Schubertiana I by Tomas Tranströmer

A poem I read in de Volkskrant last week. Loved the poem, it’s part of a bigger compilation of poems by Tomas Tranströmer titled Schubertiana. This is the first one. Tomas Tranströmer has received the Noble prize for Literature.

Enjoy.

________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Schubertiana I

In the evening-darkness of a place outside New York, a look-out point
where one glance can encompass eight million people’s homes.
The giant city there is a long, flickering snow-drift, a spiral
galaxy on its side.
Within the galaxy, coffee cups are slid over the counter, store-fronts
beg with passers-by, a floor of shoes that leave no tracks.
The climbing fire-escapes, the elevator doors gliding shut, behind
locked doors a steady swell of voices.
Slouched bodies half-sleep in the subway cars, the rushing catacombs.
I know, too, without statistics, that right now Schubert is
being played in some room over there and that to someone
those sounds are more real than everything else.

From “Brieven aan Esther”, a compilation of letters from Arnon Grunberg to Esther Krop – Excerpt II

This is the second excerpt from the compilation of letters, or better said, as I learned in a class on Literature, the epistolary of letters between Arnon Grunberg and Esther Krop. I reread the second entry some time ago, but I couldn’t find the right moment to actually work out the translation in English on paper. After having made enough excuses to myself I finally did, and here’s the result. Perhaps not as refined as I had originally intended and wanted it to be, but still.

Enjoy this excerpt in what I can best describe as “Being Arnon Grunberg”, a look inside the mind of a man I would consider a Byronic hero in the years he wrote this. Hope you still are Arnon; gods don’t deserve our attentions, its the fallen ones which righteously deprive us of sleep at night.

_____________________________________________________________________

Amsterdam, the 5th of August 1992

I am writing this letter at the end of a horrible day. The entire day I have been busy with things I am not interested in at all. I had to spend time with people who mean little to nothing to me, yet scare me nonetheless. I urge you to distrust my words. Please don’t believe what I say and above else, don’t value them, regardless of what you do. I can’t tell or teach you anything about writing and even less about life.

Perhaps that one day I will succeed in telling something about my life that is true. But please don’t let my life be an example to another individual’s life, especially not yours.

I can’t create hope for you. I can’t refer you to hope. Perhaps you can one day. Perhaps you will be able, through your own words, to give meaning back to certain words, or just let them have meaning again so that they might be more than mere entertainment. Maybe.

I can’t. Or perhaps just too little. And to these important questions, life asks me, and writing itself asks me I have no answers. Hence, I am even more incapable of answering yours. Because I assume, yes, I am convinced that you have these questions, these burning questions eager to be answered somewhere in your mind.

And what is even more vital is this: I have to confess that sometimes, most of the time, almost always, I loathe this life, I hate the life I lead, I abhor the person I am.

And when I do write something, something at all, some damned scribble, but still, when I put something on paper after all, it’s because for the slightest of moments I am not satisfied with these feelings.

You still believe in writing. You believe in it with an unconditional devotion, at least, that is what I think, which I don’t possess anymore, if it even existed at all. I don’t write because I want to devote my life to art. I write because my place amongst mankind is an unfruitful one. And because writing offers me a damnable justification for my isolation. And I must confess, if I succeed in writing something down, even if it’s just for a mere moment, then writing is indeed very, very satisfying.

But please, I urge you to believe me, if I could live differently, I would and leave all the writing to be.

I know life is all there is, nothing more, nothing less, but for me it’s too little and I want to destroy it. Now I can still say this, without yet feeling death’s hot breath wash over my bed when I go to sleep, I want to destroy it, now I still can.

I am obsessed with destruction.

It’s everything to me.

Yes, even the meaning of love is rooted in destruction for me. In its desire to devour and be devoured. This is why the things I can tell you about writing will be ambiguous at the very least, and perhaps even totally false and untrue. Because my writing is at best an accurate and truthful account of destruction; a self-destruction. And writing is probably more than that, could and should be more than that. That’s why I hope you will meet someone who will show you how much more is. And now that I reread this last line I doubt even the truth of the hope which I uttered a mere ten seconds ago.

There is so little truth left (for me). And more than that, there remains so little beauty in that little bit of remaining truth.

To all the important, vital questions and problems this life confronts me with, I can only answer with a desire, and urge to destroy this life. And with such an answer no one should be satisfied. At least, that is what I think.

I am depressed. Not because of this life. But because tonight I feel, once again, that all the images I could make up and add to this reality wouldn’t be enough to fill up its incompleteness, that which is lacking.

And the most infuriating, horrible part is that this grief is of course also incomplete, and not absolute. It will go away, making place for yet other grief, or perhaps complacency, or perhaps even what mankind would consider a moment of happiness.

I am intrigued as to what you will reply; I am curious as to who you are, I am curious about your life. Curiousity too drives me forward, albeit for a little while. And I hope you will succeed in writing what you want to write, what you have to write.

Perhaps you have to write something.

Yours sincere,

Arnon

_______________________________________________________________________

We of the craft are all crazy

When I start to work on this post I am just heading back to Amsterdam, back to my apartment, after a two-day stay at my father’s. It is there where I read the article which I am reading for a second time, which instigated me to write this post.

It’s a column from a Dutch author, Joost Zwagermans, a writer, poet and essayist, who also happens to write a column for one of the major Dutch newspapers De Volkskrant, entitled “Zwagerman leest”. The piece was interesting and garnered my attention on two counts. First it spoke at length about how artists, and more specifically, those with – successful – literary aspirations somehow suffered from a higher incidence and prevalence of psychological problems, ranging from neurosis to depression, or OCD to bipolar disorders.

More so, Zwagermans mentioned research which confirmed this hypothesis. Kay Redfield Jameson studied manic depressions amongst writers and poets, and concluded that an estimated 5-6% suffered from this disease. More shocking were the studies performed on poets and writers from the era of 1705 till 1805, only to conclude that more than 50% of these unfortunate souls could have been properly diagnosed with the disorder.

It was as Lord Byron himself had said: “We of the craft are all crazy.”

Or like Robert Burnton, concluded in his sui generis work of literature “The Anatomy of Melancholy”: “All poets are mad.”

If I am honest, the article inspired me, to certain new heights, since despite being an unpublished fellow that writers, I am positively fucked up. I have experienced loss, the death of a close friend at a young age; my heart was properly ripped apart and utterly broken beyond the means of repair by my own two hands and mind by a girl half my size. Moreover, I associate snow with death, and December with suicidal ideation, have a positively diagnosis of a clinical depression on my medical record with associated episodes of fear and anxiety. I smoke, I drink too much for my own good, my liver is probably the size of a small infant, and all that at age 22. I have been sucking on seroxat tablets like GG beans for the past 7 months.

I write fiction and poetry.

Madness might be my salvation, my business ticket, or green card into the literary scene.

Or not, because there was another point in the article which intrigued me:

“A few years ago a friend of mine said the following to me: “You don’t even want to consider what would have happened if Prozac had already existed during the 60ies. What if Gerard Reve had started taking medication against his depressions? What if he had never written his painfully superior and unforgettable Nader to U and Op weg naar het Einde?”    – Joost Zwagermans, Zwagerman leest, Wednesday 24/08/11′

Indeed; is madness irrevocably inherent to the artist’s way? Would Hemingway have written ‘The Old Man And the Sea’ if his depressions and suspected hematochromatosis had been successfully treated? Or is literature not the offspring of madness, but rather the progeny of a God-gifted divine touch to those few dead poets and novelists?

Like Gordon Ramsy has to cook, Hemingway had to write, and it could be considered arrogant and pretensious to assume Prozac would have made any difference, even more so preventing him from writing his masterful written creations.

Still, it bothers me when I flick my eyes from the typewriter sitting on my bed to the blue pill in front of me, on my desk.

Seroxat, 25 mg.

The blue pill or the red pill. Enter or exit the Matrix. Even so, I highly doubt that if I am not taking the pill I would end up joining the Libyan rebels and their Western Tripoli Brigade, like Hemingway accompanied and described the International Brigades in the Spanish Civil War, before commiting myself entirely to literature and cooking up a Nobel Prize for literature deserving story.

Regardless, Prozac or no Prozac, blue pills of red pills, a writer will write, because he likes to, or has to, and will eventually, inevitably, join the ranks of the dead poets, recognized or forever lost, safe from the cold embraces of his long dead brethren.

Perhaps Prozac might have kept some of them from committing suicide, and joining the unlucky club of 27, granting them more time to contribute better or lesser works of art to the gloomy halls of literary wonderland.

Or to quote Henry David Thoreau, they could have “… sucked the marrow out of life” and instead of just being extraordinary, could have been happy too.

Frankly, what ifs don’t keep this world from turning the way it does.

____________________________________________________________________

Comments, interpretations, anything is welcome.

 

From “Brieven aan Esther”, a compilation of letters from Arnon Grunberg to Esther Krop – Excerpt I

This is the first excerpt I will post on this blog, taken from the little book called “Brieven aan Esther”, which is a compilation of letters from Dutch novelist Arnon Grunberg, known from novels such as but not only  “Blue Mondays”, “The Asylum Seeker” and “The Jewish Messiah”, to Esther Krop, a Dutch writer, poet and sculptor.

In the little Dutch book called “Brieven aan Esther”, or “Letters to Esther”, we witness a young Arnon Grunberg, before he actually got his debut novel “Blauwe Maandagen” or “Blue Mondays” published, and became the phenomena he is today. In these letters we witness him as he tries to convince Esther Krop that art isn’t born out of happiness and that the world is a random, shitty place. Art will not set you free, it will not yield you answers to your suffering. This is his message, and as time passes, Arnon becomes more relentless in his pursuit of turning Esther over to his perspective, more aggressive and unforgiving, until finally, he’s actually trying to hurt her emotionally through his words.

Throughout these excerpts I will post, I hope to create and insight into a great novelist’s mind, both as a developing young writer, but also as a person, an individual and his motivations for thinking and acting the way he does.

Hence, this is a literary interest, of both me, and perhaps more importantly, Michel, who asked me to translate some of more interesting pieces from the compilation. I agreed; I don’t have too many readers, but even one soul with the same interest and romantic attitude to it – literature – is enough for me.

So here you go man.

Abandon all hope ye who enter here.

This isn’t our world, nor Sinatra’s.. Its Arnon Grunberg’s.

_______________________________________________________________________

Amsterdam, 30 July 1992 – First letter in the book

I have just finished reading Narziss und Goldmun by Hermann Hesse, even though I should have been doing some work on the synopsis for my assignment for the Theater Company of Amsterdam, which should be delivered before the first of August. And even now I am not working on it, like I should have been, but rather started writing this letter to you.

First of all, I have to tell you I don’t remember owing you ten guilders, so you will receive them on the next occasion we will meet.

When I got home, I read your novel again, and I will probably read it a couple of times more. I won’t and can’t comment on your poems, even if I could say something sensible about them which I wouldn’t be so sure about if I were you.

But I already wrote and told you: keep on writing! And of course you realize that this statement is a reference to your book.

I have had a lovely afternoon with you; I think you’re a special girl, Esther.

I believe that when we want to try and retain some of our dignity, it will be through forming and shaping the images that occur to us, by chasing after those ideas that we believe will save us, even though we know that this salvation will never occur and if, even a split second would be enough to devour her with body and bones.

I look forward to your poetry, and accompanying letters.

I look forward to meeting you, again. Will you come to Amsterdam in near future? As a student, it’s easier for you to use the public transport system than it’s for me. After all, I live on the edge of society, bereft of public transport access cards; no basket of fruit for me.

And about the publishing of your poetry, don’t worry, that time will come, whoever your publisher may be. You’re eighteen, eighteen, sometimes I feel like an old man. But that isn’t entirely true either, because for me, there’s nothing more satisfying that being playful, nothing more exciting than staging this reality of ours, every now and then.

My friend, Eric, who bought your book too, once made the cutting remark that he found me too playful, after which I sent him a boutade per letter, which counted three pages in total. No, writing is important to me, perhaps even holy, but I am not that sanctimonious that I wouldn’t allow people to make jokes about it. I don’t like things that have been made so holy that you can no longer make fun of it, or that you can no longer question their purpose.

Leszek Kolakowski once wrote, in his novel Horror Metaphysicus: “A modern philosopher who has never once suspected himself of being a charlatan must be such a shallow mind that his work is probably not worth reading.” Of course this doesn’t only count for philosophers but extends to writers as well.

I have to confess that I have often felt as and considered myself a charlatan, and I have to admit that I have little to no difficulty with these feelings. It doesn’t matter that you’re a charlatan, but to be a mediocre one, that would be tragic, so you should be, or at least aim to be a superior one.

I admire your unconditional choice and determination in pursuing purity, though I can’t sympathize with this feeling. However it is, what you made and much of what you told me this afternoon has me realize, again, how careful I have to be to not approach this theory of a ‘whole, unbroken world’ with nothing but irony. And your unconditional faith in art and literature has given me courage too, and in spite of everything, gives me hope.

I believe in writing too. But in a different, more ambiguous way. I see and acknowledge how double-edged writing is, how it is using pain, using people, and perhaps even using yourself. But more than just romanticizing the moment, or in expressing a certainty or resignation, to me writing, for most part originates from the anger and rage I feel. I am furious about my fate and furious about my life because it is imperfect, incomplete, because perhaps only death might complete is, and by writing I try to complete something of it, before it’s too late.

That’s enough for now.

I hope to see you again soon, and send you my kind greetings.

Arnon Grunberg

________________________________________________________________________

Before starting writing on some kind of comment or interpretation of this letter, I read through my first post on this blog, “Writing ain’t Prozac”. However, I wasn’t satisfied with the conclusion I wrote there that day, for while it postulated a hypothesis that ‘real’ novelists – and the term ‘real novelists’ itself could be the start of an entirely different discussion – write because they have to; it would be there only way to cope.

I thought about it for a long time, and I still think this rings true, but I only found the arguments after reading through Arnon’s first letter for a couple of times and having a hot shower. Bathrooms, in my case a tiny cubicle which would make a claustrophobic commit suicide, help me think, and deconnect and from the world and reconnect with new insights.

For a long time I was a troubled happy wanderer. A troubled one, but a happy wanderer nonetheless. Then, last year one of my close friends died in a tragic accident which could have been prevented. But he died, and I was devastated, not only with his loss, but also with the realization that the world can be shitty, and that life hold no promises but for the ones you make true yourself. One day you’re 22, full of life and its possibilities, and the next you’re dead. I pondered this for a long time, became depressed, until I met this young woman, my ex, and I thought love was the answer, and the reason, and purpose of life. Then she left me, and I became truly depressed. If love wasn’t the answer, what was there to live for in the first place.

This is called depression, and I got of it, for the most part.

Now, I think, no, I am entirely sure that love is the answer to life. But for some people it won’t take away the incompleteness which Arnon describes. You might meet and love the love of your life for the entirety of your life, but one day, she will die and you will be alone for the remainder of your days. Or better yet, you die first and aren’t left with the hole your departure leaves. It’s egoistic, but still, I guess that’s the best way to go, when you’re the first one. Regardless, it comes down to this fact; we are individuals, and in the end, despite our families, friends and accomplishments we will all die, and we will die alone. No one can accompany us on that journey.

It’s cruel, but it’s the truth.

Some people find ways of coping with it, just don’t realize it because they are happily oblivious of this fact, or just don’t think about it. But once you have realized it, which everyone does at some point, it will leave you depressed and wrecked, until you deal with it, cope with it, or just go on living your life accepting it.

Arnon can’t, or couldn’t when he wrote this letter.

So why writing? Ernest Hemingway once wrote that a novel should beat reality, be more perfect than if you had heard the account of the facts alone. That’s writing, that’s a novelist right there. By writing, we can create the truths of life, such as love, faith and brotherhood, but unlike reality, they don’t die when we die. They live one, captured in words and sentences, stories and novels.

Writing makes it possible to recreate things in life that ring true, and make them permanent, irrevocable, even for death morbid touch, where life’s inevitable end would snuff them out.

A novel can be complete, and show us the truths of life, while remaining incorruptible.

That’s what marks Arnon Grunberg’s letter; life is incomplete and perhaps never will be complete until death comes knocking at his door, and he realizes this. But by writing he can note down some truths, some purposes of life, and revisit them.

So I guess I have to partially abandon my earlier assumption that writing ain’t Prozac. It can be therapeutic, but I still feel a true novelist does so because he can’t do anything else. It is his way of completing an unconditionally incomplete thing.

It’s his way of dealing with life.

_______________________________________________________________________

Input, comments, interpretations, please post them and I will reply.

Writing ain’t Prozac

People say that writing has a therapeutic effect on those who write. In essence, people write to get rid of feelings. In a way I can relate to this. You got William S. Burroughs, telling his readers in his book Naked Lunch that if it hadn’t been for the fact that he accidentally shot his wife Joan Vollmer in a drunken William Tell game. But I also have the strong feeling that writers, real writers, professional writers, or novelists, like Chuck Palahnuik and Bret Easton Ellis, and James Frey and the like, would always end up writing, because it’s the only thing they truly can do. Arnon Grunberg, a famous Dutch writer, once noted in Letters to Ester, a compilation of letters, the essence of why he became a writer:

“I am so angry about my fate, so incredibly mad about my life, and how it’s incomplete, because perhaps only death will complete my emptiness, and by writing I try to fulfill it, try to make it whole, complete, before it’s too late.”

This is why I write. I hated this guy, mostly because my father hated his guts, for some perceived slights I can’t even recall anymore, watching television, and sipping from his beer. I was perhaps eighteen, still absorbing everything this man said, because my father was like this God person to me. Now, twenty-two, I read this little book of compiled letters between Arnon and Ester, and I felt such recognition in the words he wrote down. Not for entertainment, just the harsh truth about his life. I guess you can argue about whether it’s still a therapeutic way of dealing with your life, your feelings in regard to it, but I think there’s a difference.

Sure, writing in your journal can elevate some of the stress you feel. Of course it can help. But writers, real writers, they do it because they have to. It’s their only way to cope with life. It isn’t therapeutic, because it doesn’t help them function, it is the only thing they can do. They don’t process, they just compartmentalize their suffering. It’s an entirely different thing. In the end, they define themselves through their books, each title from their bibliography translating to a little portion of their soul. I wrote to Arnon after reading Letters to Ester, and told him that in my opinion, every good writer would end up like an exposition of invisible tattoos depicting the titles of his novels edged into his skin, marring his body like the stories scarred his soul.

It’s a thing you can see in all the great novelists and poets. Edgar Allan Poe. Ernest Hemmingway. William S. Burroughs. Oscar Wilde. Byron. And there are probably more names to add to this list.

In a way they are incapable of living, so they write.

It’s not their Prozac; it’s just a placebo to keep their minds occupied from this terrible truth.