Thomas Bernhard
Jason M. Baskin
Thomas
Bernhard: The Making of an Austrian
Gitta
Honegger
Yale University Press, $29.95 (cloth)
Gathering
Evidence
Thomas
Bernhard
Vintage Books (out of print)
Correction
Thomas
Bernhard
University of Chicago Press, $16 (paper)
Gargoyles
Thomas
Bernhard
University of Chicago Press, $15 (paper)
"The
pure work implies the elocutionary disappearance of the poet…."
—Stephan
Mallarmé
8
In his final will and testament, Thomas Bernhard—Austria's
most infamous novelist and playwright of the past half-century,
and the most outspoken critic the state has endured since Karl
Kraus—performed an unlikely post-mortem disappearing act.
With characteristic bravado, he banned any further production
and publication of his works within his home country for the duration
of their copyright. In the grand Austrian tradition of Mozart,
Mahler, and Freud, Bernhard was reviled at home during his lifetime
(even as he gained fame abroad), only to be hailed as a national
treasure after his death. In his will, he renounced this corrupt
inheritance, unsettling Austria's hypocritical tradition of posthumous
idolization.
Bernhard's publication ban on his
own works was not only a snub to the state he loved to antagonize
but, because it included many unpublished notes and letters, also
served to further obscure the private life of an artist who had
always maintained an illusive presence.1
It may be natural for readers to let a writer recede into his
own fictional rhetoric, conflating character and author. The rumors
that Bernhard lived in a country house painted black from floor
to ceiling were no doubt inspired by the eccentric architect Roithamer,
the fictional protagonist of Correction, who constructs
a house in the shape of a perfect cone.
But Bernhard is a special case.
He devised both a distinctive narrative strategy and an artistic
identity through an elaborate game of shifting self-representations.
In his fictional work Bernhard not only used but flaunted autobiographical
details and motifs (his family's neglect, the general ineptitude
and hypocrisy of Austrian society, his own unsupported talents,
his chronic illness), while in his five-volume memoir (published
together in English as Gathering Evidence), he exaggerated,
misreported, or simply made up the story of his life, recording
it "not as it really was…but as I see it today." "[E]xistence,"
the narrator of Correction claims, is "a bottomless falsification
and misrepresentation of our true nature."
This counterpoint of fact and fiction
in Bernhard's own biography yields a paradox immediately recognizable
to anyone who has encountered his fictional characters: the proliferation
of biographical details creates a fog in which the narrator's
true identity dissolves. The entire narrative of Bernhard's most
characteristic novels (Concrete, Correction, The Loser)
are extended, monological rants in which the speaker, through
disclosures about past traumas and derisive descriptions of Austrian
society (focused, usually, on friends and loved ones), only obliquely
approaches the actual source of his suffering. Take Rudolph, the
procrastinating writer/narrator of Concrete, whose obsessive
complaints—mainly concerning what he imagines to be his
sister's deliberate attempts to foil his work—become creative
substitutes for his unfinished masterpiece.
Likewise, the unreliability of
Bernhard's narrators is more than a momentary affliction—it's
a chronic illness. His speakers display their fallibility openly,
switching their fiercely held opinions mid-thought, maintaining
contradictory positions with undiminished fervor, and approaching
friends and colleagues with equal parts jealousy and disgust.
Error, deception, and above all failure—of familial bonds,
of physical health, of social progress, of personal and artistic
ambition—define these speakers as much as they shaped the
writer himself. Embedded in Bernhard's fractured narratives is
the failure of the institutions and structures that are supposed
to bind us together—inheritance, family, science, language,
culture; we are left with only the speaker's single, despairing
voice. Recognizing these failures—a central accomplishment
of modernism—was not enough for Bernhard: he sought to exploit
our "chronic condition" of "uncertainty" in order to transcend
both his own tragic upbringing and the pervasive sickness of post-war
Austrian society.
Like Nietzsche, who wrote that
truth is but "a mobile army of metaphors," Bernhard believed that
language offered an opportunity artistic freedom, for those gifted
enough to utilize it. The act of writing provided him with just
this moment of indeterminacy—of liberation and disappearance.
"My work," declares the narrator of Bernhard's final novel, "will
be nothing other than an act of extinction."
* * *
Thomas Bernhard: The Making
of an Austrian by Gitta Honegger is the first biography of
Bernhard to appear in English. Although Honegger offers little
in the way of new or previously unavailable material (due in large
part to restrictions in his will) she does provide a much needed
synthesis of available information on the author, including efficient
analyses of his major novels and plays, as well as several untranslated
speeches and early works. Encumbered with the task of differentiating
fact from fiction in the muddled narrative of Bernhard's childhood,
Honegger, a dramatist, professor of literature, and former translator
of Bernhard, knows the elusiveness of her subject. Her biography
is concerned less with the verifiable facts of the author's life
than with the way he manipulated and exploited biographical fact
for artistic effect—specifically his attempt to connect
his own traumatic childhood to the greater historical trauma of
his country. The result is a biography written wholly in the spirit
of its subject. Honegger's account of Bernhard's formative years
reads like the narrative of his fourth novel The Lime Works,
in which the story of Konrad's murder of his wife is a collage
of known facts, familiar anecdotes, and the protagonist's own
dubious version of events.
The product of two generations
of illegitimate liaisons, Thomas Bernhard was born in Holland
in 1931 to the young Herta Bernhard, who had fled her hometown
to hide the shame of her pregnancy, the result of an isolated
erotic encounter, or perhaps, it has been speculated, a date rape.
The young Bernhard spent much of his childhood in and out of foster
homes and state houses for "illegitimate children," including
one in a trawler off Rotterdam harbor. His father, a carpenter,
fled to Germany where he may have killed himself. Bernhard's mother
considered, and finally rejected, the idea of giving her son up
for adoption and instead brought him to Vienna to be raised by
her parents while she remained in Holland to work. Her own father,
Johannes Freumbichler, an anarchist intellectual and struggling
novelist who had conducted an affair with Bernhard's married grandmother,
became the boy's surrogate father. Freumbichler was the only beloved
figure of Bernhard's childhood and introduced him to the host
of great German and Austrian writers and philosophers—including
Schopenhauer, who would be one of the writer's most powerful influences.
Most importantly, though, Freumbichler—who would later die
in a hospital bed down the hall from his grandson, who was recovering
from a lung infection—inspired Bernhard's recurring image
of the artist: politically radical, obsessively single-minded,
and, above all, a failure.
By the time Bernhard was five,
his mother remarried and gave birth to a son and daughter. Her
husband served as Thomas's "guardian" but never adopted the boy.
Ostracized by his mother, rejected by both his biological father
and stepfather, Bernhard was an anxious, sickly, suicidal boy;
his mother tried to cure his chronic bedwetting through the unfortunate
method of displaying his stained sheets to their neighbors.
Bernhard showed intelligence, but
remained a failure at school. At sixteen, he dropped out and took
a job as a grocer. Earning his own money and taking private singing
lessons, Bernhard flourished, until he was hospitalized for pleurisy
and then tuberculosis, the disease that would plague him the rest
of his life. Recovering in the sanitarium at Grafenhof, he met
Hedwig Stavianicek, an older, sophisticated, aristocratic woman
who would become his "Lebensmensch" ("life-person"). Stavianicek
encouraged the young man to write—she would help support
his career the rest of her life—and the following year,
Bernhard published his first piece, "At the Grave of a Poet,"
a tribute to his grandfather. Later that same year, his mother
died. Truly alone, his last blood-tie severed, Bernhard was free
to reconstruct his identity solely through his art, in his words,
"exploiting the whole world by transforming it into poetry."
With a liberty afforded by his
tangled upbringing, Bernhard spent his career exploring and rewriting
his past ("finding evidence about my existence") in an effort
to construct an identity sui generis. Focused on
the formative years he spent in Grafenhof sanitarium, Gathering
Evidence stages Bernhard's artistic awakening against a backdrop
of respirators and dying old men (a perfect analogy for Austria
itself). The title of this memoir's third volume, "Breath:
A Decision," underscores the vital connection between art and
life: writing becomes his only weapon in a struggle between the
mind and the body, health and illness. As an imaginative act,
writing is in conflict with the real world, the inescapable fact
of which remains death. For Bernhard, who began to write poems
in a hospital bed with his grandfather ("the only person I really
loved") dying down the hall, the first aesthetic lesson was clear:
writing is no more and no less than a doomed act of survival.
Abandoned by a father he never
knew and neglected by his mother, the failings of Bernhard's family
structure proved only a more immediate (hence surmountable) manifestation
of a larger national and cultural failure. As his memoir demonstrates
(written while ailing under the care of his once-estranged step-brother),
Bernhard ultimately came to terms, however tenuous, with his family;
as evidenced by his will, he never made peace with his homeland.
* * *
Anyone who knew the symptoms as
well as Bernhard did could see signs of Austria's illness everywhere.
Like Robert Musil before him, Bernhard wrote in the wake of the
dramatic collapse of the Hapsburg monarchy through insanity, incest,
and suicide (all potent Bernhardian motifs). In an interview,
Bernhard recognizes the shadow of the Hapsburgs over his art:
"The past of the Hapsburg Empire is what forms us. In my case
it is perhaps more visible than in others. It manifests itself
in a kind of love-hate for Austria that's the key to everything
I write." Born early enough to be aware of Nazi rule, but too
young to actively participate in Austria's fascist politics, Bernhard
wrote out of the guilt, denial, and devastation that pervaded
Austria at the end of the Second World War.
Looming over Bernhard's formative
years was the decaying state of Austria itself—a country
deeply divided, willfully blind to the past, and hindered by an
imperious but stagnant cultural heritage. Above all through his
dramatic work, Bernhard was one of the first artists of his generation
to expose the hypocritical persistence of Nazism and anti-Semitism
in Austrian society, nagging at Austrians' continuing failure
to come to terms with their past. As Honegger points out, Austria
made no attempt to welcome or even recognize the return of writers
exiled during the war, such as Nobel Laureate Elias Canetti. And
of course, there is the 1986 election to president of ex-Nazi
Kurt Waldheim and the ascendancy of right-wing populist Jörg
Haider, whose Nazi sentiments eventually won him a seat on the
coalition government. Austrians have repeatedly surprised the
world with their stubborn oblivion.
As a native Austrian, Honegger
has fully assimilated the cultural consciousness of a country
where brutality and civility, violence and art, are intertwined.
She successfully frames our understanding of Bernhard within the
political and cultural climate of post-World-War-II Austria—an
environment about which many Americans, complacent in post-Cold-War
stability, are distressingly ignorant. Only recently—through
the popular recognition of writers like W. G. Sebald and artists
like Gerhard Richter (both of whom owe much to Bernhard's bleak,
melancholic vision)—have we begun to appreciate the continuing
attempts of Central European artists and writers to come to terms
with the devastation of the Second World War.
Now, more than ten years after
his death—and thirty years since his work was first translated
into English (to early acclaim by critics like George Steiner
and Sven Birkerts)—multiple generations of writers, disaffected
perhaps with the detached formality of much post-war American
writing, return to Bernhard's prose. Always technically exacting,
Bernhard's style remains driven by a dominant emotional force,
a sadness, that other writers of similar intellectual caliber
either cannot or will not sustain. The passion Bernhard elicits
from other writers, coupled with his lack of commercial popularity
in America, recalls John Ashbery's description of Elizabeth Bishop
as "a writer's writer's writer." Fittingly, for an author whose
prevailing metaphor is illness, Bernhard's language is infectious,
overpowering, and for those reasons utterly enjoyable. Whereas
Dickens' genius is most visible, as Martin Amis has said, in the
inventiveness of his names, Bernhard's voice—splenetic,
bitterly humorous, harshly critical, excessively opinionated—speaks
most clearly through insults: an artist is described as a "megalomaniac
cliché-monger"; teachers are "art destroyers, all of them,
art liquidators, cultural assassins, murderers of students"; a
friend is simply "the loser"—an epithet that drives the
man to suicide.
A consummate performer, through
the written word as well as the spoken, Bernhard is often compared
to Samuel Beckett: both share an effusive, breathless prose style,
a mastery of the monologue form, an obsession with illness and
an unremittingly pessimistic sensibility. Markedly unlike Beckett,
however, Bernhard never directed his vitriol upwards at an absent
or negligent god-figure; there were simply too many people right
down here that warranted his scorn, from government officials
to his own family members.2 Constantly
demonstrating the subtle interchange between love and hate, Bernhard's
wrath, like that of his narrators, was typically directed at
the most proximate targets: his sister, mother, fellow artists,
close friends, and homeland. While all of these figures played
pivotal roles in Bernhard's life, the last proved to have the
most enduring influence on him and his work.
Fittingly, then, the focus of Honegger's
portrait is a detailed illumination of the mutually antagonistic
relationship between Bernhard and Austria. She places Bernhard's
own self-consciousness about his country's (and his own family's)
past within the fascinating history of the larger Austrian "Herkunftscomplex"
("origin-complex"), repeatedly illustrating the ways in which
the author embodied the very Austrian traditionalism that he criticized,
cultivating sophisticated acquaintances, inhabiting a country
house, and traveling around Europe at the expense of a wealthy
friend. Honegger's insights, while significant, are at times awkwardly
rendered. Seemingly uncomfortable in the role of social critic,
Honegger has occasional difficulty bringing out the essence of
an anecdote, a weakness that results in a submersion of her primary
argument in needless digressions. A detailed portrait of the director
Claus Peymann, Bernhard's longtime collaborator, for instance,
appears particularly unnecessary, given the fact that she barely
mentions Beckett, Musil, and Karl Kraus (probably Bernhard's closest
literary forebear).
Honegger is most convincing, however,
in her analysis of the centrality of the theater to Bernhard's
fictional work and his self-definition as an artist. The grand
theatrics of the operatic tradition are hardwired into the brain
of every Austrian, and she remains attentive to the way Bernhard
incorporated dramatic techniques—the use of the monologue,
of rhetorical conflict, of an evocative setting—into his
novels and his public image. Bernhard was able to transform himself
from Salzburg's illegitimate son into an inheritor of Austria's
grand cultural tradition, as Honegger shows, through an aggressive
form of self-reproduction that brought his art to life.
Apparently, Bernhard worked as
hard to manipulate the drama surrounding his productions as carefully
as the show itself. Though his work espoused no specific political
ideology—which led to criticism from the both right and
the left—his plays often incorporated contemporary political
divisions into the act. Days before the opening of his final play
Heldenplatz (Heroes Square), scheduled to premiere on the
anniversary of the Burgtheater's founding—which coincided
with the anniversary of Hitler's annexation of Austria—enraged
citizens dumped a load of manure at the front of the Burgtheater
in protest. (One newspaper headline read: "Austria Curses, Bernhard
Rehearses.") The author himself, whose play stages the return
of a Jewish professor with his family to Vienna after the war
only to find that "there are more Nazis in Vienna today than in
1938," could not have illustrated the point more effectively.
Honegger identifies the hospital
in Gathering Evidence—along with the haunting descriptions
of bombed-out Salzburg—as Bernhard's most apt metaphor for
the Austrian condition. Its doctors "know practically nothing
and can achieve practically nothing" and its patients hang onto
life by a string:
All the patients were on drips
of some sort, and from the distance the tubes looked like strings….It
was perfectly natural for me to think of them as marionettes and
not as human beings—to think that sooner or later everyone
must become a marionette, to be thrown on the rubbish heap and
buried or burnt, no matter where they had once performed, no matter
when or for how long, in this marionette theater we call the world.
This mordant re-imagination of
the hospital (as country) as stage-set can be seen as a brilliant
device for coping with a savage reality by transforming it into
art. For Bernhard, the freedom born of his family's neglect—which
he interpreted as a nation's dismissal—became more than
a personal, psychological trauma: it was an artistic necessity.
Utilizing the power of autobiography for something more than therapeutic
confession, Bernhard managed to connect his personal suffering
to the sickness of an entire society.
Even in his earliest novels, he
had already begun to use the metaphors of physical and mental
illness to explore the decay of his homeland. Gargoyles,
a dark, broken bildungsroman, was the first of Bernhard's
novels to be translated and the first to gain him national recognition.
Set in the haunting fairy-tale landscape of rural Austria, the
narrator is a young man home from university who follows his father,
a country doctor, on his rounds through the area surrounding a
remote mountain gorge. Each patient they visit suffers from a
different nightmarish ailment by which the father means to expose
the boy—an idealistic student of science and rationality—to
the ubiquity of sickness, brutality, and death. "It would be wrong
to refuse to face the fact," his father cautions him, "that everything
is fundamentally sick and sad." This unsentimental education
in Bernhardian values culminates with a visit to Hochgobernitz
castle and its owner, the mad Prince Saurau—the Hapsburg
stand-in who steals the show with a hundred-page monologue about
his own descent into madness and his fraught relationship with
his own son, who is studying abroad. "I often think that it is
my duty to write to my son in London and tell him what is awaiting
him here in Hochgobernitz some day, when I am dead: cold. Isolation.
Madness. Deadly monologuing." Saurau's chilling (and bitingly
self-reflexive) list is the corrupt inheritance that awaits the
sons of Austria's grand monarchial tradition.
In Correction, rightly characterized
by Honegger as the apex of Bernhard's early career (and the novel
that gained him international praise), Bernhard continues to dramatize
the problems of inheritance. The novel begins, as most of Bernhard's
novels do, with a corpse. In building his beloved sister a perfectly
conical house, the central character Roithamer (modeled on Ludwig
Wittgenstein) unwittingly drives her to suicide—and subsequently
kills himself. The narrator, a childhood friend and admirer of
Roithamer, has been put in charge of cataloguing his posthumous
papers. In the second half of the book, we read over his shoulder
as he organizes Roithamer's long tract on his hometown entitled
"Altensam, and everything connected to it,"—which becomes,
ironically, a record of his struggle for survival against his
origin and inheritance, his "sudden awakening against Altensam
and everything connected with Altensam."
In contrast to Gargoyles,
Correction is focused less on portraying the malignancy
of Austrian society than on enacting the struggle of a unique
individual against that society. This shift required a stylistic
transformation—one which would afford the both writer and
speaker (who spends much of the novel locked in the small bedroom
of his dead friend) the space to breathe. As Prince Saurau remarks
in Gargoyles, "The feeling that permits a person to elude
death for a longer or shorter period—we have it often—has
for me become crudely stapled together with long sentences, comprehensible
or incomprehensible ones."
Having dispensed with the simple,
episodic structure of Gargoyles, Bernhard chose to stage
the central conflict of Correction completely in Roithamer's
own mind: "Society doesn't think," Roithamer writes, "because
it hates thinking, which is alien to its nature, more than anything."
This emphasis on abstraction and the movements of consciousness
over more traditional representational and narrative language
coincided with a technical innovation that would establish Bernhard's
patented prose style: long, winding sentences that circle back
on (and correct) themselves. This style, as Honegger points out,
could not have developed without the author's confident use of
dramatic techniques in his prose. In a 1975 letter, Bernhard wrote:
As a former and lifelong so-called
acting student, I have always been interested only in writing
for actors against the audience, as I always did everything
against the audience, against my readers or my spectators,
in order to save myself, to discipline myself to the utmost, highest
degree of my capacities.
As Bernhard learned from Brecht
(on whom he wrote an early critical piece), conflict—between
actors and audience—is the essence of drama. And Bernhard's
disposal of narrative in Correction almost completely shifts
the burden of embodying this conflict onto his prose style. Juxtaposing
multiple layers of reference and multiple, contradictory perspectives
(Roithamer's and the narrator's), Bernhard achieves a state of
stylistic dissonance within each sentence: "Peace is not life,
Roithamer wrote, perfect peace is death, as Pascal said, wrote
Roithamer."
This formal enactment of conflict
and irresolution is the most characteristic feature of Bernhard's
prose. Moreover, Bernhard's style embodies the life—the
possibility of life—that his work offers the individual:
"when we think, we know nothing, everything is open, nothing,
so Roithamer." Ultimately, we are doomed to lose the struggle;
but to deny the timeless, redemptive quality of art—as Bernhard,
the unrelenting critic of religion, surely would—is not
to renounce its efficacy and usefulness. By creating a space in
which individual thought converges with the physical world, art
does help us live:
We enter a world which precedes
us but is not made for us, and we have to cope with this world…but
if we survive…we must take care to turn this world, which
was a given world but not made for us or ready for us, a world
which is all set in any case, because it was made by our predecessors,
to attack us and ruin us and finally destroy us, nothing else,
we must turn it into a world to suit our own ideas, acting first
behind the scenes, inconspicuously, but then with all our might
and quite openly, so that we can say after a while that we're
living in our own world, not in some previous world, one that
is always bound to be of no concern to us and intent upon ruining
and destroying us.
Near the end of her biography,
Honegger notes that since his death Bernhard has become a boon
to Austria's tourist industry: small country towns now display
rooms the mysterious author slept in, and employees tell anecdotes
about serving him breakfast or shining his shoes. Like the rumors
that circulated during Bernhard's lifetime, these are failed attempts
to approach the inner life of an artist who sought to continually
reveal our inability to know one another, whatever public facts
we may have at our disposal. More than anything else, this continual
reproduction of Bernhard memorabilia, like Bernhard's own reproduction
of himself throughout his lifetime, will only continue to cloud
our vision of a writer who managed to pour his life out on the
page, and at the same time, continually disappear.<
Jason M. Baskin is assistant editor at W. W. Norton &
Company.
Notes
1
Recently, several new books have appeared in Austria that include
a good deal of Bernhard's private material: his drafts, notes
for poems, letters, fragments of unpublished works, even a daily
diary kept by one of his close friends. For a review of these
books, see Leo Lensing, "Unfavourite Son," Times Literary Supplement,
5 October 2001.
2 The
relationship between the Bernhard's work and Beckett's—particularly
whether their similarities constitute an actual influence or mere
affinities—has been discussed by a number of critics. Robert
Craft aptly described the writers as two sides of the same coin.
See "The Comedian of Horror," The New York Review of Books,
27 September 1990.
Originally published
in the Summer 2002 issue of Boston
Review |