Valuable nail : selected poems / PT2609.117 A23 1981 17859

Eich, Gunter,NEW COLLEGE OF CALIFORNIA (SF)

PT 2609 .117 A23 1981 Eich, G unter, 1907-1972. Valuable nail

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-----------------------? I #139642609 Eich, Gunter, 1907-1972.t 17 ^Valuable n a i I « s e l e c t e d poems /123 Gunter Eicn i t r a n s la te d by Stuart1981 f r i e b e r t , David t a l k e r , and David loun^1 in trodu ct ion by David Youn&. —

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Gunter Eich

VALUABLE NAILSELECTED POEMS

Translated by Stuart Friebert, David Walker, and David Young

I n t r o d u c t i o n b y D a v i d Y o u n g

F I E L D T r a n s l a t i o n Se r ie s 5

M a n y of these t ranslat ions have appe are d in the fol­low in g journal s: A ntaeus, Field, Iowa Review , Ironwood, Malahat Review , Quarterly Review oj Literature.

Special thanks to Suh rka m p V e r l a g / F r a n k t u r t and Ilse Aich inger to r permission to use these poems.

Publ icat ion of this book was m ad e possible th rough g ran ts f ro m the O h io Art s Counc i l and Laurence Perr ine .

C o p y r i g h t © 1981 by O b er l in Co l l ege

Libra ry of Congress C a ta lo g in g in Pub l i cat ion Data Eich, G u n te r ( t r ans la ted by S tuar t Fr ieber t , David W a l k e r , and Dav id Young)

V A L U A B L E N AI L(T h e FIELD Trans la t ion Series; v. 5)

LC: 80-85332 ISBN: 0-932440-08-8

0-932440-09-6 f paperback)

C O N T E N T S

7 In troduction19 A N o te on the Translations 21 A G un te r Eich C hrono logy25 A M ix tu re o f Routes28 W id e ly T rave lled29 T im etab le30 V iareggio32 O ld Postcards36 Q u o ta t io n from N o rw a y37 Salt38 B erlin 191839 Lem berg40 Inven to ry42 C ure43 Seminar for B ac k w ard Pupils46 H a l f47 End o f August48 B rook in D ecem b er49 Learning A bout the Landscape50 Seahorses52 Days w ith Jays53 A bandoned M ounta in Pasture54 Late June E arly Ju ly55 Smokebeer56 C on tinu ing the C onversa tion 63 C arstensen65 T oo Late for M odesty66 W h e re I Live

67697176777880828384868789909294979899

101103104106108112

G eom etrica l Place A D ay in O kayam a RyoanjiTalks T h a t N ev e r T ake PlaceFor Exam pleR epeating D ic t ionaryM arketp laceC arry in g BagPream bleW in te r S tudent and D au g h ter-S o nInsightM agic SpellsR em ainderB eethoven , W o lf , and Schubert SinN e w PostcardsC hange o f C lim ateM unch, Consul SandbergN athanae lLittle D au g h te rKey FigureDefin itiveLaurasB rickw orks B e tw een 1900 and 1910 Some R em arks on “ L ite ra tu re and R ea l i ty ”

I N T R O D U C T I O N by D avid Y oung

In the sum m er o f 1966, S tuart Friebert and I traveled to Europe on an H. H . Pow ers G ran t to m eet w ith a n um b er of W e s t G erm an poets. Transla tion wras one of: ou r aims, along w ith an an thology o f co n tem p o ra ry G erm an poetry . W h ile the an thology was eventually shelved, the translations flourished, and the w hole trip was valuable in ways that are still m aking them ­selves fe l t . W e m et a num b er of: distinguished w r i te rs— am ong them G u n te r Grass, K arl K ro - low , Paul C elan, R ainer B ram bach , H e lm ut Heissenbutte l, and Hilde D o m in — and had a chance to com pare their l i te ra ry cu lture w ith ours in some detail. The m ee ting tha t impressed us bo th the m ost took place in a small village in the Bavarian Alps, near the G erm an-A ustr ian border; it was w ith G un te r Eich and his wife, the w r i te r Ilse A ichinger. W e had already begun our translations of E ich ’s poems, and this en ­coun te r spurred our efforts. Eich had jus t pub­lished a rich and pow erfu l collection of poems, Aulasse und SteingarMn, and w e w ere exc ited by the d iscovery of a m ajo r w r i te r w ho was still so little know n outside his ow n coun try . In the

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n e x t few years E ich ’s collections of prose poems appeared , and as w e w o rk ed to cope w ith their challenges w e found one o f our ow n students, D avid W a lk e r (a lready a FIELD ed ito r as an un ­derg radua te and now a colleague), w h o had the necessary gifts and in terest to translate them effectively. Thus was the tr io ot translators re ­sponsible tor the present volum e b ro u g h t to ­ge ther in a shared enterprise o f enthusiasm and m utual support. All the translations collected here have benefited from the ideas and sugges­tions o f all three translators, a lthough there is a principal transla tor in each case, identified in the no te tha t follows this in troduction .

O u r conversations w ith G u n te r Eich (Stuart Friebert re tu rned tor second and th ird visits in 1968 and 1970), as well as our subsequent co r ­respondence, cen tered on the poetry , not on the life. W e knew vaguely tha t he had fought on the Russian front during the w a r and had been a prisoner o f w a r briefly in a cam p in the United States, and that his ca ree r as a poet had really begun significantly in the pos tw ar period, when he and a g roup ot l ike-m inded w rite rs , the G roup 47, had tried to forge an aesthetic ap p ro ­priate to pos tw ar G erm any; but Eich was ra ther re ticen t, both as a poet and as an individual,

about the misfortunes and details o t his o w n his­tory. The ch rono logy appended to the in tro du c­tion outlines his life, b u t our emphasis here, as he w ould have w an ted , m ust be on his accom ­plishments as a w r i te r o f lyric poems and o f radio plays, a rguably the most im p o rtan t figure in both areas that G erm any has p roduced since W o r ld W a r II.

Any consideration o f G u n te r E ic h ’s im p o r­tance as a poet must, take into account the post­w a r situation in G erm any , w h ere w r i te rs found a com m on purpose in the e ffo r t to reconstitu te their language as an in s trum en t of know ledge and tru th . T hey form ed a genera tion w ith a spe­cial sense o f the precarious and invaluable n a ­ture o f language, its necessity, its incredible abuses, its rare m om ents o f precision and im agi­native perfection . Paul Celan spoke o f the G e r­m an language having to “ pass th rough its ow n unresponsiveness, pass th rough its ow n fearful m uting , pass th rough the thousand darknesses o f dea th -b ring ing speech .” And Hans M agnus En- zensberger, a younger m em ber of tha t pos tw ar generation of poets, has testified to E ic h ’s role in the difficult struggle tha t b ro u g h t an end to the “ tearful m u t in g ,” a role that gave him a special esteem am ong his contem poraries :

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Af te r the en t r y o f the Allies, G e r m a n y was mute , in the most precise me an i ng of the wo rd , a speechless coun t ry . T h e re is a poem in which this paralysis has itself b eco me language, and whic h s imultaneous ly describes and overcomes the si tuat ion; it has bec ome famous and is re­ga rded today as the b ir th cer t i f i ca te o f the N e w Ge rm a n l i t e ra ture . G u n te r Eich w r o t e it: Inven­tory . . . E i c h ’s poem is as quie t as it is radical .It is w r i t t e n f rom the s i tuat ion of a p r i soner o f w a r in a camp; but this s i tuat ion s imultaneous ly s tood for the condi t ion o f all Germans . T h e poet is s taking a c l a im to the absolute m i n i m u m that remains; to a ma te r i a l , spiri tual , and l inguist ic r em nan t . His m a n n e r o f w r i t in g cor responds to this. It is s t r ipped d o w n as t ar as poe t ry can be s tr ipped. T h e t ex t sounds like a man l ea rn ing to speak; it is w i th such e l em en ta ry sentences that l anguage courses begin. This was the posi t ion ot G e rm a n l i t era tu re af t er the war: it had to learn its o w n language.

E i c h ’s s u b s e q u e n t d e v e l o p m e n t w a s an e x p a n ­s ion, n e v e r an a b a n d o n m e n t , o t the “ e l e m e n ­t a r y ” q u a l i t y o t “ I n v e n t o r y . ” Hi s p o e t r y — n o t to m e n t i o n his r e m a r k a b l e l a t e p ro s e p o e m s — has g r e a t v a r i e t y a n d i m a g i n a t i v e d a r i n g , .is the p r e s e n t s e l e c t io n s h o w s . B u t the “ m i n i m u m , ” th e c l a i m s t a k e d to s h re d s a n d r e m n a n t s , to the th i n g s w e b e g i n to n o t i c e a n d p r i z e w h e n o u r

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dignity and co m fo r t are stripped aw ay , like the “ valuable n a i l” in “ In v en to ry ,” rem ains a cen­tral characteris tic o f his aesthetic , his w ay of though t and life. “ A M ix tu re o fR o u te s ,” one o f his finest poems, ends:

A m o m e n t o f co m f o r t d r a w n f r o m barracks ,f ro m ro t t in g grass, ro t t in g ropes.

Asked w h a t tha t m ean t, Eich replied, “ C o m fo rt conies only from ro t t in g grass, no t from philos­o p h y .” W h y “ ro t t in g ” ? W e ll , the barracks b e­long to a fo rm er co ncen tra t ion cam p, and the m om en t of co m fo r t is simply tha t they are no longer put to tha t use. Evil rots and passes too— a dour kind o f solacing. T h a t this ten ta tive and skeptical approach to experience was also the basis for E ic h ’s a tt i tude to w ard language is m ade clear in his tine essay, “ Some R em arks on ‘L itera ture and R e a l i ty ,’ ” appended to this col­lection.

T o say that Eich was a poet w h o had to rec re ­ate and revalidate a language for poe try is not, h ow ever , to deny him a trad ition . At least three traditions converge in his w o rk . T h e re is first a clear link w ith G erm an rom antic ism , especially in its tendency to find m ysterious signs and tokens in the na tu ra l w orld . In a com para tive ly

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early poem — not included he re— a stranger looks at the leg of a banded bird and reads the message w ith astonishm ent. In the same volume (ti t led , incidentally , Botschafteti des Regetis: m es­sages or bulletins from the rain) the speaker of “ Ins igh t” confesses to a sort o f parano ia— M ex ico is an invented coun try because he has never been th e re— but finds tru th hidden in his k itchen cupboard , in labeled canisters. Later poems, like “ H a l f ,” find a wistful speaker pass­ing a token to someone else, “ But / I give you a snail to take, / tha t will keep a long t im e .” Eich plays w ith and even parodies the trad ition , but it is obviously one that a ttrac ts his im agination. In a pos t-A uschw itz w o r ld he reads n a tu re ’s h ieroglyphs w ith caution, even distrust; still, the notion that the w o r ld o f objects, studied ca re ­fully, has m ysteries to reveal and saving strengths to put o n e ’s faith in, persists and pros­pers w hen it can.

A second tradition is that of Chinese poetry. As a young m an before the w a r , Eich studied to be a Sinologist, and his explora tions of the C h i­nese poetic trad ition , w hich included a good deal of translating, left their m ark. It he is less porten tous than rom antic poets, m ore cool and d irec t and na tu ra l, he owes that in part to the

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Chinese m anner ot simple images simply p re ­sented, taking their meanings from ju x tap o s i­tion and im plication , w ith little o r no accom ­panying com m ent. His m astery o f the idiom and techniques o f Chinese p oe try rem ained a con­stant and valuable background to all his w rit ing .

T here is also good reason for linking E ich ’s poe try w ith the European poe try ot this cen tu ry tha t is called “ h e rm e t ic .” This te rm often seems to spread m ore confusion than c lar ity , bu t it we lack its precise definition w e have some notion o f its dimensions: associations w ith such poets as C har , C elan, U n g a re t t i , and Sandor W eores , and, sw inging a w id e r arc, e lem ents in the w o rk ot poets as diverse as M andelstam , Vallejo, and Yeats; a tendency n o t only to w ard a private m anner and vocabulary bu t to w ard condensa­tion as w ell— a clipped, pithy, h a rd -ed ged m an­ner; an inwardness tha t has little to do w ith the e x trav ag an t m eans o f the surrealists; and a kind o f tough-m indedness that seems to insist that lyrics m ust be chipped and carved from the roughest m ateria ls and w ith the simplest tools. Seen in light o f this trad ition , E ic h ’s w o rk makes sense not only in individual poems but in its de­velopm ent, to r m ore and m ore it acquires a w ry , self-contained, and undoubted ly difficult m an ­

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ner tha t is also the source of an exh ila ra t ing m u ­sic. W e m ight say that a good herm etic poet, like a good herm it , is learn ing to talk (or sing) to himself or h e rse lf (as opposed, say, to a confes­sional poet, w h o is presum ably anxious to talk to someone), and that his o r her aim m ust be first and forem ost to avoid the garrulous. Thus E ich ’s poems g ro w h a rd e r and denser and, it we accept their d irection , lovelier. Instead o f “ messages from the r a in ” we have by 1966, Anlasse und Steingarten: occasions and rock gardens. T he Jap ­anese ryoanji re fe rred to in tha t title make an appropria te m etap ho r for the p oe try — spare ot means but yielding m uch to study and m ed ita ­tion, m ysterious but simple, hard but astonish­ingly graceful. Yet it also seems clear that Eich m ore or less backed himself into a co rner by le t­ting his herm etic tendency run its course: it is hard to imagine him going m uch further in the d irections represented by the 1966 volum e, and easy to see that, in o rder to avoid disappearing from sight o r becom ing so dry and dense no reader could follow him, it was natural tor him to change his m edium to prose and his m anner to that o t Maulwiirfe (moles). The prose poems are scarcely a repudiation ot E ich’s hernieticism, but they represent a release, a b u rro w in g out

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from under that co rner . A t any rate , if the con­cept of herm etic poe try continues to be an in te r­esting and helpful w ay o f seeing a g rea t deal of tw en t ie th -c en tu ry E uropean poetry , then Eich deserves recognition as a m ajor p ractit ioner.

W h en w e have seen Eich as a distinguished m em ber o f a l i te ra ry genera tion struggling to reconstitu te a language, and as a poet whose w o rk combines three trad itions— rom antic , Chinese, and h e rm e tic— w ith d istinctive re ­sults, we are closer to understand ing his im ­portance and uniqueness. B ut a fu r the r step remains, tha t of com prehend ing E ic h ’s im agina­tive freedom , always a m iracle but especially m iraculous in the circumstances in w hich his iden tity as a w r i te r was fashioned. For if the problem of being tru ly im aginative is a un iver­sal hurdle for the poet, and can be seen in u n ive r­sal terms, it often makes the m ost sense to see it in terms o f the p o e t ’s time and place. Thus Hopkins, for exam ple , is m ore acutely u nd e r­stood w hen his accom plishm ent is presented in term s of his effort to b reak free o f V ictorian sensibilities and, m ore especially, the w o rs t ten­dencies o f V ic tor ian poetry . This problem , for Eich, was posed not by the w a r or its af te rm ath , but by the dangerous sameness w ith w hich w r i t ­

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ers responded to it. H ere we must acknow ledge the m oralistic tendencies ot G erm an postw ar poetry ; one is sym pathetic to the w r i t e r ’s need to present credentials tha t reassure the reader as to m atte rs o f social conscience and political con­cern, but the results are too often dism aying and dull. The influence o f B rech t, an easy and safe model for poe try o f this kind, has not been a happy one, as anyone w h o reads th rough the reams ot poetry p roduced a t te r his m anner will come to recognize. And the challenge for a m a ­jo r poet in these circumstances lies in the ability to transcend, w itho u t a ltoge the r abandoning, the impulse to m oralistic and political poems w ith pred ic tab le , earnest sentiments.

W ith o u t a t tem p tin g to assess the ach ieve­m ent o f any o ther poet, one can point to E ich ’s rem arkable success in com bin ing responsibility and freedom . The best test will come in reading the poems, but tw o guideposts m ay be useful. The m etaphor ot travel that is not travel is sure­ly one o f the most significant in E ich ’s poetry , tor it expresses the com bination ot m oral re ­sponsibility— staying hom e and facing the past — and ot imaginative freedom — the p o e t ’s e te r ­nal privilege— that E ich ’s poetry achieves at its best. Here travel must be understood in its hill

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varie ty of possibilities— taking a w alk , hurtl ing around the w o r ld in an airplane, le tt ing o n e ’s m ind w ander, visiting an alien Japan w hich turns out to be a strange m ir ro r o f G erm any — for an apprecia tion of the w ay the m etaphor w orks and o f the fact tha t it succeeds precisely because it is m etap ho r , a w ay o f stating the con­dition that transcends the prosaic. Similarly, we m ay find another useful guide to E ic h ’s ach ieve­m en t in his use of w h a t m igh t be called a “ glanc­in g ” technique: subjects brush past rapidly, is­sues are seen at the edge of the vision, tw o or th ree w ords make up a concise image that must stand for a g rea t chunk o f terr ib le history. H ence the “ pos tca rds ,” hasty scribbles o f the im agination; hence poems like “ L em b erg ” (the G erm an nam e for the Russian city of Lvovsk), w h ere one or tw o characteris tics— the sound o f the nam e, the term inus o f the s tree tcar line— suggest, like the tip o f an iceberg , m eanings that G erm any and Russia have for each o th er after wars, af ter years, af ter the deadening w e igh t of h a tred and suffering. Eich w o rked at first in short poems, w h ere this “ g lan c ing ” technique was almost a necessity; then, as he gained confi­dence and com m and, he was able to use it con­sistently in longer poems and sustained se­

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quences. Poems like “ B rickw orks B etw een 1900 and 1910,” “ Seminar tor Su rv ivors ,” “ Ryo- a n j i ,” and, perhaps to excess, the en igm atic “ C on tinu ing the C o n v e rsa t io n ,” rem ain, tor this reason, am ong the most rem arkable ach ievem ents o f the p o e t ’s canon. T hey b rough t dow n charges ot unnecessary d ifficulty and ir­responsibility on E ich ’s head, as did the prose poems, but they will endure w hen the reams and reams o f righteous, simplistic poems afte r the m anner o f B rech t have been forgotten .

All this is not to claim that Eich is w itho u t limits o r faults. Some o f his poems are trivial, o thers are pred ic tab le ; at times his w ay ot m u t­tering to h im self about c learly private associa­tions can be exasperating . But this selection is designed to show the poet at his best. It does not exh ib it the early poems very thoroughly . And it de -emphasizes chronology in o rd e r to illustrate the consistency of the p o e t ’s im agination and to refute the charges that the prose poems w ere an uncharac teris tic and irresponsible falling-off. It it succeeds in some ot these aims it may not only in troduce Eich to English and A m erican readers whose acquaintance w ith his w o rk is long o v e r ­due; it may clarify his position tor his ow n coun­trym en.

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A N O T E O N T H E T R A N S L A T IO N S

All the translations in this volum e are in a sense collaborations, since the editors w o rked closely to g e ther on each poem. The following list identifies the principal transla to r o f each poem. K atherine B rad ley transla ted tw o poems while a s tudent at O berlin .

F rom Abgelegene Gehofte (1948): Inven to ry ( trans­la ted by D av id Young)From Botschaften des Regens (1955): Insight, Days w ith Jays, W h e re I Live, Lem berg, End of Au­gust, A bandoned M ounta in Pasture, B rook in D ecem b er ( transla ted by D avid Young)From Z u den A kten (1964): Q u o ta t io n from N o r ­w ay , M unch, Consul Sandberg ( transla ted by D avid Young); T oo Late for M odesty , Re­m ainder, For Exam ple , O ld Postcards (1), N ew Postcards (1), Talks T h a t N ev e r T ake Place ( transla ted by S tuart Friebert); C a rry in g Bag (transla ted by D avid W a lk e r )From Anlasse und Steingarten (1966): W ide ly T rave lled , Sm okebeer, A M ix tu re o f Routes, Learning A bout the Landscape, Half, Ryoanji, Seminar for B ackw ard Pupils, Defin itive, T im etab le , B rickw orks B e tw een 1900 and 1910, G eom etrica l Place, C on tinu ing the C o n v e r­

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sation (transla ted by D avid Young); O ld Post­cards (2), B erlin 1918 (transla ted by Katherine Bradley); N e w Postcards (2), Little D au g h te r ( transla ted by S tuart Friebert)From Maulwiirfe (1968): P ream ble ( translated by Stuart Friebert); Sin ( translated by John Lynch and D avid Young); W in te r S tudent and D aughter-Son , N athanae l, C ure , Seahorses, Salt, Late June Early July, C hange o f C li­m ate , M arke tp lace , A Day in O kayam a, V iareggio ( transla ted by D avid W a lk er )From Ein Tibeter in meinem Biiro (1970): M agic Spells ( transla ted by Stuart Friebert); C ars ten - sen, Lauras, Key Figure, R epeating D ic tionary , B eethoven , W o lf , and Schubert (translated by D avid W a lk er )“ Some Rem arks on ‘L itera tu re and R ea li ty ’ ” was translated by Stuart Friebert.

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A G U N T E R E IC H C H R O N O L O G Y

1907: B orn in Lebus on the O d e r river.1918: M oves to B erl in (w ith family).1925: C om pletes his “ A b i tu r ” (high school di­

ploma) in Leipzig, af ter w h ich he im m e­diately begins Sinology studies in Berlin.

1927: First poems published, under pseudonym E rich G un ter , in Anthologie jungster Lyrik (edited by Klaus M ann and W ill i Fehse).

1929: First radio play is pe rfo rm ed , Das Leben und Sterben des Stingers Caruso, w r i t te n in co llaboration w ith M ar t in Raschke.

1929-30: A year o f study in Paris, because, in his w ords , “ there w e re no courses in Sin­ology in G erm any that y e a r .”

1930: First volum e o f poems appears, Gedichte (Jess Publishers, Dresden).

1932: Joins the circle o f w r i te rs know n as Ko- lonne.

1933: Back to Berlin.1933-39: W o rk s in radio. W ri te s no poems.1939-45: Serves as a soldier in W o r ld W a r II.1945-46: Prisoner o f w ar; begins w r i t in g poems

again.

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1946: Released from captiv ity , re turns to G re i- senhausen to pick up his life again.

1947: Founding m em ber o f the G ruppe 47.1948: First m ajo r collection appears, Abgelegene

Gehofte.1949: A no ther volum e o f poems appears, Unter-

grundbahn.1950-59: M ost productive radio and puppet play

period.1950: His radio play, Geh nicht tiach El Kuwehd

is perfo rm ed; receives the G ruppe 47 Prize.

1951: B avarian A cadem y li tera ry prize.1952: Prize for radio plays.1953: M arries Ilse Aichinger and makes his

hom e in Lenggries in O berbayern .1955: His co llection Botschaften des Regens ap­

pears; becom es a m em ber o f Bavarian A cadem y o f the Arts.

1959: G eorg B uchner Prize.1964: Z u den Akteti (poems) appears.1966: Atildsse utid Steingarten (poems).1968: Prose sketches appear, M aulwiirfe; Schiller

Prize.

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1970: M ore prose sketches, Ein Tibeter in meinem Biiro.

1972: E ich ’s death.

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A M IX T U R E O F R O U T E S

1T he forests in the glove co m par tm en t, random cities,promise o f food and lodging.

M y cortisone face shoved across pastures, m y electroshock, m y cozy m otel.

U n n a tu ra l pleasureshappily pract iced ,having lived w iththe wise ciphers o f the t im etable ,on m y m apped tongue I keepthese lands for m y own.

Ach: tha t is aqua and i t ’s a sigh.Go into the seas!

G et, unw itt ing ly , to Kagoshima, the first city,

u nw itt in g ly to the sighso f asylum doors,the w a te rs a round tanneries,

fishkitchens south o f the M ain , the peevish, red

park ing lights, a dateline in O bergries ,

a s ix th -fo rm gym class, a farew ell ball

w ith the girl nam ed Tabe and the e leva to r girls

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w h o m nobody looks at,

get there to say Adieuget to sta tionery stores and

a m iddlesized ferryboat.

3Finally the doors are closed, the taps shut off, ashes in the oven, no th ing left, w e can go.

A lways the n a r ro w passes, the snow tongues, w h e re are the roses o f the teacher, the rain-anim als th rough b roken w indow s, the m ovie p rogram s th rough the le tte r-s lo t on Thursdays.

W h e re are, a f te r the snow tongues, a f te r Thursdays, ourways? Into the forest to w a rd H irosh im a, b e tw een dogs the stairs in the quarry , a m om en t o f co m fo r t d ra w n from barracks, from ro tting grass, ro t t in g ropes.

27

W ID E L Y T R A V E L L E D

Just beyond V ancouver the forest starts, no th ing starts, w h a tev e r w e fly over starts.

E very th ing n o r th e rn , the w ay you like it, a salt grain for w h o eve r runs in the forest, lea ther pouches, possibly for gun p o w d er, spices, tobacco.

W h a tev e r starts goes very far, a co lum n o f smoke from the B ohm erw ald , a perspective, there are few people.

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TIMETABLE

These airplanesb e tw een Boston and Diisseldorf. Pronouncing ju d gm en ts is h ippopotam us business.I p referp u tting le ttuce leaves on a sandwich and staying w rong .

29

V IA R E G G IO

I was in V iareggio relatively often, seven or e ight times, m ore often than M unich, less often than A n tw erp . I g rew up in A n tw erp , i t ’s fa­mous for som eth ing I ’ve forgo tten , m aybe frogs legs. If i t ’s frogs legs, then th e y ’re ex po r ted , and the A n tw erp e rs chew legless frogs, sullenly. But as I said, I could be w rong , perhaps i t ’s fallow deer or ca rr ie r pigeons; at any rate, it had some­thing to do w ith nature , i f my youthful m em ­ories d o n ’t deceive me.

I was in M unich only once, ju s t passing th rough , tw en ty minutes. I associate it w ith the taste o f a certa in lemonade. I d o n ’t know w h e th e r I was there as child or g randfa ther, in any case it was long ago.

30

But n ow V iareggio itself. It lies in Galicia, ju s t over the Portuguese border , and is famous for its football team , the B lack and Reds, w h o have already defeated , for exam ple , Lokom o- t iv e -K ar lm arx s tad t several times, the last time it was even one to nothing.

From V iareggio I received a card w i th the football team , black and red, bu t I suspect that only the postm ark is genuine. T h a t ’s h ow I come to the real subject, the connections, the back ­ground, the suspicion, I ’m not even sure w h e th e r i t ’s a football team or fieldmice. E v e ry ­th in g ’s possible, i f the television is focused, you recognize the b e t te r things in Viareggio and elsew here , especially at n ight in the lam p­light, w h ere no one w atches, and l e t ’s n o t talk about the graveyards. A nd the folklore about legs, w hich , on the o the r hand, only the whistle o f a d istant locom otive can help you forget, from K ar lm arxs tad t o r A n tw e rp — le t ’s be cross and find the one no b e t te r than the o ther.

But V iareggio, I was there often, seven or e ight times, m aybe closer to seven, bu t I was.

31

OLD POSTCARDS

H e r e ’s w h ere I w an ted to pu t the streetcars and swingon the chain around the w a r m em oria l A sign for the d e a f and dumb.A serm on for the bakers lolling abou t in the m orn ing wind.2The view , gradually co lored by glue, le a f cover and road all cutby the same knife.T he asphalting planned like dying.3T w o kinds o f h and w rit ing__a bicycle trip to the castle ruins.B ut w e ’re okay.Playing in the black sand.C hew ing breadfor the holes in the wallpaper.32

4B lo w tu be on Sedan Day,three zero four,i t ’s red in the lime trees.T o m o r ro w to m o rro w to m o rro w .

5H old tightto the ta n n e rs ’ ropestill the angels comew ith the ir huge caps and shoulder cloth, accord ing to evidence o f the stones, the p rin t in the smoke you can trust.

6Tell me som ething from the catalogues, and w h ere y o u ’ve been so long, about the stamps in the beehive, our g ran d fa the rs ’ professions and the smell o f hooves.I ’ll count the drops for you on the sugar, a p rim e num ber, and I ’ll eat w ith you.

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7Paris,w h ich reminds m e o f M ex ican hats, ribbonsw ith the steps o f lovers, in form ation booths and m ustard seeds.

8

T h ere are no cranes here.B ut there are w o m en and races anda laugh to keep you pondering , old asRenaissance staircases, the steps o f the prisoners going dow n.

9W e ’re am ong the last.T o our left som eone w ho knew caves left yesterday.O u r preserves are all gone.I was thinking, even yesterday, o f the oil jugs o f the crusaders,

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handed over to their besiegers,honorably ,o f the rain.

10W h y the co ttee w a s n ’t drunk?W ell w e w ere sitting okay r ight d ow n in the flooded parts, o u r rented boats b e tw een the bou levard trees.W h y the sugar w o u ld n ’t dissolve?N o th in g ever ended.H e r e ’s w h a t still needs telling: the cups, aC har lo tte w h o was taking o ur m oney , her sad ruffles w e t th rough and through.

11Fine,fine.But w hen the w a r is overw e ’ll go to Minskand pick up G randm other .

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Q U O T A T I O N F R O M N O R W A Y

W e continue to think the grass on the rooftops, leave the fjords to the left, partisans o f the fog.W h e re can you cry in this country?T he lemmingshave gone into the sea.T he tobacco pouches o f polar explorers preserve T im e in little crumbs.

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SALT

A music historian explains the m onkeybread tree to us— w h ich is, on the w hole , always the case. W e a re n ’t surprised, w e ’re used to e thnol­ogy and the study of customs, bu t w e drink beer to get over it. H is to ry drinks w a te r w h en i t ’s th irsty . Those are the differences, w e ’re proud o f it.

N o short Sundays, no obligations in the eve­nings. No, w e stay on the steps of the mission school, b e tw een the mussels. T h e r e ’s a place w ith a v iew o f the w ooden bridge, the cem ete ry t h a t ’s w o r th seeing, the black pigs w ith sharp snouts. H ere the w o r ld begins. A transparen t classroom, a green um brella b low ing to w ard us from the sea. T he co rru g a ted iron doors are closed at n ight and noon. W e ’re w alk ing , w e ’re going, are w e going away? A nyw ay , the crested larks will stay behind. W e ’re going because we long to be na tu ra lized in the co un try o f Hsin, to fill w oven baskets w ith salt, to w i th e r aw ay in salt gardens.

T hey certa in ly need salt. B ut longings?

37

B ER L IN 1918

T h e m ajo ri ty b e tw een Zoo,Potsdam Station, M olken M arket, the Kaiser and the Spanish flu, happenings and confections, a dead face in the pillows, O c to b e r , all there is to k now about bed bugs, all about the w a ite r , A lbert , the sad trips to the coun try , and always the missing connections, the ch i ld ren ’s hours at the k itchen sink, every th ing nouns, the flu,O t to the H u n te r , the Kaiser, every th ing b e tw een H o lzm ark t S treet and L andw ehrkanal, N ovem ber.

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LEMBERG

1C ity on how m any hills. G ray ing yellow .A bell sound accompanies you audible in the clank o f your identity tag.

2Slopes like fear, unfathom able T he stree tcar line ends on a w eedy steppe before w o rn doors.

IN V E N T O R Y

This is m y cap, this is m y coat, h e r e ’s m y shaving gear in a linen sack.

A can o f rations: m y plate, m y cup,I ’ve scratched m y nam e in the tin.

Scratched it w ith this valuable nail w hich I hide from avid eyes.

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In the foodsack is a pair o f w oo l socks and som ething else tha t I show to no one,

it all serves as a pillow for m y head at night.T he cardboard here lies b e tw een me and the earth .

T he lead in m y pencil I love most o f all: in the daytim e it w rite s dow n the verses I m ake at night.

This is my notebook, this is m y tarpaulin , this is m y tow el, this is m y thread.

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C U R E

T oo cool for the season, too aw ake for the hour. Y ou hear the time-signal, once again you hear the stones underfoo t, then the swamps be­gin. T h e road over the pass is blocked by a mule. Mules are rare here , they are m ili ta ry mules.

T h ro u g h binoculars you recognize the pa­tients in the valley, on the w ay to their painful trea tm en ts at the b arracks-yard o f a com pany that has ju s t arrived , m ute, a g ray slide. Sev­eral rice farm ers are still b rea th ing u nd erw ate r , but d o n ’t w o r ry , the m achine guns are trained on the most im p o rtan t points. You dear ones, w e r e n ’t w e in K arlsbad just now , Abano, Reich- enhall? C on tinue your trea tm ents peacefully, w e are w e ll-p ro tec ted , your trea tm ents take place be tw een the lines, b e tw een the lines o f Chinese poems, time passes so quickly, the sea­son, so short the road to T inchebray , the lines so n a rrow .

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SEMINAR FOR BACKWARD PUPILS

1W hile the dead cool quickly a slow w altz for the S.P.D.

Enough o f rose bouquets for the p roper occasion, speak finally o f crum pled print and the goulash foolishly spilled on striped trousers.

W e need apa tr io t ic s tay-a t-hom e z ither for five places in a realistically designed governm en t bunker.

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T h en came m ustard-sk illed men, tu rn ip counters, delegates o f w elfare .

W o o d e n eye, be watchful!

T h ey scoured us clean w i th sandpaper, factual accounts and politeness.

W o o d e n eye, be watchful!

N o w w e kno w everything: the sun lies always before us. W e define f reedom anew: soonw e ’ll be rid o f it.

W o o d en eye.

2

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W e crossedthe fron tie r o f a hundred boots and m y m em ory w e n t into action, the le tters from A to Z o ccurred to meand the num bers almost to one hundred,m y abilitiesboot, heel and toe.And I decided to take service in the dungeons o f justice.

3

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HALF

B etw een cabbage leaves grow s the cerem onious poppy hour, a sandy love, tha t em igrates.Go! The preservesare ferm en ting on the shelves,w e cangather spiderwebsalong the canaland ca rry off, unseen,a pocketful o f sandfrom the construction site,w e could, ifthere w e re no fences,go cross coun try toA m sterdam .

ButI give you a snail to take, that will keep a long time.

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END OF AUGUST

W ith w h ite bellies the dead fish hang am ong duckw eed and bulrushes.T he crow s have w ings, to fly aw ay from death.Sometimes I k n o w that Godcares most about the existence o f the snail.H e builds her a house. Us he does not love.

Evening: the bus drags a w h ite banner o f dust as it brings hom e the soccer team.T he m oon glows am ong wil low s reconciled w i th the evening star.H o w near you are, Im m orta li ty , in the w ing o f a bat, in the eyes o f those headlights com ing dow n the hill.

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B R O O K IN D E C E M B E R

1T h e g reen crests o f w a te r plants com bed by the cu rren t across the forehead o f the stone.Ideasm ake the w a te r icy.

2T he lines o f the ice-r im sketch unrest, the fever o f reeds, the earthquake o f snails. T h e ir d iagram s are w a ited for.

3T h e oil slick w e n t dow ns tream like a boat, the fishing r o d ’s shadow is forgotten . C u rren t , insight o f the fish—

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L E A R N IN G A B O U T T H E L A N D S C A P E

I knowone o f the ra re , d ry riverbeds,m y b ro th e r knows it, m y d ea f m o ther .

T h e re ’s no th ing to hear, no family connections, no excuses, no wisdom .

D ry riverbeds are geological and a life support, d o n ’t grieve for the fossils, d o n ’t sleep on the hea r t side.

And so they are useful to us as cam om ile is useful, sideways along the hill and to be taken in drops, like dew.

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SE A H O R SES

O u r surroundings are imprecise, w e have the sun inside, an old ca tegorica l im perative o f Im­m anuel Kant. Im m anuel had no children, too bad. Menzel d id n ’t have any e ither , o r G ottf r ied Keller. M aybe every th ing w ould have been dif­ferent, i f they had been seahorses, the im pera­tive less ca tegorica l, the glue less im portan t. But that co u ldn ’t have been dem anded then. In sea­horses the eggs are the critical factor. See, there are o the r ways, even parthenogenesis.

50

I ’m always confusing na tu re w ith m ountain v iews. But never m ind, even at tw o thousand m eters i t ’s ca tegorica l and im perative . T h e r e ’s no li te ra tu re there. N o chance o f changing the w orld , in any event, landslides, volcanic e rup ­tions, and crosses at the sum m it w i th books for en tering y our consent. D ated . For conservative hearts. The o thers take the bus.

Ah, ah, ah, so m any sighs, so m any dates. H o w m any w o m en have you had, h o w m any men? D id they lie in the spruce needles or in the bus? D id they study political science la ter o r m o no ­ch rom atic painting, no m ore distinctions, m ouse-gray .

B ut w e w ill push biology ahead. T h ou g h my sex is male, I th ink I ’m pregnant. N o t long ago I though t I was avant garde, t h a t ’s h ow you get specialists. M y andrologist was talking about a C aesarean, bu t th e y ’re still so oldtashioned. I ’d been thinking about Zeus.

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D A Y S W I T H JA Y S

T he ja y does n o t th ro w me its blue feather.

T he acorns o f his shrieks grind in the early daw n.A b i t te r flour, food for the w hole day.

All day, behind red leaves,w ith a hard breakhe hacks the nighto ut o f branches, seeds, nuts,a cloth that he pulls over me.

His flight is like a heartbea t. B ut w h ere does he sleep and w h a t is his sleep like? T he fea ther lies by my shoe unseen in the darkness.

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ABANDONED M OUNTAIN PASTURE

R ain w ate rin the hoofprints o f cattle .Helpl ess flies close to N ovem ber .

The red nail w ill no t w iths tand the w ind. T he shutter w ill screech on its hinges, sometimes h i t t ing the casem ent, sometimes the wall.

W h o will hear it?

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LA TE J U N E EA R LY JU L Y

A sum m er day, the b eekeep in g ’s going well, pears thrive for the faithful, a day w hen i t ’s a question o f ichneum on flies.

The old question still darkens the w hea t , and the utopias pass by crooked. T he oak leaves are rounded and the aspen leaves are sharp, you sob in adm irat ion . Y ou can still p roduce dream s from the w h ea t fungus, an alcohol stove is all you need. W e go out and praise and trust our p o rk -bu tch e r because he uses m ild seasoning. T he question o f cats b e tw een easy chair and lilac bush, the terrible sum m er day, so m uch m ore beautiful than So lom on’s silk.

The tapered veils, Spanish mantillas, the ga­ro tte , machine guns, trials, stewards, one turns into the next, practical and all in tune, the hun­ger and the costs, the question o f people, shouted, whispered , un thought, pho tographed and recorded on tapes, all one sum m er day in the Baroque o f Paul G erhard t . B adm inton and un ­d e rw a te r hunting arc added, but the blood is revo lu tionary conservative red regardless o f skin color, the question o f people, accepted po­litically, a beautiful sum m er day.

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SMOKEBEER

Pretzelsellers and deafm utes, m y headlines,tha t crouch in the passageway over a com m unal beer.

I stare at their conversations, their modest and everlasting ho rro r, m y headlines, m y Kennedys, m y Khruschevs.

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C O N T I N U I N G T H E C O N V E R S A T IO N

1Remembering the dead man I observedthat rem em bering is a form o f forgetting .

It said:rescue the flames from the ashes, pursue G eology in the discarded sedim ent o f the instant, restore the tim e sequence from the insoluble chem istry .

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It said:separate the critique o f b irdfligh t from the m o rn ing shopping and the expec ta t ion o f love.P roceed to w h ere the parallels cross.Fulfill the dem ands o f logic by means o f dreams.T ake the fossils from their cases,th aw them w ith the w a rm th o f you r blood.Seek the signinstead o f the m etap ho rand thereby the only placew h ere you are, always.1 m ove alongin o rder to translate anthills, to taste tea w i th a closed m outh , to slice tom atoes under the salt o f the verses.

2Invite him overT he shame, that the survivor is r ight,ex em pt from sentencingand w ith the arrogance o f judgm ent!

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W h o deniesthat g reen things are green?T h a t lends our w o rda lovely security,the significance o f a solid base.But the stylizing that the heart imposes on itself keeps its motives like the am m onite the dead m an looks at.It w ants to ex ten d feelers, tu rn vine-leaves into fernspirals, b ring errors into blossom, hear au tum n as a w h if f o f snow.

B ut d o n ’t forget the houses in w hich you live am ong us.T he lounge chair in the garden will suit youor the v iew o f trees th rough the w in d o wthat makes you propyour e lbows on your knees.C om e in out o f the rain, and speak!

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3Converse with himH ere it began and it d id n ’t begin, here it continues in a noise from the n e x t room , in the click o f the switch, in shoes taken o f f behind the door.T he pallor o f your face that blots out colors isn’t valid now .Sentences com e from habits tha t we scarcely noticed.T he w ay the n e c k t ie ’s tiedis a m om entous objection,the ability to tall asleep quicklya p ro o f against subjective in te rpre ta tions ,the preference for teaclassifies the existence o f animals.

4F:ind his themeInterchangeable:the knocking at the doorwhich began the conversationand the w av ingas the s tree tcar clanged,

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the nam e on the grave crossand the nam e on the garden gate,children g ro w n upand postcard greetings from Ragusa.

W o rd s as pulsations o f air,the o rgan note from the bellows,the decisionto hear the songor to be the song—w arp ed uprightsto the fall line o f phosphorus,w hen the them e begins.N o variations accepted no t the excuses o f p ow er and the reassurances o f tru th , use cunningto track dow n the questions behind the a n sw e r ’s broad back.

5Readitig his book and his death Figures settled inat the shu t-dow n mines o f Z innw ald behind the dem on frenzy o f subalpine slopes and season,

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w hile the foregroundis occupied by ruffiansw h o divide our hours am ong themselves.

Pirna in balance w ith the Pyramids, the freedom o f express trains cashed in small change by b lock leaders, the family e th ically founded, co n tem p t for nom ads and loners.

But the objections com e back to the sentences like eager adjectives, a line o f term ites tha t hollows them out to a thin skin o f black letters.

T he Style is D eath , the shot in the stomach, w h ite rose in a m orph ine dream , jokes to amuse life, salvos into a snow storm .

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Winning confidence from his lifeW hile you share the thoughts,d irec t the conversation by your death ,w r i t in g along on poems,g a thering pearsand v iew ing n e w landscapes(but I finallyresisted garden w o rk )m eanw hileSimona stiffenedinto a figure o f stone,her fabrica ted w a rm thunder the cold o f tears.She waits for the moss, the injuries o f rain, vine shoots and birdshit.She’ll decay to be w arm ed to a life that w e w a n t to share, patience!

6

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C A R S T E N S E N

In the a fte rnoon someone w an ts to com e w ho plays the combs. M aybe y o u ’ll learn something, ju s t d o n ’t give up too soon, th e re ’s always enough time. T he splinters o f a bottle in the snow are green, o f course there remains the question: w h o w ou ld com e i f they w e re blue? G reen lets one tu rn into the o ther , the color into the combs, the someone into the snow, yeste r­day there w e re still liberties, bu t at n ight some­one th rew a schnapps bo ttle out the w indow .

Carstensen drove me, eleven m arks fifty. Does he have horses or a m o to r vehicle? W ell , you have to be there. You c a n ’t answ er for y ou r­self. C on tro lled by the nine orifices o f the body, the need for sleep remains. All experience to the con tra ry , you expec t to w ake up in a d ifferen t life, w ith d ifferen t colors, d iffe ren t arts, o r sim­ply as a d ifferen t person w h o goes on gladly and w holly irresponsibly. If things w o rk out, he has canaries and g reen herrings w ith him.

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Carstensen appeared ten tw elve years ago, h e ’s a lready driven that long. A t first only on red brick streets and straigh t across the dunes, rubbert ired , unavoidable , bu t h e ’s no t the one w ho plays the com bs— by the w ay , I imagine it m ust have been awful. Cars tensen is really someone else, ju s t like God, w h o he know s even less. He reaches his destination , no th ing m ore. Cars tensen is someone in whose life you could w ake up, the one w ith canaries and herrings. But he w o u ld n ’t a llow it, h e ’d lose his tem per at least. I ’d never try it.

Cars tensen drove me, a receipt for the fare. If only y o u ’re there . This af ternoon som eone’s com ing, you c a n ’t put him off, look at the green splinters. I find them beautifu l, I find every th ing beautiful, m aybe i t ’s m y na tu re or i t ’s only to ­day, bu t today it is. W h a t color are the combs? D o tunes sound d iffe ren t on yellow green vio­let? I ’d prefer them secco. (Probably yellow .)

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T O O LA TE FOR M O D E S T Y

W e took the houseand covered the w indow s,had enough supplies in the cellar,coal and oil,hid death in ampulesb e tw een the folds in our skin.

T h ro u g h the crack in the door w e see the world: a rooster w ith its head cut off, running th rough the yard.

I t ’s crushed our hopes.W e hang our bedsheets on the balconies and surrender.

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W H E R E I LIVE

W h e n I opened the w in d o w , fish sw am into the room , herring . A w ho le school seemed to be passing by.T h ey sported am ong the pear trees too.But most o f themstayed in the forest,above the nurseries and the gravel pits.

T hey are annoying. Still m ore annoying are the sailors(also h igher ranks, coxswains, captains) w ho frequently com e to the open w in d o w and ask for a light for their awful tobacco.

I ’d like to m ove out.

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G E O M E T R IC A L PL A C E

W e have sold our shadow, it hangs on a w all in H irosh im a, a transaction w e knew no th ing of, from w hich , em barrassed, w e rake in interest.

And, dear friends, d rink m y whiskey,I w o n ’t be able to find the tavern any m ore ,w h ere m y bottle standsw ith its m onogram ,old p ro o f o f a c lear conscience.

I d id n ’t put m y penny in the bank w h en Chris t was born but I ’ve seen the grandch ild ren o f dogs tra ined to herd people on the hills near the D anube School, and they stared at me.

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And I w an t , like the people o f H iroshim a, to see no m ore bu rn t skin,I w an t to d rink and sing songs, to sing for whiskey,and to stroke the dogs, whose g randfathers sprang at people in quarries and barbed w ire .

You, m y shadow,on the bank at H iroshim a,I w an t to visit you w ith all the dogs n ow and then and d rink to youto the prosperity o f our accounts.

T he m useum is being demolished,in f ron t o f itI will slip to youbehind your railing,behind your smile— our cry for help—and w e ’ll suit each o ther again,your shoes into minepreciseto the second.

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A D A Y IN O K A Y A M A

M y w ax paper um brellas , m y days, m y v iew out the w in d o w in the m orning . C old rice w ith cold fish for b reakfast, e leva to r girls w hom everyone ignores, a belch, continu ing b reak ­fast. O kayam a is storks, ra th e r obtrusive, I m ea­sure o ff all garden paths accord ing to the plan, the po r te r d oesn ’t unders tand me. M y u m ­brellas, m y um brella . I buy m y se lf a w a tch , the tallest Japanese w o m an in m y life walks past, tw o m eters tall and high sandals besides, while the w a tch must be w o u nd four times a day, the m agic o f num bers and m y w a x paper.

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I w o n ’t g ro w any m ore , I ’ll rem ain 1.70 m e­ters tall, an average charac ter , and m y suitcase is too heavy for m y charac ter . I go th rough m y ch arac te r w ith um brellas tha t change every hour, the ark is w o r th seeing, the storks are on loan, have identification disks, bu t I d o n ’t rec­ognize them. A park ing lot for buses, school un i­forms, I think: young ra ilw aym en. T h a t ’s b e t te r than a caption, sad w ax paper, so rrow fu l rice, m y w a tch has stopped.

It is unconsolable, bu t itself a consolation, I m um ble in intervals. I d o n ’t know w h a t is un ­consolable, I am consolable, consolable w ith um brellas, w ith paths in the park, w ith 1.70 m eters. B ut I m um ble. M aybe I ’m thinking above all o f m y suitcase. I t ’s slipped my mind, not every th ing takes place in the present tense.

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R Y O A N JI

Smoke signals for friends, a favorable day, windless, from the northeast slope I get a w h ite answer.I add pinetrees.

And now wall af ter wall w ith theories o f language, w all af ter wallm y sadness coughs th rough gold teeth ,rain and w o o den sandalson the w ooden corridorsdead ends eve ry w h ere , I find,anxiously, in darkness,m y toes ponderthe darkness,

71

I ’m sorry for myself,I disagree w ith m y toes disagree w ith m y sadness,I miss the smoke signals, old, black, and partia l to me.N o w they d o n ’t come any m ore ,now i t ’s night,now the fire comes,best o f all andw o rs t o f all.I d o n ’t m uch like fire,I d o n ’t m uch like smoke and the same goes for breath .I like coughing, sort of, o r spitting,or the dark thoughts o f illness, o f darkness.Even cam eras seem strange to me and pinetrees in flowerpots .I understand khaki fruit b e tte rand how ling O ld Japaneseand the bow ing at the end o f the escalatorand the raw fish.

72

And a lot ol sounds w ith “ u n d ,” and all o f them treacherously heartbreak ing ,I w elcom e you, heart ,w elcom e you, things tha t do the break ing ,m aybe there w ill bepaper boats on the Kam o,m ade o f folded petitions,th a t ’s it,en trus ted to the m ud puddle — so often sung about so lacking in in­fluence—w h ere they anchor and w a it for the sinking o f the petitioners and closing rem arks.

In the eveningthe fever in the in firm ary beds goes up, you learn some things there, the evidence for some things isn ’t valid,

73

w ith e red leaves rustlein the w as tepaper basket,the hedgehogs under the bushes,almost silent,live w ith in easy accessto the prickly hide o f m y insights,w e rub them toge therbut only the moss moves,not the w orld .W e exchange addresses,we exchangeour personal pronouns,w e have so m uch in com m on,sunrises,the fu ture till n ineteen hundred and seven. T hen w e ’ll pract ice b reathing , toge ther,from the instructions o f Cheyne and the instructions o f Stokes, that will pass the time nicely w ith the snoring accom panim ent o f our inmost thoughts.

74

It someone w an ts tohe can hang photos in the showcases,tell anecdotesor listen to them ,discuss the situation,o rn itho logy, penmanship,above all G ood N ight.A de term ined clan, w e hold outw ith our hedgehogsat the critical m om ent,and d o n ’t tu rn backw h ere w h a t ’s happened is piling i tselfin baskets, sacks, barrels,a storehouse, open to everyone,doors bang, footsteps echo,w e d o n ’t hear, w e ’re d e a f too,our region is in free fall.Bushes, darknesses, and in t irm ary beds, w e w o n ’t colonize anym ore, w e ’ll teach our daugh ters and sons the

w ords and stick to disorder, o ur friends bungling at the w orld .

TA LK S T H A T N E V E R T A K E PLA CE

W e m odest translators — say o f tim etables, ha ir color, c loud form ations— w h a t should w e say to those w h o agreeand read the originals (Like the one w h o read the oatgrains in Eulensp iegel’s books)

Faced w ith that m uch confidenceour sadness is w indym ixed w ith rain,takes the roofs off,falls on every smile,incurable.

for Peter Huchel

76

FO R E X A M P L E

For exam ple sailcloth.

T rans la ting one w o rd into one o ther w o rd ,that takes in salt and tarand is m ade o f linen,preserves the smell,the laughter and the last b rea th ,red and w h ite and orange,tim e controlsand the godly m ar ty r .

Sailcloth and none, the question: w h e r e ’s an in te rjec tion as an answer.

B e tw een Schoneberg and the star cover the m yth ical place and stone o f m eadow s.

Task, setfor the time af te r y o u ’re dead.

77

REPEATING DICTIONARY

Greetings, V era H olubetz , fo rm er o w n er o f m y d ictionary . A nam e in Sutterlin on the end­paper. G erm an-S u tte rl in and Siit te r lin -G er- man, a lim ited edition. Pear is Sadness. Vera is Holubetz . T he languages are that different. I d o n ’t w an t to k now w h a t Sadness is, I d o n ’t know V era Sadness. I d o n ’t know V era H o lu ­betz e ither , have no idea, d o n ’t w an t any, no certain ties e ither. I ’m satisfied w ith her g ree t­ing in Sutterlin. Sutterlin is a place in Styria. In Styria the farm ers must be bald. T hey eat a r ­senic, w hich makes them cheerful. H arvest songs ring out, the w om en rake hay and the hay deserves it. And everyone speaks Sutterlin, an arsenic tongue.

78

R ight at the b o o k -ca rt I began to read, a real find. T he d ic tionary is repeating , begins at Saba and ends w i th N eg ro Jazz. U n o r th o d o x , even exotic , a lot o f i llum inating m ateria l . I hardly need any m ore light.

T h e r e ’s so m uch to m ove you there. N o t just philologically, b u t also in a purely hum an way. W h y did V era sell the book? Has she strayed from Siitterlin? D id she need a little m oney for fru it bonbons? W as she m ore in terested in tech­nical drawings? O r did the book perhaps come from an estate?

I c a n ’t get over this possibility. Som ehow , I ’d still hoped for a decisive m eeting . W as it al­ready on the end-paper , has it already hap­pened? Y o u ’d ju s t be d irec ted to e te rnal life again. W ell, I b o w m y bald head.

79

M A R K E T P L A C E

M y pale muse, n ight c rea ture , m aybe a vam ­pire, m y pale Medusa, undersea secretary , al­ways unsteady, but w ith burn ing kisses on the shinbone. W h e re do I escape from kisses and poems, the language w ants every th ing , even w h a te v e r I d o n ’t w an t, from beautifu lly agi­ta ted m ouths excuses fall into the clearest d a rk ­ness. B eer is d runk there, and the conquerers stand on the p la tform , you dung-beetles, you pill-pushers o f w isdom , and every th ing that e x ­ists is logical. Let us climb onto the gravestones and curse the secret servants!

80

I hate everybody, m y but ton by the buttonhole , bu t w e are only for nouns and prepositions. T h e r e ’s the ego in every line, it hides best. Hey there, and you w o n ’t find me, no t me and not us. M y muse is made o f sand, m y Medusa a stone tha t keeps looking out, m y poster a shop sign tha t doesn 't a t t ra c t a tten tion : Shoe Repair, End o f Sum m er Sale, Sweets.

So w e travel w ith o u t companions, w itho u t a vehicle. Some think they have us, b u t a lready w e ’ve slipped aw ay, under the sea, under the n ight, under the personal pronouns. T h ere w e look out, hedgehog and dorm ouse, joy fu l, peev­ish, sym pathetic , w e see fences and the sandfleas behind the g ro ce ry stores.

81

C A R R Y IN G B A G

Stores for candy and spirits,w arehouses full o f vinegar, ra ilroad crossings and barberries,the lines o f verse from Z e rm a t tw o rn out w ith age,badly packed,and w ith every purchasedays fall out o f your pocket,and the neige d ’antanhangs in a shoeshape,so the shopkeepers w hisperand an appren tice sniggersbehind the cabbage barrel.

82

PR E A M B L E

Moles are w h a t I w r i te , their w h ite claws tu rned out, the balls ot the ir toes are pink, en ­jo y e d by all the ir enemies as delicatessen, their th ick coat prized. M y moles are faster than you think. I f you think th e y ’re over w h ere the ro t ten w o o d and stone fly up, th e y ’re a lready o ff in their tunnels chasing d ow n a thought. You could tilm their speed elec tronical ly by sticking some blades o f grass d ow n through. T h e y ’re always a few m eters ahead o f all the o th e r noses. Hey, w e ’re over here, they could yell, bu t then th e y ’d only feel sorry to r the hare. M y moles are de­structive, d o n ’t fool yourselves. T he grass over the ir tunnels dies off, o f course they help it along. T raps are set, and they run r ight in blind. Some o f them fling rats in the air. W e a r us as lining for your coats, w e ’re coat todder, all o f them think.

83

W IN T E R S T U D E N T A N D D A U G H T E R -S O N

M y moles are w ashed and com bed daily. A tra ined em ployee takes care o f that, a w in te r student, 30, w ith her fou rteen -year-o ld h e rm a­phroditic child. In vain I have tried to hire a so­dom ite; they exist only in psychoanalytic re­ports and in the O ld T estam en t. I am very pleased w ith the w in te r student, in the evenings she learns yoga technique, then in the sum m er she w an ts to take the exam s in India. T h a t ’s strange enough for the moles, they d o n ’t like stewardesses.

T he w in te r s tudent is dependent on dem on­strations o f love o f all kinds. For a qua r te r o f an hour a day I have to tickle the soles o f her feet.84

M ore , she says. She sleeps en tw in ed w i th her daugh ter , often I look in helplessly, and am glad I ’m not a m aster o f the Indian techniques. M y w in te r student has blue hair tha t contrasts well w i th the mole fur. She is good-na tu red , b u t only speaks faulty G erm an. She know s no o th e r lan­guages, i t ’s hered ita ry . H e r son speaks a b it o f T ibe tan , perhaps from his fa ther. His hair is red w ith black streaks, I d o n ’t understand anything about the laws o f genetics.

Yes, I say to m y w in te r student, she still un­derstands tha t best. Y ou are beautifu l, I say, but t h a t ’s already m ore difficult, she stretches out the sole o f her foot to me. Several moles come clim bing near, enthusiastically , the daugh ter m u tte rs in T ibe tan . You have blue hair , I say impressively, and she grabs for the ba th soap, m ost o f m y sentences d o n ’t in terest her.

I t ’s hard to think about the sum m er. The moles are ge tting m elancholy , and I d o n ’t know h ow to cheer them up. M oles depend on dem on­strations o f love, too, and I ’m n o t clever enough for that, part icu larly since there are n ow over fifty, all d istinctly m arked .

O ften I cross m y legs, the only thing I au to ­m atically understand about yoga technique, and m ed ita te . B ut w ith o u t results.

85

IN S IG H T

E veryone know sthat M ex ico is an im aginary country .

As I opened the kitchen cupboardI found the t ru thhiddenin labeled canisters.

T he rice grainsare resting up from the centuries.Beyond the w in d o wthe w ind continues on its way.

86

M A G IC SPELLS

Because— and already I falter, there are al­ways reasons. Because the pictures hang crooked , I w an ted to say, bu t I d o n ’t continue the sentence. Because I was born , oh sometime o r o ther. Really, you can om it the m ain clauses, they d o n ’t go far, d o n ’t even go near.

T he tulips tu rn to the w all , perhaps ju s t to this wall , ju s t these tulips, i t ’s abnorm al. Because the pictures hang crooked , bu t th a t ’s h o w ev ery ­thing is connected , you feel y ourse lf classified, leg to leg, w e all com e from M erseburg .

87

Even the raven in the co ur ty a rd o f the castle, la ter o the r cities too, W essobrunn , w hich is really a village. T he raven stole and a servant was executed , an accident, a connection. N o one understands w h y subsequent ravens do pen­ance for it, bu t i t ’s custom ary.

N o w i t ’s noon, because the bells ring, because the sun is at its highest point, all these a rran g e ­ments. I t ’s good that i t ’s noon, that finally gets us to the afternoon. School’s ou t and you can eat barley soup, tw o bow ls if you like. In o ther places o ther soups, som ew here even young ra ­vens, th e y ’re supposed to taste like pheasants.

M eanw hile , T h o r and W o ta n are riding to the w ood, in all kinds o f w ea th e r , from all kinds o f dwellings. T hey leave the tulips on the wall , the p ictures crooked , every th ing sets itself right, like the foot o f their horse. W e are left behind, at best w e can step ju s t outside the door and lis­ten for a ringing, for noth ing , it simply comes to us, finally, because we w ere born , oh some­time or o ther.

R E M A IN D E R

T he m inutes gone pale, the ones I still have for dream ing , o rd er in g a s trychnine pill at the coun ter , obeying your eyes.I can leave and re tu rn to the p a tte rn o f you r blouse, i t ’ll be long a fte r the tw iligh t settles over the ship lights.L e t’s go! T he bills have been w r i t ten ,th e r e ’s dust com ing out o f the trum pets .

89

BEETHOVEN, WOLF, AND SCHUBERT

Ah and O h are tw o poems everyone u nd e r­stands. And relatively short, they can be read w ith o u t long years o f practice. W h e th e r every ­one likes them is another m a tte r , they d o n ’t hold up if you ex pec t some divine spark. B ravo or encore encore w ould be so m uch b e tte r , bu t not as short. In any case, sadness leads to anarchy, i t ’s that simple. O verjoyed , the w o l f devours his leg th a t ’s been torn o f f by a trap. Praised be the day that gave me food, he cries. T he w o lf should be an exam ple to us. A tabula rasa is b e t­ter than an em pty table, I thought o f it from the fabula rasa, the w orld is a misprint.

90

T h a t shou ldn’t d iscourage us. W h a t you need to live, you learn in every trap , and for cyber­netics there are specially tra ined people. O r ge­o m e try — it follows autom atically : w hile sitting, you can arrive at ad jacent angles w ith in para l­lels, it you try; sleeping is called 180 degrees; sorting potatoes leads to r igh t angles. The w o rld is a harm onious institu tion too, w h e th e r w e kno w it or not. Franz Schubert slept w i th his glasses on, even th a t ’s all r ight, and w h en they get bent the optic ian fixes them . For the w orst cases I ’ve found a m edicine, a kind o f whiskey w ith yoga, little g reen pills w h ich help to r and against every th ing , above all for every th ing they help against. Everyone know s h ow im p o r­tant tha t is. M y discovery, m y con tribu tion to the State. I rest on these laurels.

91

SIN

I ’m no s tranger to the tem pta tion o f the flesh. I confess that I give in almost daily (excep t on Fridays, w h en w e have fish)— black b u tc h e r ’s sausage, a lit tle b reakfast goulash.

In m y b u tc h e r ’s garden, the sausage skins float on a stake like balloons. B ew ildering . Intestines, c leaned o f course, and almost trans­parent. W ell done. I read in a book on animal theology that the task o f man should be to turn all the animals into house pets. W h a t o p p o r tu n ­ities! But whose?

92

So I go by m y b u tc h e r ’s garden every day, and no t coun ting the theological reflections, I think every day for e ight m inutes, tha t is to say all the w ay to the tra in station, try ing to d iscover the U niversa l M o th e r ’s first nam e. I ’ve a lready spent an incredible am oun t o f time on this ques­tion, i f I care to add it up. I ’ve been going to the s tation for ten years, and th ree nam es have fi­nally crystallized: E llfrihde, W a l l t r a u t , and In- geburck. T en m ore years and I ’ll k no w w hich one is right.

Please w a it for m y results, before you make any hasty decisions on your ow n. As for the family nam e, w e can all th ink about tha t one— there m ust be som ething Phoenician about it, like the first names.

93

N E W P O S T C A R D S

1M elancholy trucks and restaurants I d o n ’t believe in.O sw eet leaves o f falland the w indth rough Slovenian rooms.

2Thanks, bu t leave us.W e ’ve been inthe ra tc a tc h e rs ’ caves already.

3O r, r iver o f mine, I can explain you: source and tributaries , my m orn ing w innings, m y restlessness, my hourglass over all the countries.

94

4I t ’s mills I miss here.T he w a t e r ’s lazy, the w ind sticks.I t ’s tim e for s team roller w orks,o r clay pitsand burn ing barns,hats forthe tenant farmers.

5Surinam and the caterpillars. R em em ber, M erian M aria Sibylla,I was the bent r ight lea f on the carnation .6H ere too the cat is w a it ing in the grass for her bird.W e always though t the earthquakes w e re a slam ming door.T he children tu rn gray.

7O h hun tersgreen , dolphindays, the maple floors, transla ted into feeling.

95

Agreed, so l e t ’s readthe instructions for survivors.

8Palm yrais a squabble over tips, f a th e r- in - law , son-in-law , the surface goes into the earth , a deposit o f volatile H olderlin , the r ight a ttr ibu tes, because he w a s n ’t there , no explanations that w e a r you out.

9A sick snow and in footbaths, the soluble patients— lift me upfor the n ex t- to - la s t office hour, w hen the decisive winds recite their long poems.

96

C H A N G E O F C L IM A T E

T he d o o r ’s p robably open. W a ite rs , doctors, thieves, and tourists can w a lk in. T he only pos­sible w ay to keep people from com ing into the room is to put m oney in fron t o f the door. I ’ve been doing it a long time. O n ly a cat still shows up. Later a sp a rrow haw k. H e sees tha t h e ’s got the w ro n g room num ber , and w aves his arms helplessly. “ 4 8 ,” I say, he thanks m e and leaves. I sit a w hile in bed, m aybe I was w ro n g , w a s n ’t it 32? T o tell the t ru th , I only k no w that i t ’s an even num ber.

I w an t to get up and follow him, notice again tha t I stick to m y sheets, the fear o f choking be­gins again. A t one time there had to be knobs on the air conditioners, 100 or 150 years ago, w hen the air tube was still open too. I w o u ld n ’t even kno w h ow to w o rk it, i f there w e re knobs. I d o n ’t know h o w anything is done, life, thanking people, m eetings, h o w people see ballets and hear drums, and M e c k e l’s graphics: M ust you see them , m ust you hear them , touch them w ith your fingers? I have three senses, I ’m only a glue to keep the sheets toge ther , in a sheet I d id n ’t w an t. W h e n it gets light, in nine or ten hours, th e y ’ll wash me out. G ood m orn ing , I ’ll say.

97

M U N C H , C O N S U L S A N D B E R G

T he possibilitythat the w o r ld is com posed o f colors fills m e w i th contem pt.I wish I had invented ice and the boiling point o f metals.Look at me:I stand on you r canvasa n igh tm are o f confidencesuccess in trouserlegsand pointed boots;the comedies o f deathare played for m y amusement.In m y m outh I ’ve got spit for you r hopes.

98

N A T H A N A E L

N o one sees the m an w h o rides on m y shoul­der. H e has boneless serpentine legs, and t igh t­ens them around m y neck i f I do som ething he doesn ’t like. So I never go to the theater.

O ne day the bell rang and he was lying outside the door. Pick me up, he w ailed , and at once, you m igh t say suddenly, he sat on m y shoulder w h en I ben t dow n.

In T he T housand and O ne N ights a m ethod for getting rid o f shoulder-r iders is given. You get d runk and m ake h im envious, he w an ts to drink too, then you th ro w him off. B ut w e ’ve bo th becom e drunkards w i th o u t his lessening the m uscular pressure around m y neck. W e sing toge ther and share our m elancholy . O h vile w o r ld , he says, and squeezes his legs even harder . I f you let me fall, y o u ’ll get asthma, I k no w your old tricks.

99

He m aintains his nam e is N athanae l, and o f­fers to let m e use the familiar. But I address him in the third person, as old Fritz did to his miller. I f he doesn ’t w a n t to get off, I have to go th rough a lot o f doorw ays. B u t he ju s t giggles, doors m ean noth ing to him. If I run into walls, I only h u r t myself. Persuasion doesn ’t w o rk , he has no m oral feelings. T w o times tw o is five, he says w hen he looks over my shoulder at the office, and embarrasses me. I m ust do every ­thing w ro ng , o the rw ise he chokes me.

H o w long will he stay? I ask as calmly as pos­sible. I have a good v iew here, he says, y o u ’re 1.97 m eters tall. Should I be proud that he likes me best? I seek the com pany o f tall people. T h a t m an there is tw o m eters five, I say. No, he says, h e ’s no t right. W h y am I the r ight one? I hope y o u ’ll never see, says N athanae l, shutting his eyes and yaw ning. Does he w an t to go to sleep now? D o n ’t get your hopes up, he says.

100

LIT TL E D A U G H T E R

1C atch the yearsw ith lassos made o f c roche ted yarn , darkened, all w eb b ed to g e the r— the tongue o f the w olf , blue dress o f M ary , the relationship to your teacher,

in tr ica te years,years spent reading, w ebbed toge ther and darkened,correspondence in the snow, paper plates for bees,

and dow n y our back I follow the lines in books, the c rocheted lines—O Fallada, m y horse,m y little goose fea ther, m y f lo w er ,—the lassos tha t have been retr ieved .

101

But w hendo w e put our hands in our lap?W h e n will they come back from Cologne,from the silvermines,the valley o f the Acherloo?All those w h o scream ed then: w h o ’s eaten, eaten , drunk?T he people you put a w ick er chair ou t for by the stitches o f air no one counted , and beds o f w a te r and moss kettles?T he people w h o hold your m ir ro r three times the day afte r to m o rro w , w h o ’s the fairest o f them all?

3M ir ia m ’s built me a house o f bananas and oilcloth.I ’ll stay there,w ait for every th ing there,Scrabble and the shortness o f breath , sa i lo r’s ch ow der and every o ther dish, every ju d gm en t, even the Last.

2

102

KEY FIGURE

Lazy but b ro w n , she can only be discussed in telegrams. I always see her going d ow n the A ve­nue o f Septem ber 19th to the bridge, w h ich she doesn ’t cross. T he w o m an from W allach ia w ea r in g her b o r ro w e d fur w i th no th ing u nder­neath , you can read about it in the fairy tale, too lazy to spin h e rse lf m ater ia l for a shift. W h y is it called Sep tem ber 19th? I go to the post office to send m y telegram s, com ing back I never see her, she p robably stays d ow n by the b ridge and turns into ano ther person every day. I m ust stay until Sep tem ber 19th, to find a clue to the date, th e y ’re assembling d ow n by the bridge , w o m en from W allach ia , fur and noth ing underneath , lazy and b ro w n , and I send m y telegram s until Sep tem ber 19th. T he addressee know s the key, bu t the w o m an I ’ve invented , she ’s there every day, I b reak out in sw eat in tro n t ot the post o t- fice and I ’m atra id to push the telegram s too far. T o change the key, to touch the skin under the fur? T here are means enough, bu t I w ould miss the W allach ian , the s treet d ow n to the bridge, to the 19th o f Septem ber. She’s caught up w ith me, she’s ahead o f me by one reality.

103

D E F IN IT IV E

A nd let the snowcom e th rough the door-cracks,the w in d b lows, th a t ’s his job .

A nd let Lena be forgo tten ,a girl w h o d rankthe spirits from the lamp.

W e n t in to the il­lustrations o f M e y e r ’s Lexicon, B re h m ’s W ild life .

104

Intestines, m oun tain ranges , beach carrion ,and le t the snowcom e th rough the door-cracks

up to the bed, up to the spleen, w h ere the m em o ry sits, wrhere Lena sits,

the leopard , the feverish gull, a r i thm etic puzzles in yellow w rappers , by subscription.

A nd let the w in d b low because t h a t ’s all he can do and d o n ’t begrudge Lena

one m ore sw ig from the lam pand let the snowcom e th rough the door-cracks.

105

LA U R A S

If there is no Laura, there is still her name. She has small ears w hich are hidden by her curls, that you can be sure of. T he co lor o f her hair is uncerta in , but red w ould be surprising. T h ere is less l i te ra tu re about Laura than about W illiam Tell. T h a t ’s a shame. I could talk b e t te r w ith

106

Laura than w ith Pe tra rch , w h o w an ted to repeat every th ing , only m ore beautifully . A false a r­tistic principle, bu t w e w a n t tha t too. W h a t did Eve say, w h a t did B athsheba say, w h a t did Noah say w hen he deserted his friends in the rain? N o ­body know's, bu t w e w a n t to say it finally. N o ­body knows Laura, bu t l e t ’s invent her now . She plays the piano. Since her inner life longs tor ex ­pression, p robably too loudly. H e r eye is fixed on a point beyond all pianos— n o w w e ’re get­ting som ew here . I dare say sh e ’s a c ap ta in ’s w id ­ow . Young, but a w o m an w h o m suffering has m atu red . N o w w e kno w m ore. B u t m ore beau- titul. L au ra ’s ge tting m ore and m ore beautiful. A beau ty -m ark , a lily neck, a very n a rro w waist. A t once she comes to life and plays the pi­ano. Beset by adm irers , she uses up her m eager w id o w ’s pension. Francesco and Friedrich are her favorites. Francesco stays, la ter Friedrich turns to a C aro line and a C har lo tte . She suffers and outlives both. D ied in 1899 in the T rop ical Institute o f the U n ivers i ty of Tubingen . I f we know her death , w e kno w every th ing . D eath , m y principal, says Friedrich, most pow erfu l czar o f all flesh.

107

B R IC K W O R K S B E T W E E N 1900 A N D 1910

1D o n ’t th ink backover the bricks,the w in te r in g , blue tinges.T he m easurem ents have survivedam ong the farm ers,a kind o f legendthat holds you from a distance,a family o f know ledge ,fruitful, astonished,the ingeniousm em ory built intoo v e rg ro w n ovens:A horsew o n in the lo t te ry , the b r ic k m a k e r ’s sister, w in te r w o rkm an , som eth ing w r i t te n in indelible pencil on the paving stones o f the stable passageway.

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Stone loaves shot th rough w ith air soured by rain— n o b o d y ’s hunger, n o b o d y ’s red bread.G rab the plains! time belongs to the clay pits, a sour rain, a trace o f ca raw ay , rinds f rom pictures.

3U nbalanced budget.A year o f defective tiles. W h o can b reak even in this short life w hen the limbs swell up w i th w a te r and you look helplessly at the ta r-covered trellises, at the canaries tha t die carelessly in the closing door?

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Icelandic moss, a w o rd w hispered in hearing tests understood from tw o meters.

A precise dryness behind the W e n d ic graves, a region that becomes audible under the paws o f a m ongrel.

A precise Icelandicregional w o rd , all thatis no th ing bu t fu ture W end icmossam ong us dogs, am ong us graves audibly grayed d ry w hispering pawed.

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Dachshunds,a huge w h ite horse,the brick tha t g row s resonant.

R hubarb in the G arden o f Eden, furious outbursts from peacocks, round-ovens.

Bibup, the teacher from the n ex t village, being sick, an autom obile .

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I l l

SO M E R E M A R K S O N “ L IT E R A T U R E A N D R E A L IT Y ”

All the views that have been presented here assume that w e kno w w h a t reality is. I have to say for m yse lf that I do not know . T h a t w e have all come here to Vezelay, this room , this green tableclo th , all this seems very strange to me and hard ly real.

W e know there are colors w e do not see, sounds w e do not hear. O u r senses are uncerta in , and I must assume m y brain is too. I suspect our d iscom fort w ith reality lies in w h a t w e call time. I find it absurd that the m om ent I am say­ing this a lready belongs to the past. I am incap­able o f accepting reality as it presents itself to us as reality.

O n the o ther hand, I do no t wish to play the fool w h o does no t know he has bum ped into a table. I am p repared to o rien t m yse lf in this room . But I have the same sort o f difficulties that a d ea f and dum b blind man has.

W ell , all right. M y existence is an a t tem p t o f this kind: to accept reality sight unseen. W ri t in g is also possible in these terms, but I am trying to w r i te som ething that aims in another d irec­tion— I mean the poem.

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I w r i te poems to o rien t m yse lf in reality. I v iew them as tr ig o no m etr ic points o r buoys that m ark the course in an u n k n o w n area. O nly th rough w r i t in g do things take on reality for me. R eality is m y goal, no t m y presupposition. First I m ust establish it.

I am a w r i te r . W r i t in g is no t only a profession b u t also a decision to see the w o r ld as language. Real language is a falling to g e ther o f the w o rd and the object. O u r task is to translate from the language that is a round us b u t not “ g iv en .” W e are translating w ith o u t the original tex t. The m ost successful translation is the one that gets closest to the original and reaches the highest degree o f reality.

I must adm it tha t I have no t com e v ery far a long in this translating. I am still no t beyond the “ th in g -w o rd ” or noun. I am like a child that says

.“ t r e e ,” “ m o o n ,” “ m o u n ta in ” and thus orients himself.

T h ere fo re , I have little hope o f ever being able to w ri te a novel. The novel has to do w ith the verb , w h ich in G erm an is r ightly called the “ activ ity w o r d . ” B ut I have no t p ene tra ted the te r r i to ry o f the verb. I shall still need several decades for the “ th in g -w o rd ” or noun.

Let us use the w o rd “ d efin it io n ” for these

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t r ig o no m etr ic signs. Such definitions are not only useful for the w r i te r bu t it is absolutely necessary that he set them up. In each good line o f poe try I hear the cane o f the b lindm an strik­ing: I am on secure g round now .

I am not saying that the correctness o f defini­tions depends on the length or b rev ity o f texts. A novel o f four hundred pages is likely to con­tain as m any “ defin it ions” as a poem o f four lines. I w ou ld consider such a novel a poem.

C orrec tness o f definition and li te ra ry quality are identical for me. Language begins w h ere the translation approaches the original. W h a t comes before this m ay be psychologically, so­ciologically, politically or any-cally interesting, and I shall g ladly be en ter ta ined by it, adm ire it and rejoice in it, bu t it is not necessary. T he poem alone is necessary for me.

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