English unfortunately wasn’t good enough to critique it. I’m impressed that, bar one or two words, I could still understand the German in the poem. Well, I admit it’s not very hard German; the longest word is unentrinnbar of only 13 letters. I’ve put the poem after the break. The poem itself still speaks to me in wistful tones and an affecting lilting rhythm.

Incidentally, the poem comprises the libretto of the 5th movement of Penderecki’s Symphony 8, as Wikipedia helpfully informs.

Incidentally squared, the same German textbook also acquainted me with Peter Handke. I read a fascinating extract of his play Kaspar about Kaspar Hauser. It took me several years of looking, until I finally found a used copy of some Handke’s works in Powell’s. Such was my dedication. They were well worth the efforts.

Im Nebel

Seltsam, im Nebel zu wandern!
Einsam ist jeder Busch und Stein,
Kein Baum sieht den andern,
Jeder ist allein.

Voll Freunden war mir die Welt,
Als noch mein Leben licht war;
Nun, da der Nebel fällt,
Ist keiner mehr sichtbar.

Wahrlich, keiner ist weise,
Der nicht das Dunkel kennt,
Das unentrinnbar und leise
Von allen ihn trennt.

Seltsam, im Nebel zu wandern!
Leben ist Einsamsein.
Kein Mensch kennt den andern,
Jeder ist allein.

Here are two links with translations.

1. The first one has a decent literal translation, but doesn’t have the same rhythm, the same mystical tone.
2. The second one provides two translations, which preserve the rhyming pattern. I’m torn between the two. I really like translating the same word seltsam, as both “wondrous” and “strange.” The dictionary seems to indicate that the word means just “strange, odd, peculiar,” but wondrous is at least in same nebula of meaning. (ha! punny!) At the same time, I feel it is important to preserve the symmetry in the German original. However, at times I find the English in his translation strained and somewhat unnatural.

Either late last year, or early this year (I can’t remember which, I know it was cold), I wasn’t feeling well. I left work early, but couldn’t quite face getting the tube, so wandered around in a bit of a daze (thinking about it now, it must have been early this year; if it had been late last year, there would have been Christmas decorations everywhere).

I found myself in the newly opened Book Exchange on Berwick Street. Being newly opened, they hadn’t finished putting all the stock out, and the shop was half empty (ever restless, as soon as the shop was fully stocked, they moved everything downstairs. They sell clothes upstairs now).

I bought this book for 50p:

>

Inside the book, someone (I assume Charles Unwin) has written this:

I’m not sure what the “902″ refers to. The “40p Wk1″ is in reference to the price which someone, probably the person who owned the book immediately before me, paid for it in an Imperial Cancer Research shop. I know it had previously been sold in an Imperial Cancer Research shop because I found this receipt in the book:

15-10-01. Good lord. Whoever had bought it previously had done so more than seven years earlier. Who was that person? Charles Unwin? I doubt it. The book must have passed through several hands since this edition was originally published in 1978.

The habit of writing your name and address in the inside cover of a book is one which has apparently died out (I base this on nothing more than anecdotal evidence; when I’ve noticed these inscriptions in other books, they always seem to be a bit older. Newer books remain anonymous). My guess is that Charles Unwin must have been the original owner of the book (would someone buying a book secondhand mark it in that way?). He probably bought it in 1978 or maybe 1979. I hope he liked the book. But who was he? Googling the phrase “Charles Unwin” (in quotes) brings up 15,000 results. Which one is he?

There’s an actor called Charles Unwin, but he was only born in 1973. It can’t be him. Could he be the Charles Unwin who the Queen was so graciously pleased to appoint as an Officer of Her Diplomatic Service on the 6th Febrary 1979? Is he the Charles Unwin who would later go on to write this? Maybe he is the Charles Unwin who is friends with a man who calls himself Papalaz. A “very clever guy and a great reader”, maybe Handke’s odd little book would have appealed to him. I suppose I’ll never know.

I wonder what 9a Regent’s Park Terrace is like. This is where it is:

It’s an architectural practice now. This is their website.

This is what 9a Regent’s Park Terrace looks like on Google Streetview. In this picture, it’s obstructed by a tree:

This is what 9a Regent’s Park Terrace looks like if you stand outside and take a photo:

I’m not entirely sure why I went there. I suspect it’s actually a slightly creepy thing to do. But once I had the idea of going, I knew I had no choice. I don’t know what I expected to find, and the whole thing was a bit of an anti-climax. It was cold and windy. I didn’t stay there very long. I felt awkward and went and had an overpriced pint of Red Stripe in the Spread Eagle around the corner.

Maybe part of the reason for my decision to make this pilgrimage was that, actually, it didn’t involve much effort on my part. I only had to get the tube to Camden. I didn’t have to fly anywhere. This was also inside the book:

This Wikipedia page suggests this card is also from 2001; the interim period during Greece’s move to “a closed ten-digit numbering scheme”. I’m a bit surprised that a company like Siroco’s (a holiday apartment complex) didn’t have a website even as recently as 2001. They have one now though. Parikia looks a lot nicer than Camden. Maybe I made the wrong choice.

Papalaz moved from London to Crete at some stage. Maybe I could take a tour of the Greek Islands and pop in to see him. He runs a farm. Maybe that’s what Charles Unwin did. Maybe he met up with his friend in the Greek islands. Maybe Papalaz realised he still had that book he’d borrowed from Charles a few years ago, and gave it back. But, then what? Reunited with the book, Unwin stayed a few nights at Siroco’s, read it one last time, and then donated it to his local charity shop? That doesn’t make sense. Of course it doesn’t make sense. I’m trying to squeeze the biographical details of two different Charles Unwins together for no real reason.

What happened to the book between the time Charles Unwin wrote his name in pencil inside the front cover in the late seventies and the time it was sold in an Imperial Cancer Research shop in 2001 remains a mystery. At some point around then, it might have made a trip to a Greek island, it might not have. Either way, a few years later, it was sold in the Book Exchange on Berwick Street for 50p to a man who was feeling unwell.

Avant de partir quelques jours loin des écrans mais près des livres et de l’océan, je cède à la tentation d’un petit jeu littéraire: le jeu le plus simple, le jeu par excellence, illustré de bien des manières, de l’Oulipo aux Papous, en passant par de nombreux blogs.

Deux extraits. Qui en sont les auteurs? De quels textes sont-ils tirés?

J’ai choisi un début (parmi mes préférés) et une fin (lue il y a peu) qui semblent se répondre (une fois encore). Des écrivains face à un monde singulièrement vide et comme dépeuplé, l’un immobile dans sa baraque, l’autre sur le chemin en quête du lieu élu, qui reprennent et renouvellent tous deux à leur manière la posture romantique.Une forme de happy end cependant: le second extrait promet une réconciliation que le premier passage ne laisse guère présager. J’en dis déjà trop.

Indice supplémentaire: j’ai déjà cité ces deux auteurs.Avec les photos cela devient encore plus facile.

Un début :

“Un lieu

Ainsi, j’ai parcouru les mers, et maintenant je suis… à B…, petite bourgade amarrée à un champ de l’Indiana. Par deux fois, il s’est trouvé ici mille deux cents personnes pour répondre au recensement. La ville est exceptionnellement propre et ombragée et présente toujours son meilleur profil à la route. Sur une pelouse, il y a même un cerf de bronze, en bois ou en plastique.

Pour arriver jusqu’à nous, vous traverserez une rivière. Au printemps les pelouses sont vertes, les forsythias font leurs trilles, et même la voie ferrée qui éventre la ville a des rails brillants et bien droits qui murmurent quand arrive le train; le train lui-même, d’ailleurs, corne fort joliment.

Dans les petites rues de derrières, l’asphalte se désagrège en gravier. Là se trouvent la maison des Westbrook, avec ses géraniums, celle des Horsefall, celle des Mott. Les trottoirs s’en vont en morceaux. La poussière de gravier suit comme une haleine le passage des carrioles. Quant à moi, c’est ici que je me suis retiré de l’amour.”

Une fin:

“Narrateur dans ta cabane en plein champ envahie par les herbes, toi l’homme doué du sens de l’orientation, tu peux tranquillement te taire, garder peut-être le silence dans les siècles des siècles, écoutant l’extérieur, descendant à l’intérieur de toi-même, mais ensuite, roi, enfant, rassemble tes forces, redresse-toi, appuie-toi sur tes coudes, souris à la ronde, reprends une profonde respiration, et fais à nouveau entendre celui qui apaise tous les conflits, ton: “Et…”"

Il lisait un essai d’explication du monde vieux de deux mille ans écrit par un naturaliste romain dans la langue duquel on trouvait encore “la douceur, le fondu” d’un poème. “Ainsi la matière faite d’un corps solide peut-elle être éternelle pendant que tout le reste se dissout.”

Peter HANDKE in Lent retour

E deu Gana no Mundial Sub-20, pela primeira vez, depois de dois vices. Vitória na primeira série alternada de pênaltis, após 120 minutos de 0×0. Com duas grandes defesas de Rafael, a Seleção Brasileira sub-20 teve tudo para fechar a série de 5 cobranças com a taça. Mas perdeu 2 pênaltis.

Às vezes você tem a sensação que saca quando o jogador vai desperdiçar a cobrança só pela expressão dele ao caminhar para a marca do cal? Parece que todo o peso do mundo cai sobre o atleta nesse momento. Imagina para um jovem. Por isso, o título deste post brinca com o nome do romance de Peter Hanke, filmado por Wim Wenders, O Medo do Goleiro diante do Pênalti (leia mais).

Agora, uma perguntinha: será que os nossos trios de arbitragem mandariam voltar pênaltis como os defendidos pelo goleiro brasileiro Rafael? Tem que ter um padrão. Não pode cada juiz agir do jeito que quiser. Não pode ter uma regra para uns e outra para goleiros famosos ou visitantes.

Peter Handke, A ma fenêtre le matin, Carnets du rocher 1982-1987, p.226

« Un instant de splendeur, le jour d’hier: les feuilles de chêne qui dans la lueur du soleil hivernal planent, tombent, se détachent, sans offrir de résistance; et se détachant ainsi de la branche ces feuilles rouvraient tout grand les portes du royaume de l’imaginaire; et le secret une fois encore était dans le verbe; le secret? la parabole: les feuilles de chêne ne “tombaient” pas, elles…? elles “métaphorisaient”, c’est-à-dire qu’elles signifiaient, sans métaphore particulière, un autre, l’autre monde: celui-ci cessait enfin, dans la parabole des feuilles qui se détachaient de l’arbre, inassignables, craquetaient sur le ciel bleu d’avant l’hiver, d’être une chose déterminée, et le monde dans la contemplation de ces feuilles parties sans plus de façons versait une indétermination à vous réchauffer le cœur; l’autre monde, indéterminé, indéterminable, ou une fois encore: “monde muet, ma seule patrie”"

p.112

“Trois fenêtres dans la pièce où je travaille: dans l’une les feuillus; dans l’autre l’épicéa sombre et le rocher voisin (le Rainberg), avec sa lumière clignotante pour les avions; dans la troisième, à portée de main, les buissons, la vigne vierge, les cordes de liane – je n’ai encore jamais vu ça (et pourtant voilà bientôt cinq ans que je vis ici même) “

p.186

” La première fois de ma vie que j’ai découvert un lieu – les anciens bunkers souterrains cachés parmi les hautes herbes et les broussailles, au bord de la Mur, au sud de Graz, en mai 1963 -, mon premier récit est né (18 août 1984)”

(traduction Olivier Le Lay)

Qu’observe Peter Handke par la fenêtre, sur son rocher? La langue: “verbe pour”, “il faudrait dire”, “il ne faut pas dire”, “partir sur la trace du mot juste”. Dans les livres, la langue étrangère: Spinoza, René Char, Emmanuel Bove, Héraclite, Parménide. Ceux qui regardent le monde comme une nature morte, ceux qui pensent la nature naturans, ceux qui ont fait descendre les dieux dans l’ici-bas en se mettant sur leur piédestal. Qu’observe-t-il encore? Le monde? Des morceaux du monde, qui ont la forme du monde. Des microcosmes qui disent le tout à leur manière. Une feuille, et sur la feuille, une goutte de rosée. Une abeille dans une fleur de tilleul. De gros escargots de l’autre côté de la vitre, “comme plaqués là par la tempête”. Le mauvais rire des “gens d’ici”.

Qu’écrit-il, le matin ?

p. 18

“Je marchais au bord du lac, l’angélus du soir tintait, un ébranlement parcourait les eaux gelées, comme si une bête cachée se levait (Saint-Moritz, 29 déc.)”

p.57

« Description de lieu: rendre ce lieu-ci au monde; rendre le monde à ce lieu-ci »

p.59

« La lumière et l’air toujours changeants d’un objet à l’autre: ce que je voudrais tout au long de centaines de pages lumineuses et aérées pouvoir décrire et raconter ».

p.320

« Le soleil brille et ça peut commencer. Ça? Lire, relier, être là »

Des fragments qui forment un ensemble compact, solide, qui donnent à ses journées, ses mois, ses années l’allure d’un fleuve de pierre, d’une coulée de marbre descendue par un esprit en quête de clartés. Que cherche-t-il exactement? Rien dit-il, « l’artiste (je n’ai pas d’autre mot) ne questionne pas, il attend bien plutôt, peut-être pendant des années, que se dévoile le secret (je n’ai pas d’autre mot) ». Peter Handke a voyagé, et voyage encore (le Karst (le Corso de Magris), la Provence, la Suisse, la Slovénie proche de sa Carinthie natale). Il reste pourtant sédentaire. Il attend. Il écrit ces lignes comme une sorte d’expérience et de préparation (du roman, Le Recommencement), et elles deviennent elles-mêmes le résultat unique de l’expérience, de la préparation. C’est le propre des grands journaux (lui dit “mon livre-atome”).

De ce lieu, Salzbourg (S.), autour duquel tout – phénomènes et noumènes – semble graviter il tient donc le monde comme un dieu, pas mieux, pas moins. Il est, comme Adam avant la Chute, celui qui nomme. Il est le juge et l’académicien. Un drôle de juge dans sa tour d’ivoire, un drôle d’académicien dans sa tour de Babel, seul, qui tranche. Peu importent la tour, le rocher. « Le lieu de l’art n’est pas le nulle part ou le n’importe où, mais le toujours quelque part ».

Et la fenêtre? C’est un cadre, une protection, un viseur, une lunette pour voir le monde, une porte d’entrée ouverte

Claude Simon, Histoire, p.9

« l’une d’elles touchait presque la maison et l’été quand je travaillais tard dans la nuit assis devant la fenêtre ouverte je pouvais la voir ou du moins ses derniers rameaux éclairés par la lampe avec leurs feuilles semblables à des plumes palpitant faiblement sur le fond des ténèbres »

Lui qui cite Rilke en exergue

« Cela nous submerge. Nous l’organisons. Cela

tombe en morceaux.

Nous l’organisons de nouveau et tombons

nous-mêmes en morceaux. »

et on pense à autre chose encore:

William H. Gass, Au cœur du cœur de ce pays, p.273

« Ma fenêtre est un tombeau, et tout ce qui s’étend dans son champ est mort. Il ne tombe pas de neige. Il n’y a pas de brume. Ni calme. Ni silence. Les images qu’elle contient ne sont pas une bête à l’affût, car le mouvement n’a jamais rien prouvé. J’ai vu la mer étale, la vie bouillonner dans un corps sans laisser la moindre trace, ses bulles hermétiques la traverser comme un verre de soda. Talons qui claquent, Rimmel qui coule: et, au bout du rouleau, la pute au cul de houle. Les feuilles se contorsionnent. L’herbe ondule. Un oiseau pépie, picore. Une roue d’auto qui dessine des cercles n’en dessine pas moins ses rayons immobiles. Ces images sont des pierres; ce sont des monuments. Sous cette mer, c’est de l’océan qui gît: qu’il repose en paix, que Dieu le garde… et Dieu garde le monde par-delà ma fenêtre, moi devant mon reflet, penché sur cette page, mon ombre. »

(Rivages poche, traduction de Marc Chénetier et Pierre Gault).

Il arrive cependant qu’une simple volée de cloches filtrée par la fenêtre de la chambre rappelle à l’homme seul le “bonheur d’être ici” et lui fasse oublier un instant la malédiction de n’être jamais ailleurs. Mais de Paul Claudel, de son Après-midi à Cambridge, et de Michael Edwards, il sera question plus tard.

Além dos meus favoritos, alguns outros merecedores do prêmio:

SOLITÁRIOS, PINÇADOS AQUI E ALI NO MAPA:

O holandês Cees Nooteboom- Livros indicados: Dia de finados; A seguinte história:

O moçambicano Mia Couto. Livros indicados: Terra Sonâmbula,  A varanda do frangipani

O albanês Ismail Kadaré. Walter Salles Jr. mostrou, com sua adaptação, como Abril despedaçado é universal. Outros títulos índicados: Dossiê H,  O palácio dos sonhos

Gosto muito do paquistanês Táriq Ali pelos seus romances Sombras da Româzeira e Medo de Espelhos. Mas também acho admirável ele publicar um livro tão provocativo quanto Piratas do Caribe.

Apesar de Jorge Semprún, acho que  o espanhol Juan Goytisolo  também mereceria o Nobel. Livros indicados: As semanas no jardim, A saga dos Marx

BRASILEIROS

     Vimos tantos escritores maiores nossos morrerem (Guimarães Rosa, Clarice Lispector, Graciliano Ramos, João Cabral de Melo Neto, Nélson Rodrigues, Manuel Bandeira, Carlos Drummond de Andrade, Osman Lins,  Jorge Amado, Jorge de Lima, Érico Veríssimo, Murilo Mendes, só para citar alguns), que é uma tristeza imaginar que nunca tivemos um Nobel. Por isso, além de Dalton Trevisan, um dos nomes abaixo podia ser anunciado:

Alguém tem dúvida de que Raduan Nassar mereceria por Lavoura Arcaica & Um copo de cólera?

Sou particularmente fã do mineiro Autran Dourado (minha tese de doutorado foi sobre sua obra). Meus livros prediletos: O risco do bordado, Novelário de Donga Novais, Armas &  Corações, Ópera dos mortos e Matéria de carpintaria: uma poética do romance

Lygia Fagundes Telles tem quatro romances lindos (especialmente As meninas e As horas nuas), mas sua obra como contista é notável (Antes do baile verde, O jardim selvagem, Seminário dos ratos, Invenção e Memória)

Adélia Prado tem uma obra poética belíssima (Bagagem, O coração disparado, Terra de Santa Cruz, O pelicano).

Outra obra poética considerável é a  de Manoel de Barros (O livro da ignorãças, Retrato do artista quando coisa, Tratado geral das grandezas do ínfimo, Livro das pré-coisas).

Rubem Fonseca merece o prêmio não por seus romances, certamente, porém pela sua extraordínárias obra como contista (Feliz ano novo, A coleira do cão, O buraco na parede).

Ariano Suassuna tem uma concepção estética muito particular e articulada, seu teatro é popular, inventivo e de grande penetração (Auto da Compdecida, O casamento suspeitoso) e há o grandioso A pedra do Reino

Nosso grande autor pós-moderno, o gaúcho João Gilberto Noll escreveu uma série de livros notáveis (Bandoleiros, Rastros do verão, Hotel Atlântico, Harmada, O quieto animal da esquina).

Confesso que não vou com a cara do “buda ditoso” João Ubaldo Ribeiro. Mas ele teve uma fase tão inspirada (Sargento Getúlio, Vila Real, Livro de Histórias), que nunca mais se repetiu, a não ser em alguns lampejos (Diário do Farol), talvez devido à vaidade, que ele não pode ser descartado. Difícil seria aturá-lo depois.

HISPANO-AMERICANOS

Irregularíssimo o mexicano Carlos Fuentes. Um livro como Terra Nostra é ao mesmo tempo ambicioso, monstruoso, cheio de coisas boas e ruins. Mas quando ele acerta, ele acerta: Aura, A morte de Artemio Cruz, Gringo Velho, o ensaio A geografia do romance…

Alan Pauls escreveu o romance (O passado) que rivaliza com Detetives selvagens, do falecido Roberto Bolaño, como livro supremo da década entre os hispano-americanos. Que estilo!

Ricardo Piglia é outro nome que não pode ser esquecido na pós-modernidade: A cidade ausente, Respiração Artificial, Nome Falso, o ensaio Formas Breves

PORTUGUESES

Conheço pouco a obra de Lídia Jorge (O dia dos prodígios), que muitos consideram notável, mas AGUSTINA BESSA LUÍS é uma precedente admirável. Livros indicados: A sibila, O Mosteiro, A muralha, Fanny Owen, As fúrias, Vale Abraão).

O poeta Nuno Júdice com sua Poesia Reunida (1967-2000)  e Cartografia de emoções

ITALIANOS

Pietro Citati também escreveu romanceus, além de ensaios, mas eu o acho genial com suas biografias únicas, admiráveis (Proust, Goethe)

Carlos Ginzburg mostrou que um bom relato histórico pode ser uma narrativa tão poderosa quanto uma ficção, em O queijo e os vermes. Outros grandes livros: Olhos de madeira, Mitos-Emblemas-Sinais, Nenhuma ilha é uma ilha

Claudio Magris escreve livros inclassificáveis que misturam anedotas históricas, apreensão geográfica, considerações filosóficas, análise de autores. É o caso de Danúbio e Microcosmos.

Andrea Camilleri faria honra à grande literatura siciliana com suas obras policiais (O cão de terracota, O ladrão de merendas) e as históricas (Um fio de fumaça, Por uma linha telefônica, A ópera maldita)

Roberto Calasso tnto pode escrever finas fantasias ficcionais utilizando a mitologia (Ka) quanto ensaios maravilhosos (K., A literatura e os deuses, Os 49 degraus)

O peculiaríssimo Aldo Busi, sensação nos anos 80, com Seminário sobre a juventude e Vida padrão de um vendedor provisório de collants

ALEMÃES

O dramaturgo Tankred Dorst de Diante dos muros da cidade, mas principalmente por Merlin, a visão mais original da história

Assim como Claudio Magris, Christa Wolf escreveu um livro inclassificável, Cassandra. E o belo Em busca de Christa T.

Por onde anda o outrora tão (merecidamente) badalado Peter Handke de A repetição, O medo do goleiro diante do pênalti, O movimento errado, A mulher canhota?

Para relembrar minha amiga Isabela, que tanta falta está fazendo para todos nós que a conhecemos (e ouvimos milhares de vezes suas ideias e encantamentos sobre Oscar Wilde – “a sword is just a sword…”, “to define is to limit…”), uma poesia linda em alemão (com tradução parcial), que abre o ainda mais lindo Asas do Desejo de Win Wenders. O que conforta é saber que ela está adorando estar na Inglaterra e tem um futuro brilhante pela frente, realizando muitos sonhos de todos nós na luta eterna contra os filisteus. Beijo, Bela!

Lied Vom Kindsein 
– Peter Handke 

Als das Kind Kind war, 
ging es mit hängenden Armen, 
wollte der Bach sei ein Fluß, 
der Fluß sei ein Strom, 
und diese Pfütze das Meer.

Als das Kind Kind war, 
wußte es nicht, daß es Kind war, 
alles war ihm beseelt, 
und alle Seelen waren eins.

Als das Kind Kind war, 
hatte es von nichts eine Meinung, 
hatte keine Gewohnheit, 
saß oft im Schneidersitz, 
lief aus dem Stand, 
hatte einen Wirbel im Haar 
und machte kein Gesicht beim fotografieren.

Als das Kind Kind war, 
war es die Zeit der folgenden Fragen: 
Warum bin ich ich und warum nicht du? 
Warum bin ich hier und warum nicht dort? 
Wann begann die Zeit und wo endet der Raum? 
Ist das Leben unter der Sonne nicht bloß ein Traum? 
Ist was ich sehe und höre und rieche 
nicht bloß der Schein einer Welt vor der Welt? 
Gibt es tatsächlich das Böse und Leute, 
die wirklich die Bösen sind? 
Wie kann es sein, daß ich, der ich bin, 
bevor ich wurde, nicht war, 
und daß einmal ich, der ich bin, 
nicht mehr der ich bin, sein werde?

Als das Kind Kind war, 
würgte es am Spinat, an den Erbsen, am Milchreis, 
und am gedünsteten Blumenkohl. 
und ißt jetzt das alles und nicht nur zur Not.

Als das Kind Kind war, 
erwachte es einmal in einem fremden Bett 
und jetzt immer wieder, 
erschienen ihm viele Menschen schön 
und jetzt nur noch im Glücksfall, 
stellte es sich klar ein Paradies vor 
und kann es jetzt höchstens ahnen, 
konnte es sich Nichts nicht denken 
und schaudert heute davor.

Als das Kind Kind war, 
spielte es mit Begeisterung 
und jetzt, so ganz bei der Sache wie damals, nur noch, 
wenn diese Sache seine Arbeit ist.

Als das Kind Kind war, 
genügten ihm als Nahrung Apfel, Brot, 
und so ist es immer noch.

Als das Kind Kind war, 
fielen ihm die Beeren wie nur Beeren in die Hand 
und jetzt immer noch, 
machten ihm die frischen Walnüsse eine rauhe Zunge 
und jetzt immer noch, 
hatte es auf jedem Berg 
die Sehnsucht nach dem immer höheren Berg, 
und in jeder Stadt 
die Sehnsucht nach der noch größeren Stadt, 
und das ist immer noch so, 
griff im Wipfel eines Baums nach dem Kirschen in einemHochgefühl 
wie auch heute noch, 
eine Scheu vor jedem Fremden 
und hat sie immer noch, 
wartete es auf den ersten Schnee, 
und wartet so immer noch.

Als das Kind Kind war, 
warf es einen Stock als Lanze gegen den Baum, 
und sie zittert da heute noch.

Sobre o ser criança

Quando a criança era criança,

andava de braços caídos,

queria que o ribeiro fosse um rio, 

que o rio fosse uma torrente, 

e estes charcos o mar.

Quando a criança era criança,

não sabia que era criança, 

todas as coisas tinham uma alma, 

e todas as almas eram uma.

…

Quando a criança era criança,

perguntava-se coisas assim:

Por que é que eu sou eu e não sou tu?

Por que estou aqui e por que não ali?

Quando começou o tempo e onde acaba o espaço?

A vida por baixo do sol será apenas um sonho?

Tudo o que vejo e ouço e cheiro, não serão apenas reflexos de um mundo anterior ao mundo?

Será que o mal existe mesmo, e há pessoas que são realmente más?

Como é possível que eu, que sou eu, antes de ser eu, não o era,

e que um dia, eu, que sou eu,

nunca mais volte a ser quem sou?

…

En James Agee quise encontrar al hombre de cara redonda capaz de buscar el silencio de los otros para manejar el propio silencio.

Enumerando, por ejemplo -a veces la literatura es simple y la complicidad absoluta-, las chanclas en el porche de la cabaña de los jornaleros: ésas son de la niña, aquellas del niño, de la madre, del padre…

En Malcolm Lowry, insoportable borracho, perseguidor de incendios e inverosímiles refugios, encontré la fiebre de los volcanes, el idioma que se habla tras la lengua, allá adentro, donde tartamudea el gusano manchando las cavidades de muerte y sexo.

Al atardecer de los suburbios y el átono rumor de los frigoríficos colmados de inútil alimento llegué de la mano de John Cheever, que sólo escribió un libro feliz, pronosticándolo (“¡éste será un libro feliz!”), lo que me hace pensar que acaso advertía la cercanía de la muerte y el paraíso donde las piscinas superan el horizonte.

A otra tierra más clara, y también más bestial, me condujeron Peter Mathiessen, budista tras ser hombre; Blaise Cendrars, un francés manco, seguramente insoportable, que hizo de la experiencia un circo de pulgas, y W.H. Hudson, un inglés compadrito vagueando por la cuenca del Paraná.

¡Vviajeros!, a ellos los frecuento para indemnizar mis déficits de héroes y tumbas: se venden unos a otros, benefactores en la militancia del mundo. Bruce Chatwin me llevó a Robert Byron y éste a Richard Burton, tres señoritos en los templos del dios sin nombre del desierto y los pellejos.

Borges me llevó a todos los que, alguna vez, soñaron con ser Borges.

Juan Rulfo y Cormac McCarthy, nocturnos, me enseñaron que las sombras azules de los caballos son la única salvaguarda cuando te persiguen las ánimas o la locura, quizá montada en uno de esos mismos caballos.

Porque lo maligno se escamotea en lo benigno, porque el napalm en la jungla quemó primero el pecho, como supe por Michael Herr y, desde otra guerra, el primer Vietnam, por Louis-Ferdinand Céline.

Robert Graves escribió para mí sobre la diosa de la niebla y los robles. Escucho ahora el rondó del lápiz sobre el folio. Joseph Mitchell escudriñó los papeles de Joe Gould mientras yo observaba. Veo ahora el ocaso frente a Manhattan. Don DeLillo me sostuvo en el estadio de beísbol. Acaricio ahora la piel añosa de la bola del home run.

La palabra clara para las emociones partidas, entrevistas apenas en las rendijas de tantas y tantas puertas, me la dieron Patricia Highsmith, Raymond Chandler, William Faulkner, Sam Shepard, Peter Handke, Carson McCullers, Flannery O’Connor, David Foster Wallace, William T. Wollmann… Toda esa gente con una cámara de cine ensartada en los ojos, como Melville, Conrad y Stevenson.

Toda esa gente sin metáforas.

At last to guess, instead of always knowing. To be able to say “ah” and “oh” and “hey” instead of “yea” and “amen.”

~ Damiel, from Wings of Desire

Just a question for those who have ever seen Wim Wenders sublime poetry-on-celluloid, Wings of Desire: Have you ever wondered exactly what all those ever-observant Rilkean angels were forever scribbling down in their notebooks?

It could only have been haiku.

Praise this world to the angel, not the unsayable one,
you can’t impress him with glorious emotion; in the universe
where he feels more powerfully, you are a novice.  So show him
something simple which, formed over generations,
lives as our own, near our hand and within our gaze.
Tell him of Things.  He will stand astonished.

~ Rainer Maria Rilke, Duino Elegies (translated by Stephen Mitchell)

As I came up the mountain, out of the misty valley into the sun. The fire on the cattle range, the potatoes in the ashes, the boathouse floating in the lake. The Southern Cross.  The Far East. The Great North. The Wild West. The Great Bear Lake. Tristan da Cunha. The Mississippi Delta. Stromboli. The old houses of Charlottenburg. Albert Camus. The morning light. The child’s eyes. The swim in the waterfall. The spots of the first drops of rain. The sun. The bread and wine. Hopping. Easter. The veins of leaves. The blowing grass. The color of stones. The pebbles on the stream’s bed. The white tablecloth outdoors. The dream of the house in the house. The dear one asleep in the next room. The peaceful Sundays. The horizon. The light from the room in the garden. The night flight. Riding a bicycle with no hands. The beautiful stranger. My father. My mother. My wife. My child.

~ Dying motorcyclist, from Wings of Desire

Peter Handke es el autor de uno de los más bellos poemas del siglo XX. No por casualidad, porque el escritor es de la generación que creció acunada por el cine, forma parte del guión de una película y la recorre, como no podía ser de otra forma dadas las preocupaciones del autor, brotando como la palabra y esfumándose como el tiempo:

Cuando el niño era niño
andaba con los brazos colgando,
quería que el arroyo fuera un río,
que el río fuera un torrente
y que este charco fuera el mar.
Cuando el niño era niño
no sabía que era niño
para él todo estaba animado,
y todas las almas eran una (…)
Cuando el niño era niño
jugaba con entusiasmo,
y ahora se mete en sus cosas como antes
sólo cuando esas cosas son su trabajo.

Narrador de reportajes que son consciencia y poeta de la momentaneidad que se transforma en verbo y se inmortaliza, Handke (Griffen-Austria, 1942) quizá sea –con perdón, como el diría, de los “escritores uniformados” Heinrich Böll y Gunther Grass, mucho más populares pero también más cardenalicios, y del llorado Thomas Bernhard– el mejor escritor en lengua alemana de las últimas décadas.

En España, donde su narrativa ha sido editada con puntualidad (Alianza tiene, a muy buen precio, una Biblioteca Handke entre sus colecciones), había una deuda pendiente con el poeta. Queda saldada con Vivir sin poesía (Bartleby, 24 €), primera antología completa en castellano de Handke. Es bilingüe y está traducida por Sandra Santana, que también firma un prólogo handkiano desde el título: La no-poesía de Handke, el mono que aprendió la lengua gracias a un marinero en estado de ebriedad o, como dijera Rilke, en ningún sitio, amada mía, habrá mundo sino en el interior.

Pese a que Handke se hizo de rogar para que sus poemas fuesen reunidos (adujo a sus editores “no ser un poeta”), sus no-versos recorren los últimos cuarenta años. El tomo que aparece ahora va desde las proclamas de 1965 (por ejemplo, el casi panfletario Lo que no soy, no tengo, no quiero, no me gustaría, y lo que me gustaría, lo que tengo y lo que soy, donde dice: “No soy ni un nacionalista ni un igualitario. / No soy un adorador de la dictadura ni el defensor de una mal entendida democracia”), hasta el esencial Poema de la duración, en el que postula que “el extasis es siempre demasiado” y que “lo correcto” es:

la aventura de todos los años,
la aventura de lo cotidiano,
pero no de la ociosidad,
no es la aventura del (por activo que sea) tiempo libre

A principios de los años setenta Handke apuntaba como enfant terrible, wunderkind y estrella pop. Firmaba polémicas obras de teatro, colaboraba como guionista con el cineasta Win Wenders (“El miedo del portero ante el penalty”, “Falso movimiento”), se atrevía el mismo con la dirección (“La mujer zurda”) e iniciaba una carrera narrativa de progresiva depuración. Desde la crónica de “Carta breve para un largo adiós” (1976), con modos de fría novela de carretera, a la poderosa “La pérdida de la imagen o por la Sierra de Gredos” (2003), un viaje en pos de una utopía imposible, Handke ha firmado una veintena de novelas y ensayos.

Pese a que en los últimos años se le ha proscrito con injusta y superficial saña por sus opiniones políticas sobre la Guerra de los Balcanes (en 2006 renunció al Premio Heine, el Cervantes alemán, por una caza de brujas), la “decepción fertil” de Handke; su absoluta seriedad como escritor –sostiene que cada párrafo de buena literatura debe “producir luz”–; su desapego por los fastos literarios; sus caminatas quijotescas por Europa, en especial por la España seca –ha residido en clandestinidad en Linares y Soria–, y la descreída espontaneidad de su búsqueda, le convierten en indispensable. Hace tres años le preguntaron qué esperaba de la literatura y, desde la “bendición” de saberse escritor, pidió “respeto” hacia quienes se manchan los dedos de tinta en un viaje nocturno en compañía de las palabras, porque “en algún momento la veneración por la literatura se fue al carajo”.

Esto publicaron hoy en el diario, en mi sección semanal.

Esto otro no lo publicaron:

Ni esto, que escribí hace unos años:

Als das Kind Kind war,
ging es mit hängenden Armen,
wollte der Bach sei ein Fluß,
der Fluß sei ein Strom,
und diese Pfütze das Meer

Sucedió algo inexplicable (¿o debería decir ‘absolutamente razonable’?): realizábamos las encuestas callejeras para el diario y preguntamos a una mujer que bebía sola una taza de té por la película de su vida. Dijo:

Una de Wim Wenders, Wings of desire.

Ayer me había encontrado con la nueva edición de esa misma película (Cielo sobre Berlín, la llamaron en España) y no lo dudé: pagué el precio y la traje a casa, convencido de que deberíamos ver juntos a Damiel y Cassiel, los dos ángeles cansados de tanta eternidad.

Abrazados bajo el saco de dormir (el frío no era precisamente angélico), escuchamos el alemán resonante del guión de Wenders y Handke, visitamos la ciudad desolada de 1945 y la ciudad dividida de 1987, paseamos por los pensamientos de toda esa lonely people que interpreta una sinfonía perfecta pese a su dislocación.

En el encuentro final entre la trapecista Marion, también ángel pese a sus “alas de pollo”, y el ya humano Cassiel, mientras Nick Cave canta From her to eternity, nos vi en la pantalla que todos tenemos tras los párpados, cuando vemos con ojos cerrados.

Als das Kind Kind war,
genügten ihm als Nahrung Apfel, Brot,
und so ist es immer noch

Es decir:

Cuando el niño era un niño
Era bastante comer una manzana… o un pedazo de pan
Y todavía lo es

Peter Handkes neues Stück, bei den Salzburger Festspielen uraufgeführt, ist eine grandiose Selbstdemontage.

Frauen, die lesen, sind gefährlich, heisst es. Aber stimmt das überhaupt? Ist das Lesen nicht ein Echo des Schreibens, das die Männer am liebsten allein und für sich tun? Sind Frau­en in Männertexten nicht immer nur Puppen an den Fäden der Meister? Gefährlich wird es erst, wenn die Frauen sich mit Worten bewaff­nen, wie in Peter Handkes neuem Stück «Bis dass der Tag euch scheidet». Mit der Doppel­premiere von Becketts «Das letzte Band» und Handkes Antwort darauf sorgten Schauspiel­direktor Thomas Oberender und Regisseur Jossi Wieler bei den Salzburger Festspielen für eine wohl einzigartige Konstellation im Welttheater der Geschlechter: Handke hat seinen Frauenmonolog als Echo auf Becketts Stück über den alten, abgehalfterten Schriftsteller Krapp verfasst, der im Alter von 69 Jahren und kurz vor seinem Tod Tonbänder abhört und über die verflossene Liebe zu einer «unbekann­ten Frau» nachsinnt. Ihr gibt Handke nun eine Stimme, und in der ungehaltenen Rede geht sie ziemlich schonungslos mit dem Schriftstel­ler ins Gericht, der tot ist und «hinüber, wie man nur hinüber aussehen kann» – ein Nar­renkönig, ein Versager vor dem zwischen­menschlichen Glück, das sie beide einmal kurz in der Nacht in einem Boot erlebt haben.

Ein Frauenmonolog von einem männlichen Dichter, der nicht nur reizbar, sondern auch ein wortmächtiger Macho ist – kann das gutgehen? Bei den Theatermachern habe es darüber zu­nächst Diskussionen gegeben, verrät Thomas Oberender am Rande der Premiere.

Nachdem der Bananen mampfende Krapp (André Jung) sein letztes Band besprochen hat, öffnet und dreht sich die Bühne und gibt den Blick auf zwei Stelen frei – die Grabmale des Ehepaars. Darauf projiziert laufen Szenen einer Ehe ab. Sie untermalen dezent die Rede der Frau (Nina Kunzendorf) an Krapp, die den zweiten Teil des Abends einnimmt. Zugleich unterlau­fen sie durch klare Rollenteilung ihrenWunsch nach Gleichberechtigung: links eine Frauen-hand, die ein Buch hält, rechts eine auf der Schreibmaschine tippende Männerhand.

Schon Beckett hatte 1975 mit dem Gedanken gespielt, ein Stück über die Frau im Boot zu schreiben. Er tat’s dann doch nicht, und eigent­lich hat auch Handke es nicht getan. Seine Frau gleicht der antiken Nymphe Echo, die im­mer nur das wiedergeben kann, was man zu ihr gesagt hat.Auch bei Handke erfahren wir wenig über die Frau, aber viel über den raumgreifen­den Schriftsteller, dem sie Vorhaltungen macht. Noch ihre Anklage ist ein Nachhall seiner Rede und seines Schweigens. Auch ihr Protest dient dem Nachruhm des Schriftstellers, der sich im­mer als «Weltchampion des taghellen Spiels» gesehen hat, die Frau aber in ihrer zeichenlo­sen Nacht zurücklässt. Was war er für ein Typ, zu Lebzeiten? Ein finster blickender Unglücks­prophet, der schon als Kind um sich herum den «Tempel des Nichtendenwollenden Deutens und Bedeutens» errichtet hatte und fortan da­rin wie in einem Gefängnis sass. Einer, der schon im Schweigen über andere bestimmt und im Reden erst recht: «Mein Platz», klagt die Frau, «war ausschliesslich in deinen Sätzen.»

Kein Zweifel, das ist Handke selbst. Auf die Idee muss man erst mal kommen, so raffiniert und selbstbewusst Kunst und Leben zu verknüp­fen, dass mancher Theaterkritiker noch denkt, hier handele es sich bloss um «Rezeption» oder ähnlich Langweiliges. Denn Handke geht nicht nur mit der oberflächlichen Deutungskunst ins Gericht, sondern auch mit der eigenen Dichterexistenz. Material dazu hat er genug, sowohl in künstlerischer Hinsicht wie auch an verflossenen Lieben. Das Stück ist seiner Frau Sophie Semin gewidmet, und bei der Urauf­führung sass ganz vorne in einer Loge Marie Colbin, die viele Jahre Handkes Geliebte war.

«Bis dass der Tag euch scheidet» ist eine Ab­rechnung des alten Dichters mit sich selbst (Handke ist zwei Jahre jünger als Krapp) und eine schonungslos-grandiose Selbstdemontage des Künstlerseins aus Sicht der Frauen. Versa­gensängste stehen neben der Hoffnung auf Er­lösung. Das für Handke so typische Spielhafte kontrastiert mit der ebenfalls charakteristi­schen Schwermut und Eindringlichkeit. Es geht um nicht weniger als das Schicksal der Kunstverschriebenheit, die den Künstler vom «blühenden Leben» der Frau weg-, aber auch zum Leben hinführen kann.

Während André Jung den alten Krapp mit einer grossartigen physischen Präsenz und spar­samen Gesten erfüllt, nimmt man Nina Kun­zendorfs Frau die Anklägerin nicht ganz ab. Mit ihrer nah am Plauderton plätschernden Rede und den teilweise willkürlich wirkenden Gesten entfacht sie eher ein laues Lüftchen als den Sturm, der durch beide Werke fegt.

Der Sturm: Für Becketts Krapp war Schreiben die «unzerstörbare Verknüpfung bis zu mei­nem letzten Atemzug von Sturm und Nacht mit dem Licht der Erkenntnis und dem Leucht­feuer».Wetterwarnung auch bei Handke: «Fort­dauernder Sturm» heisst es zweimal gegen Ende des Stücks. Das Zitat, eine Regieanwei­sung aus Shakespeares «King Lear», hatte sich Handke bereits vor einem Vierteljahrhundert in sein Notizbuch geschrieben. «Storm Still» lautet auch der Titel seines nächstes Jahr auf die Bühne kommenden grossen Partisanenstücks.

Nein, dieser Dichter hat noch lange nicht vor, in irgendeinen Hafen einzulaufen. In einer Welt von Pfützen sucht der Gefühlsabenteurer Hand­ke die wilde See. Wie schreibt er im Nachwort, Pascal zitierend: «Wir sind eingeschifft.»

Peter Handke: Bis dass der Tag euch scheidet oder Eine Frage des Lichts. Suhrkamp Verlag, Frankfurt am Main, 2009.

(“Weltwoche” vom 12.08.2009)

book by Peter Handke

annotation by Diana Woods

Peter Handke’s Short Letter, Long Farewell is narrated in first person by an unnamed man who flees from Austria to America to escape the person he’s been during the bitter break-up of his marriage. As I read the first section of this book, when he’s traveling from city to city, I asked myself: Where is this going? What does it all mean? If it weren’t for the bizarre threats from his wife and their cat-and-mouse chase, I might not have been interested enough to finish the book. It wasn’t until the end of the book, after I’d had time to think about the story as a whole, that I realized how cleverly it’s written and what I might take from it, despite the fact it isn’t the type of story that I anticipate writing.

The author uses several techniques to help the reader understand and care about a narrator who’s totally disconnected from his emotions. I end up knowing more than the narrator than he knows about himself. That helps make the story interesting. I’m in his head–his cerebral ruminations–and find out that he feels guilty for having failed his wife, but he doesn’t how he caused her to become so enraged. Based on her homicidal anger, I surmise that he has some serious flaws in his personality and relationship style, but the author never directly addresses what happened between them. Instead, the author shows us the narrator’s relationship with Claire, a woman he slept with once on a previous visit to America. I see a total absence of emotional connection between them despite their physical intimacy, causing me to infer that he treated his wife in the same manner. The scene where he takes Claire to a construction site to have sex and then, the next day, tells her that he’s leaving, portrays the depth of his insensitivity. One of the most powerful lines in the story appears to illustrate his fear of intimacy: “…as we drove into Indianapolis in the dusk and I glanced at Claire’s profile, the imperturbable, disembodied calm that came over me felt like the calm of a murderer.” It also emphasizes the theme of violence, the love-hate bond within a relationship. I admire the way Handke keeps bringing me back to the major theme thread and am more cognizant of the need to do the same in my writing.

The narrator’s dissection of the relationship between Claire’s friends, known as the lovers, leads me to conclude that despite his keen powers of perception, he fails to understand the basics of emotional attachment. Then, I understand why his wife feels cheated in her marriage to the point of seeking vengeance. But I’m also seeing him as clueless, with no intent or malice, and worthy of empathy. I plan to mimic his techniques for creating understanding and empathy toward characters with major personality deficits.

There’s a twist in the narrator’s relationship with Claire’s child that helps me to care about him. He appears to be concerned about the child’s feelings, worried that she’ll feel left out and alone in an adjoining hotel room. He actually wakes the child to reassure himself that she’s okay which tells me that he’s projecting his own childhood feelings onto her. She’s not going to appreciate being woken up in the middle of the night. There’s also a fleeting image of his early childhood abuse, traumatic enough to have caused him to detach himself from people at an early age. So, now, I know that he’s stunted in his emotional growth, and how can I not be sympathetic toward him.

I’m particularly interested in the development of unreliable narrators, and this story provides examples of techniques that I can use in order to portray traits or deficiencies that the narrator can’t articulate or be aware of. The split between intellect and emotion within the narrator, making him reliable in one area and totally lacking in the other, was fascinating, as was the way it was conveyed to the reader. I’ll definitely be using that technique in character development.

The author dropped hints about the uniqueness of the narrator’s personality, including his attraction to the grotesque in nature, from the beginning of the book, but it didn’t impact me as a reader until I saw him in the relationship with Claire and her child. The foreshadowing added to the credibility factor within the story. I’m learning how important it is to provide a foundation and a build up to events within the story and how it increases the impact at the end.

The section of the book where the narrator spends time with Claire and her friends, the lovers, is incredibly engaging. He’s such a unique character that I never know what he’ll do or think next. I’m fascinated with his version of the nuances of relationships, the distancing and coming together. Is he learning something about relationships? I assume that’s the case, and probably the reason he finally understands the need to face his wife in person. The reader is invited to invent the missing portions of the narrative; there may be more than one way to interpret events. I’d definitely like to work on that technique in my stories and leave areas where the reader has to infer meaning.

In the final pages of the book, the author has a difficult problem. I know the narrator is emotionally stunted. So, how can the author demonstrate that the narrator has changed? I think that this change occurred earlier when the narrator finally decided to confront his wife and end the chase, although I can’t be sure since I don’t know why he made that decision. He walks toward his wife as she points a gun at him. Is he afraid? Again, the author doesn’t tell us. I’m disappointed and feel cheated. This seems like an event that might jolt the narrator into an emotional break through on some level, an insight into his behavior.

His wife drops the gun. Is she a coward? Does she still love him? Since love is the other side of hate, I’m assuming so. They board a bus together and travel to Malibu where they end up making peace. And, due to the narrator’s emotional deficits, that process also requires a third person to articulate/model it for him. A mutual acquaintance/movie director explains his philosophy of being friends, not enemies. They listen and follow his advice, or at least, that’s what the ending implies. I wasn’t satisfied with the ending but would have found it artificial for the narrator to experience an emotional catharsis. If facing a gun didn’t cause his emotions to surface, I’d find it hard to believe that he’d become emotional in a comfy setting. I wanted to know what they talked about all those hours on the bus. That seemed to be a major omission, a scene that the reader needed to be part of. At the end of the book, I found the characters shallow and wondered why I’d cared about the narrator earlier. He’s not present enough at the ending.

Même pour son travail, il préférait le dessin à la photographie car ce n’est qu’ainsi que le paysage lui devenait compréhensible sous tous ses aspects; à chaque fois il était surpris par la quantité de formes qui se révélaient, même dans une étendue à première vue tout à fait monotone. De plus, une région ne lui devenait proche que lorsqu’il la dessinait ligne à ligne, de manière aussi fidèle que possible, sans les schématisations et omissions habituelles de sa discipline scientifique – alors, en toute bonne conscience, il pouvait dire y être allé.

Peter HANDKE in Lent retour

“Restando fedele
a ciò che mi è caro e che è la cosa più importante,
impedendo in tal maniera che si cancelli con gli anni,
sentirò poi forse
del tutto inatteso
il brivido della durata
e ogni volta per gesti di poco conto
nel chiudere con cautela la porta,
nello sbucciare con cura una mela,
nel varcare con attenzione la soglia,
nel chinarmi a raccogliere un filo…”

Peter Handke, Canto alla durata, Einaudi.

A SORROW BEYOND DREAMS    A LIFE STORY

 PETER HANDKE 

Random House sez, and I see no reason to differ with them: Peter Handke’s mother was an invisible woman. Throughout her life—which spanned the Nazi era, the war, and the postwar consumer economy—she struggled to maintain appearances, only to arrive at a terrible recognition: “I’m not human anymore.” Not long after, she killed herself with an overdose of sleeping pills.

In A Sorrow Beyond Dreams her son sits down to record what he knows, or thinks he knows, about his mother’s life and death before, in his words, “the dull speechlessness—the extreme speechlessness” of grief takes hold forever. And yet the experience of speechlessness, as it marks both suffering and love, lies at the heart of Handke’s brief but unforgettable elegy. This austere, scrupulous, and deeply moving book is one of the finest achievements of a great contemporary writer. 

 He not busy being born is busy dying.  

BOB DYLAN

Dusk was falling quickly. It was just after 7 p.m., and the month was October. 

PATRICIA HIGHSMITH, A Dog’s Ransom  

My mother has been dead for almost seven weeks; I had better get to work before the need to write about her, which I felt so strongly at her funeral, dies away and I fall back into the dull speechlessness with which I reacted to the news of her suicide. Yes, get to work: for,, intensely as I sometimes feel the need to write about my mother, this need is so vague that if I didn’t work at it I would, in my present state of mind, just sit at my typewriter pounding out the same letters over and over again. This sort of kinetic therapy alone would do me no good: it would only make me passive and apathetic. I might just as well take a trip—if I were traveling, my mindless dozing and lounging around wouldn’t get on my nerves so much. 

During the last few weeks I have been more irritable than usual; disorder, cold, and silence drive me to distraction; I can’t see a bread crumb or a bit of fluff on the floor without bending down to pick it up. Thinking about this suicide, I become so insensible that I am sometimes startled to find that an object I have been holding hasn’t fallen out of my hand. Yet I long for such moments, because they shake me out of my apathy and clear my head. My sense of horror makes me feel better: at last my boredom is gone; an unresisting body, no more exhausting distances, a painless passage of time. 

The worst thing right now would be sympathy, expressed in a word or even a glance. I would turn away or cut the sympathizer short, because I need the feeling that what I am going through is incomprehensible and incommunicable; only then does the horror seem meaningful and real. If anyone talks to me about it, the boredom comes back, and everything is unreal again. Nevertheless, for no reason at all, I sometimes tell people about my mother’s suicide, but if they dare to mention it I am furious. What I really want them to do is change the subject and tease me about something. 

In his latest movie someone asks JamesBond whether his enemy, whom he has just thrown over a stair rail, is dead. His answer—”Let’s hope so!”—made me laugh with relief. Jokes about dying and being dead don’t bother me at all; on the contrary, they make me feel good. 

Actually, my moments of horror are brief, and what I feel is not so much horror as unreality; seconds later, the world closes in again, and if someone is with me I try to be especially attentive, as though I had just been rude. 

Now that I’ve begun to write, these states seem to have dwin­dled and passed, probably because I try to describe them as accurately as possible. In describing them, I begin to remember them as belonging to a concluded period of my life, and the effort of remembering and formulating keeps me so busy that the short daydreams of the last few weeks have stopped. I look back on them as intermittent “states”: suddenly my day-to-day world—which, after all, consists only of images repeated ad nauseam over a period of years and decades since they were new—fell apart, and my mind became so empty that it ached.

That is over now; I no longer fall into these states. When I write, I necessarily write about the past, about something which, at least while I am writing, is behind me. As usual when engaged in literary work, I am alienated from myself and transformed into an object, a remembering and formulating machine. I am writing the story of my mother, first of all because I think I know more about her and how she came to her death than any outside investigator who might, with the help of a religious, psychologi­cal, or sociological guide to the interpretation of dreams, arrive at a facile explanation of this interesting case of suicide; but second in my own interest, because having something to do brings me back to life; and lastly because, like an outside investigator, though in a different way, I would like to represent this VOLUNTARY DEATH as an exemplary case.

Of course, all these justifications are arbitrary and could just as well be replaced by others that would be equally arbitrary. In any case, I experienced moments of extreme speechlessness and needed to formulate them—the motive that has led men to write from time immemorial.

In my mother’s pocketbook, when I arrived for the funeral, I found a post-office receipt for a registered letter bearing the num­ber 432. On Friday afternoon, before going home and taking the sleeping pills, she had mailed a registered letter containing a copy of her will to my address in Frankfurt. (But why also SPECIAL DELIVERY?) On Monday I went to the same post office to tele­phone. That was two and a half days after her death. On the desk in front of the post-office clerk, I saw the yellow roll of registration stickers; nine more registered letters had been mailed over the weekend; the next number was 442, and this image was so similar to the number I had in my head that at first glance I became confused and thought for a moment nothing had happened. The desire to tell someone about it cheered me up. It was such a bright day; the snow; we were eating soup with liver dumplings; “it began with …”; if I started like this, it would all seem to be made up, I would not be extorting personal sympathy from my listener or reader, I would merely be telling him a rather fantastic story.

* * *

Well then, it began with my mother being born more than fifty years ago in the same village where she died. At that time all the land that was good for anything in the region belonged either to the church or to noble landowners; part of it was leased to the population, which consisted mostly of artisans and small peasants. The general indigence was such that few peasants owned their land. For practical purposes, the conditions were the same as before 1848; serfdom had been abolished in a merely formal sense. My grandfather—he is still living, aged eighty-six—was a carpenter; in addition, he and his wife worked a few acres of rented farm and pasture land. He was of Slovenian descent and illegitimate. Most of the children born to small peasants in those days were illegiti­mate, because, years after attaining sexual maturity, few small peasants were in possession of living quarters or the means to support a household. His mother was the daughter of a rather well-to-do peasant, who, however, never regarded his hired man, my grandfather’s father, as anything more than the “baby-maker.” Nevertheless, my grandfather’s mother inherited money enough to buy a small farm.

And so it came about that my grandfather was the first of his line—generations of hired men with blanks in their baptismal certificates, who had been born and who died in other people’s houses and left little or no inheritance because their one and only possession, their Sunday suit, hadbeen lowered into the grave with them—to grow up in surroundings where he could really feel at home and who was not merely tolerated in return for his daily toil.

Recently the financial section of one of our newspapers carried an apologia for the economic principles of the Western world. Property, it said, was MATERIALIZED FREEDOM. This may in his time have been true of my grandfather, the first in a long line of peasants fettered by poverty to own anything at all, let alone a house and a piece of land. The consciousness of owning something had so liberating an effect that after generations of will-lessness a will could now make its appearance: the will to become still freer. And that meant only one thing—justifiably so for my grandfather in his situation—to enlarge his property, for the farm he started out with was so small that nearly all his labors went into holding on to it. The ambitious smallholder’s only hope lay in saving.

So my grandfather saved, until the inflation of the twenties ate up all his savings. Then he began to save again, not only by setting aside unneeded money but also and above all by compress­ing his own needs and demanding the same frugality of his children as well; his wife, being a woman, had never so much as dreamed that any other way of life was possible.

He continued to save toward the day when his children would need SETTLEMENTS for marriage or to set themselves up in a trade. The idea that any of his savings might be spent before then on their EDUCATION couldn’t possibly have entered his head, espe­cially where his daughters were concerned. And even in his sons the centuries-old dread of becoming a homeless pauper was so deeply ingrained that one of them, who more by accident than by design had obtained a scholarship to the Gymnasium, found those unfamiliar surroundings unbearable after only a few days. He walked the thirty miles from the provincial capital at night, arriving home on a Saturday, which was housecleaning day; with­out a word he started sweeping the yard: the noise he made with his broom in the early dawn told the whole story. He became a proficient and contented carpenter.

He and his older brother were killed early in the Second World War. In the meantime, my grandfather had gone on saving and once again lost his savings in the Depression of the thirties. His saving meant that he neither drank nor smoked, and played cards only on Sunday; but even the money he won in his Sunday card games—and he played so carefully that he almost always won—went into savings; at the most, he would slip his children a bit of small change. After the war, he started saving again; today he receives a government pension and is still at it.

The surviving son, a master carpenter with twenty workers in his employ, has no need to save. He invests, which means that he can drink and gamble; in fact, it’s expected of him. Unlike his father, who all his life has been speechless and in every way self-denying, he has at least developed speech of a kind, though he uses it only in the town council, where he represents a small and obscure political party with visions of a grandiose future rooted in a grandiose past.

For a woman to be born into such surroundings was in itself deadly. But perhaps there was one comfort: no need to worry about the future. The fortune-tellers at our church fairs took a serious interest only in the palms of the young men; a girl’s future was a joke.

No possibilities, it was all settled in advance: a bit of flirtation, a few giggles, brief bewilderment, then the alien, resigned look of a woman starting to keep house again, the first children, a bit of togetherness after the kitchen work, from the start not listened to, and in turn listening less and less, inner monologues, trouble with her legs, varicose veins, mute except for mumbling in her sleep, cancer of the womb, and finally, with death, destiny fulfilled. The girls in our town used to play a game based on the stations in a woman’s life: Tired/Exhausted/Sick/Dying/Dead.

My mother was the next to last of five children. She was a good pupil; her teachers gave her the best possible marks and especially praised her neat handwriting. And then her school years were over. Learning had been a mere child’s game; once your compulsory education was completed and you began to grow up, there was no need of it. After that a girl stayed home, getting used to the staying at home that would be her future.

No fears, except for an animal fear in the dark and in storms; no changes, except for the change between heat and cold, wet and dry, comfort and discomfort.

The passage of time was marked by church festivals, slaps in the face for secret visits to the dance hall, fits of envy directed against her brothers, and the pleasure of singing in the choir. Everything else that happened in the world was a mystery; no newspapers were read except the Sunday bulletin of the diocese, and then only the serial.

Sundays: boiled beef with horseradish sauce, the card game, the women humbly sitting there, a family photograph showing the first radio.

My mother was high-spirited; in the photographs she propped her hands on her hips or put her arm over her younger brother’s shoulder. She was always laughing andseemed incapable of doing anything else.

Rain—sun; outside—inside: feminine feelings were very much dependent on the weather, because “outside” was seldom allowed to mean anything but the yard and “inside” was invariably the house, without a room of one’s own.

The climate in that region is extremely variable: cold winters and sultry summers, but at sunset or even in the shade of a tree you shivered. Rain and more rain; from early September on, whole days of damp fog outside the tiny windows (they are hardly any larger today); drops of water on the clotheslines; toads jumping across your path in the dark; gnats, bugs, and moths even in the daytime; worms and wood lice under every log in the woodshed. You couldn’t help becoming dependent on those things; there was nothing else. Seldom: desireless and somehow happy; usually: desireless and a little unhappy.

No possibility of comparison with a different way of life: richer? less hemmed in?

It began with my mother suddenly wanting something. She wanted to learn, because in learning her lessons as a child she had felt something of herself. Just as when we say, “I feel like myself.” For the first time, a desire, and she didn’t keep it to herself; she spoke of it time and time again, and in the end it became an obsession with her. My mother told me she had “begged” my grandfather to let her learn something. But it was out of the question, disposed of with a wave of the hand, unthinkable.

Still, our people had a traditional respect for accomplished facts: a pregnancy, a war, the state, ritual, and death. When at the age of fifteen or sixteen my mother ran away from home to learn cooking at some Hôtel du Lac, my grandfather let her have her own way, because she was already gone; and besides, there wasn’t much to be learned about cooking.

No other course was open to her; scullery maid, chambermaid, assistant cook, head cook. “People will always eat.” In the photo­graphs, a flushed face, glowing cheeks, arm in arm with bashful, serious-looking girl friends; she was the life of the party; self­assured gaiety (“Nothing can happen to me”); exuberant, sociable, nothing to hide.

City life: short skirts (“knee huggers”), high-heeled shoes, per­manent wave, earrings, unclouded joy of life. Even a stay abroad! Chambermaid in the Black Forest, flocks of ADMIRERS, kept at a DISTANCE! Dates, dancing, entertainment, fun; hidden fear of sex (“They weren’t my type”). Work, pleasure; heavyhearted, light­hearted; Hitler had a nice voice on the radio. The homesickness of those who can’t afford anything; back at the Hôtel du Lac (“I’m doing the bookkeeping now”); glowing references (“Fräulein … has shown aptitude and willingness to learn. So conscientious, frank, and cheerful that we find it hard … She is leaving our establishment of her own free will”). Boat rides, all-night dances, never tired.

On April 10, 1938, the Yes to Germany! “The Führer arrived at 4:15 p.m., after a triumphal passage through the streets of Klagenfurt to the strains of the Badenweiler March. The rejoicing of the masses seemed to know no bounds. The thousands of swastika flags in the spas and summer resorts were reflected in the already ice-free waters of the Wörthersee. The airplanes of the old Reich and our native planes vied with one another in the clouds overhead.”

The newspapers advertised plebiscite badges and silk or paper flags. After football games the teams marched off with a regulation “SiegHeil!” The letter A was replaced by the letter D on the bumpers of motor vehicles. On the radio: 6:15, call to arms; 6:35, motto of the day; 6:40, gymnastics; 8—12 p.m., Radio KOnigsberg: Richard Wagner concert followed by entertainment and dance music.

“How to mark your ballot on April 10: make a bold cross in the larger circle under the word YES.”

Thieves just out of jail were locked up again when they claimed that the objects found in their possession had been bought in department stores that MEANWHILE HAD GONE OUT OF EXISTENCE because they had belonged to Jews.

Demonstrations, torchlight parades, mass meetings. Buildings decorated with the new national emblem SALUTED; forests and mountain peaks DECKED THEMSELVES OUT; the historic events were represented to the rural population as a drama of nature.

“We were kind of excited,” my mother told me. For the first time, people did things together. Even the daily grind took on a festive mood, “until late into the night.” For once, everything that was strange and incomprehensible in the world took on meaning and became part of a larger context; even disagreeable, mechanical work was festive and meaningful. Your automatic movements took on an athletic quality, because you saw innumerable others making the same movements. A new life, in which you felt protected, yet free.

The rhythm became an existential ritual. “Public need before private greed, the community comes first.” You were at home wherever you went; no more homesickness. Addresses on the back of photographs; you bought your first date book (or was it a present?)—all at once you had so many friends and there was so much going on that it became possible to FORGET something. She had always wanted to be proud of something, and now, because what she was doing was somehow important, she actually was proud, not of anything in particular, but in general—a state of mind, a newly attained awareness of being alive—and she was determined never to give up that vague pride.

She still had no interest in politics: what was happening before her eyes was something entirely different from politics—a mas­querade, a newsreel festival, a secular church fair. “Politics” was something colorless and abstract, not a carnival, not a dance, not a band in local costume, in short, nothing VISIBLE. Pomp and ceremony on all sides. And what was “politics”? A meaningless word, because, from your schoolbooks on, everything connected with politics had been dished out in catchwords unrelated to any tangible reality and even such images as were used were devoid of human content: oppression as chains or boot heel, freedom as mountaintop, the economic system as a reassuringly smoking fac­tory chimney or as a pipe enjoyed after the day’s work, the social system as a descending ladder: “Emperor-King-Nobleman-Burgher­-Peasant-Weaver/Carpenter-Beggar-Gravedigger”; a game, in­cidentally, that could be played properly only in the prolific families of peasants, carpenters, and weavers.

* * *

That period helped my mother to come out of her shell and become independent. She acquired a presence and lost her last fear of human contact: her hat awry, because a young fellow was pressing his head against hers, while she merely laughed into the camera with an expression of self-satisfaction. (The fiction that photographs can “tell us” anything—but isn’t all formulation, even of things that have really happened, more or less a fiction? Less, if we content ourselves with a mere record of events; more, if we try to formulate in depth? And the more fiction we put into a narrative, the more likely it is to interest others, because people identify more readily with formulations than with recorded facts. Does this explain the need for poetry? “Breathless on the river­bank” is one of ThomasBernhard’s formulations.)

* * *

The war—victory communiqués introduced by portentous music, pouring from the “people’s radio sets,” which gleamed mysteri­ously in dimly lit “holy corners”—further enhanced people’s sense of self, because it “increased the uncertainty of all circumstances” (Clausewitz)and made the day-to-day happenings that had for­merly been taken for granted seem excitingly fortuitous. For my mother the war was not a childhood nightmare that would color her whole emotional development as it did mine; more than anything else, it was contact with a fabulous world, hitherto known to her only from travel folders. A new feeling for distances, for how things had been BACK IN PEACETIME, and most of all for other individuals, who up until then had been confined to the shadowy roles of casual friends, dance partners, and fellow workers. And also for the first time, a family feeling: “Dear Brother … I am looking at the map to see where you might be now … Your sister …”

And in the same light of her first love: a German party member, in civilian life a savings-bank clerk, now an army paymaster, which gave him a rather special standing. She was soon in a family way. He was married, and she loved him dearly; anything he said was all right with her. She introduced him to her parents, went hiking with him, kept him company in his soldier’s loneliness.

“He was so attentive to me, and I wasn’t afraid of him the way I had been with other men.”

He did the deciding and she trailed along. Once he gave her a present—perfume. He also lent her a radio for her room and later took it away again. “At that time” he still read books, and together they read one entitled By the Fireside. On the way down from a mountain pasture on one of their hikes, they had started to run. My mother broke wind and my father reproved her; a little later he too let a fart escape him and followed it with a slight cough, hem-hem. In telling me of this incident years later, she bent double and giggled maliciously, though at the same time her conscience troubled her because she was belittling her only love. She herself thought it comical that she had once loved someone, especially a man like him. He was smaller than she, many years older, and almost bald; she walked beside him in low-heeled shoes, always at pains to adapt her step to his, her hand repeatedly slipping off his inhospitable arm; an ill-matched, ludicrous couple. And yet, twenty years later, she still longed to feel for someone what she had then felt for that savings-bank wraith. But there never was ANOTHER: everything in her life had conspired to inculcate a kind of love that remains fixated on a particular irreplaceable object.

It was after graduating from the Gymnasium that I first saw my father: on his way to the rendezvous, he chanced to come toward me in the street; he was wearing sandals, a piece of paper was folded over his sunburned nose, and he was leading a collie on a leash. Then, in a small café in her home village, he met his former love; my mother was excited, my father embarrassed; standing by the jukebox at the other end of the café, I picked out ElvisPresley’s “Devil in Disguise.” My mother’s husband had got wind of all this, but he had merely sent his youngest son to the café as an indication that he was in the know. After buying himself an ice-cream cone, the child stood next to his mother and the stranger, asking her from time to time, always in the same words, if she was going home soon. My father put sunglasses over his regular glasses, said something now and then to the dog, and finally announced that he “might as well” pay up. “No, no, it’s on me,” he said, when my mother also took her purse out of her handbag. On the trip we took together, the two of us wrote her a postcard. In every hotel we went to, he let it be known that I was his son, for fear we’d be taken for homosexuals (Article 175). Life had disappointed him, he had become more and more lonely. “Now that I know people, I’ve come to appreciate animals,” he said, not quite in earnest of course.

A meditação é a inocência do presente.

Jean-Yves Leloup

Leia O diário dos dias extraordinários completo:

Trecho I – Just an ordinary day

Trecho II – If I let you in, I’ll never let you out

Trecho III – Tea for two

Trecho IV – Last flowers

– Amigo, como eu faço para meditar, comendo a pêra?

– Desfrutando do sol, neste dia nublado…

Então começou. Absorto como estava — comendo o sol e o solo na pera, o suor, o trabalho, o esforço e dedicação, o cuidado e o cultivo na pera, famílias, escolas, transportes, empregos, sonhos, esperanças na pera — levei um susto.

– Nas férias de final de ano, quando era verão aqui no Brasil, nós vínhamos visitar a minha avó – quando começou a falar, ele não olhava para mim, mas através da janela — A minha mãe é brasileira. Minha avó morava aqui em São Paulo, mas no verão a cidade ficava quente demais para ela, que ia para a fazenda no interior, numa região de montanhas… Eu li um parágrafo daquele livro na cozinha, e lembrei-me da minha avó. Ela sempre dizia alguma coisa assim como “ninguém nasce numa família que não seja a sua ou país que não seja o seu” – ele sorriu, para dentro e ainda de perfil – Acho que ela insinuava que minha mãe devia voltar a viver no Brasil. Mas a mesma frase servia ao contrário; meu irmão e eu também a ouvimos muitas vezes, e como nascemos na França, às vezes conversávamos sobre como é que seria vir viver aqui, caso isso acontecesse – ele me encarou, os olhos verdes parecendo ter absorvido a umidade lá fora, tornados mais líquidos, mareados, ele estava emocionado – Bom, de qualquer maneira… Agora, eu estou aqui, e me pergunto para quê… Fazia tempo que não me lembrava dessa frase da minha avó, nem pensava nela assim tão forte…

Ele fez uma pausa longa, e por um momento eu imaginei que o compartilhar dele teria sido aquilo – a dúvida que o ocupava naquele momento. Mas havia mais.

– Ela era maravilhosa, uma personagem. A grande dama incontestável. Estudou num internato onde aprendeu Francês, e fez de tudo para que o pai dela, de quem herdou a fazenda onde passávamos as férias, a mandasse para a França. Na época era uma extravagância, e uma modernidade, uma moça viajar desacompanhada dos pais, pois era assim que ela queria ir, e tanto mais para o exterior. Ela foi com alguma tia idosa, de navio, uma viagem que gostava de contar e recontar, e que eu adorava ouvir. Fazia da tripulação e dos outros passageiros seres míticos, e cada evento de que participou a bordo soava como lenda. A maior viagem da vida dela, e a única, a grande aventura – ele silenciou, inclinando a cabeça de lado, talvez repassando alguns dos episódios ouvidos, e eu esperei que escolhesse um, enquanto o admirava – Quando voltou, tinha prometido a si mesma que, se um dia tivesse filhos, iria manda-los estudar na França. Teve duas filhas, e cumpriu com o prometido. O problema, claro, é que prometera a si mesma, muito antes das filhas nascerem, e portanto sem pedir opinião a elas. Minha tia, a irmã mais velha da minha mãe, foi a contragosto, por ser obediente, e voltou correndo. Chorava de saudades, telefonava ou enviava telegramas todos os dias, estranhou tudo. Minha mãe… a excêntrica, a desobediente… foi correndo e não voltou nunca. Renovava pretextos para estender a estadia, até que conheceu meu pai, e casou-se. Minha avó não esperava por isso. Acho que ela tinha planos para a filha, a filha afrancesada, de exibi-la para a sociedade paulistana como sua criação e conquista, de valorosa viúva, vaidosa que era… Pelo menos é o que sugere a minha mãe… – ele suspirou, e baixou o olhar.

– Mas não é nada disso… É o que eu li, junto com o que você disse depois… Quando você me disse para beber nuvem – e encarou-me novamente, pedindo licença, checando o meu interesse e atenção – Lembrei-me de uma cena da minha infância… Na fazenda… Alvorada. Foi uma fazenda famosa, grande produtora de café. Depois quebrou e quase teve de ser vendida a “uns turcos”, como dizia a minha avó. Ela ficou viúva jovem, mas nunca mais se casou. Tinha dinheiro, por parte do pai e do marido, e inteligência suficientes para decidir a própria vida sozinha. Tinha punho de ferro, sem deixar de ser doce, e controlava tudo, sem dar a impressão que mandava e que tudo saia às suas ordens; mesmo assim, quase perdeu a fazenda… Mas o que eu quero contar… Compartilhar. Junto à casa, nos fundos, perto da cozinha, havia uma jabuticabeira… era o meu lugar de estar, na fazenda. Quando eu era bem pequenininho, colocavam lá uma piscininha de plástico, verde, sob a jabuticabeira, onde podiam observar as crianças menores desde a cozinha, desde o alpendre. É uma das minha primeiras memórias… Dentro dessa piscininha… eu ficava sentado e olhando fascinado o brilho da água nas ondinhas que a brisa formava, eu me arrepiava… As imagens dançando sem cessar, com vida própria, ao meu redor, batendo contra o meu peito, meus braços imersos naquelas imagens… Lembro que me maravilhava com a mudança de intensidade daquele brilho, que se alternava com poças de sombra, ou às vezes me ofuscava, e eu fechava os olhos. Um dia, devia ter dois ou no máximo três anos de idade, aconteceu de todas as coisas finalmente se ligarem… Foi um vento que soprou… E percebi que era o vento que me fazia ficar com frio, arrepiando a minha pele… ainda não tinha percebido isso, antes… e mais… Percebi o vento agitar os galhos da jabuticabeira acima de mim, e vi como isso alterava a intensidade do brilho sobre a água… Como posso explicar? Descobri que o que eu estava vendo, fascinado, o brilho na água, e a alternância com as sombras, era causado pela copa da árvore acima… e mais longe… Naquele momento descobri o sol… E como ele criava as sombras, como ele fazia as coisas brilharem… Não dá para dizer o que foi, para mim… A descoberta da origem das sombras, descobrir que elas partiam do sol… Olhava para baixo, para cima, de novo para baixo e para cima, para a água, para a luz, para a sombra, para o brilho, unindo tudo pela primeira vez… Uni, a luz e a sombra. Lembro-me de, no mesmo instante, também sentir o sol sobre a minha pele… o vento me esfriava e arrepiava, agitava a água e as sombras e descortinava o sol, que me aquecia, e brilhava com mais intensidade e me ofuscava… Eu estava sozinho, não havia nenhuma outra criança nem nenhum adulto por perto, ou talvez sim, à distância me observando, ou não… mas não me lembro… Lembro-me de estar sozinho, dentro da água, tocado pelo vento e pelo sol, descobrindo a causa para os brilhos e as sombras, para o calor e o frio, que queimava ou arrepiava a minha pele. É uma sensação inexplicável, mas eu senti o sol muito próximo… Foi um sentimento de universo… Eu senti o sol fazendo parte da minha vida, dentro dos meus olhos, dentro da minha cabeça… O sol, boiando lá em cima, e boiando na superfície da minha piscininha de plástico, e adentrando pelos meus olhos… Dentro de mim. O sol, então, ainda não era um astro, não estava no centro do nosso sistema, não estava na distância… Nada. Estava dentro de mim. Naquele momento ele me parecia um mágico do cotidiano, criando sombras, criando brilhos, criando calor e frio, criando toda a alternância, o espetáculo. Um pai bom e presente, que sempre brincava comigo e que, incansável, me acariciava, me envolvia, me esquentava. Foi lindo, aquele sentimento… Ao sentir-me protegido e querido pelo sol, olhava toda a paisagem ao meu redor, por todos os lados, para o alto e para baixo, e o mundo parecia-me um lugar seguro, acolhedor, com o sol brilhando por toda a parte…

Ele fez outra pausa, e de novo consultou a minha atenção. Devo ter parecido um bobo, pois estava de verdade embevecido, com aquilo que me contava e como o contava, sentindo os pelos eriçados por debaixo das mangas da camiseta, e ele sorriu, agradecido por minha dedicação.

– Não sei porque estou te contando… É a primeira vez na vida que falo sobre isso em Português, e mesmo em Francês… Foi o momento mais intenso que tive até hoje. Sob a jabuticabeira da Alvorada. Mas naquele dia não havia nuvens, pelo menos eu não me lembro… As nuvens vieram uns poucos anos mais tarde, talvez eu tivesse cinco, ou seis… é isso o que eu quero con-… compartilhar. Sentava-me no colo do meu irmão, que era dez anos mais velho do que eu, já um rapagão. Eu o adorava. Ele nunca brigava comigo. E eu era mimado, muito estragado… Naquele dia, estava no colo dele porque iam cortar o meu cabelo… Era minha avó quem ia cortar meu cabelo… Eu costumava fazer um bordel por conta disso… Chorava como se doesse, e cada vez que via um cacho cair eu me sentia mutilado, ofendido na minha dignidade – ele riu, e naquele instante surpreendeu meu olhar terno, admirado e talvez um pouco sequioso, passeando por seus lindos cachos loiros – Já não choro mais, mas ainda prefiro mantê-los compridos… – sorriu, amplamente; naquele instante senti que ele me presenteou com um sorriso — Então, minha avó ia cortar meu cabelo. Era uma operação de guerra. A cada ano, colocavam uma cadeira sob a jabuticabeira, e eu ficava no colo de alguém, de preferência o meu irmão, que até deixava de ir cavalgar ou qualquer outra coisa que tinha de fazer, para ficar comigo… Ele me abraçava, me beijava, fazia cócegas em mim, me acariciava e massageava, contava histórias… na verdade, era um dos momentos que eu mais aguardava das nossas férias, o dia de cortar o meu cabelo… Se por um lado eu não gostava, era também então que eu recebia todo o carinho e atenção das duas pessoas mais importantes para mim, as duas que eu amava sem cessar, minha avó e meu irmão… Mas desta vez, eu estava um pouco resfriado, ou tinha tido febre ou disenteria… Estava chatinho, cansado, e um pouco mais triste que de costume por perceber que um dos melhores momentos das minhas férias não seria assim tão bom, comigo naquele estado. Lembro de meu irmão aspirando o meu cabelo e dizendo que adorava cheirinho de neném, que era uma pena que eu ia crescer… Fica para sempre o meu neném, fica… Ele tentava me animar, fazer-me rir, e eu tentei sorrir para agrada-lo… E quando dei esse sorriso fraco, uma abelha me picou o lábio. Eu não a percebera pousar. Só senti a picada, dei um grito e comecei a chorar. Foi um pandemônio. O netinho preferido picado por uma abelha! Meu neném, com a boquinha inchando – ele ria de si mesmo, e animava-se, falando mais rápido, misturando algumas palavras em Francês – Mas eu chorava muito, mais de susto do que de dor… e começavam a cogitar de levar-me até o hospital… E se eu fosse alérgico… Tinha algum caso de alergia na família… Não na nossa família, dizia minha avó, mas na outra, e ela queria dizer a do meu pai, como saber? Essa gente européia tem sangue velho e gasto, por isso tem tanta doença… Morria-se de picada de abelha, não é verdade? Imagina, abelha não é cobra! Nem escorpião… Mas se tiver alergia, morre sim… Comecei a ficar assustado com todo aquele falatório ao meu redor, embora não entendesse a maior parte do que diziam. Devo estar inventando, já que pouco entendia Português… Um médico, um médico… Isso eu entendi, e hospital também. Chamem o doutor Marcos, ordenou a minha avó, conversem com ele pelo telefone, e se ele não estiver, o doutor Guilherme… E nesse meio tempo eu já havia passado do colo do meu irmão para o colo da minha avó, mas continuava me esguelando, com a dedicação de um virtuose… Então alguém trouxe um copo de água com mel, porque a Quininha tinha dito que o mel ia neutralizar a picada da abelha, mas eu não queria beber porque não gostava de mel, muito menos agora que tinha sido picado por uma abelha…

Uma breve pausa, e meu amigo olhou-me intensamente. Percebi que escurecia, mas mesmo na penumbra os olhos dele reluziam.

– E nuvem? Você quer beber nuvem? Foi assim que a minha avó me perguntou, com o copo de água e mel na mão. Você já bebeu nuvem, antes? Meu choro desesperado cessou de imediato, e a glória e lenda da minha avó só fizeram crescer. Você vai beber nuvem, agora… Debruçamo-nos dentro do copo, onde de fato flutuavam nuvens… Olhamos os dois juntos para cima, para o céu, em busca das nuvens verdadeiras, e depois de novo dentro do copo, onde boiava o reflexo das nuvens… Era de novo a revelação de um universo reunido que eu já tinha tido sob aquela mesma árvore, de novo com água, agora confirmada, compartilhada e ampliada pela minha avó. Ela contou-me que a água era filha das nuvens, que as gotinhas de chuva eram todas filhinhas das nuvens, e eram também a própria nuvem, só que mais pesadas, e por isso elas escorriam. E era por isso que, quando bebêssemos água, estaríamos bebendo as nuvens… Já pensou, um monte de nuvens na sua barriguinha… Ela viu que eu adorei a idéia, e então me agarrou com força, dizendo… Tenho que segurar esse menininho, senão ele vai querer sair flutuando agora mesmo… Depois minha avó moveu o copo pelo ar, como se caçasse nuvens, como se as colhesse dentro do copo… E assim saímos passeando pelo jardim, rodopiando com o copo, colhendo nuvens, colhendo sol, caminhando com muito cuidado, pois todo o tempo olhávamos para a paisagem dentro do copo… Era divertido, e era maravilhoso… Era mágico. Mesmo assim, eu não quis beber a água, por causa do mel… Então minha avó me contou que o mel era uma coisa maravilhosa… As flores, que eu tanto adorava pelas cores… Elas eram filhas das nuvens, pois bebiam as gotas de chuva… E o mel era filho das flores, e filho das cores… O mel tinha as flores por mãe, e as abelhinhas por pai… As cores por mãe, e o vôo por pai… As abelhinhas trabalhavam o dia inteiro, cantando, visitando cada mãe e…

Assustamo-nos com o toque da campainha, encerrando nossa meditação do chá. No escuro, apenas as nuvens esbranquiçadas pela luz fria que subia da cidade ainda nos iluminavam. Sem nos alcançar, raios de laser verde batiam e giravam contra o céu.

Leia o Trecho VI – Where do you start?

Der mit 14.500 Euro dotierte Literaturpreis geht in diesem Jahr an Alfred Kolleritsch, den “Gründervater der Literaturstadt” Graz.

Als einer der Mitbegründer um das Forum Stadtpark, dem der im südsteirischen Ort Brunnsee geborene und in Graz aufgewachsene Schriftsteller von 1968 bis 1995 auch als Präsident vorstand, gründete er 1960 die Literaturzeitschrift “manuskripte” und eröffnete damit vor allem innovativen und experimentellen Autoren eine Publikationsmöglichkeit. Damit verhalf er Autoren wie Wolfgang Bauer oder Peter Handke zum Durchbruch. Ebenso zählt Kolleritsch zu den Gründungsmitgliedern der Grazer Autorenversammlung (1973). …

Zu sprechen, ohne vorschnell Bedeutungen zu stiften, ist das Grundanliegen, das Kolleritsch mit seinem Schreiben verfolgt. Dabei weiß er die notwendige Reflektiertheit solchen Schreibens mit Anschaulichkeit und Sinnlichkeit zu verbinden: “Das Denken und Nachdenken behindert das Sehen und Fühlen nicht, sondern verschafft dem Wahrgenommenen Glaubwürdigkeit jenseits von Klischees und falschen Gewissheiten.“ / Kleine Zeitung 26.6.