“No!” something bellows, howls, within me, I don’t wish to remember, to dunk let’s say ladyfingers instead of petites madeleines (unknown, even as unprocurable articles, in this benighted part of the world) into my cup of Garzon tea mixture, though of course I do wish to remember, willingly or not, I can do nothing else: if I write, I remember, I have to remember, though I don’t know why I have to remember, obviously for the sake of knowing, remembering is knowing, we live in order to remember what we know, because we cannot forget what we know, don’t worry, children, not out of some kind of “moral duty,” no, come off it, it’s simply not at our discretion, we are not able, to forget, that is the way we are created, we live in order to know and to remember, and perhaps, indeed probably, indeed with almost total certainty, the reason why we know and remember is in order that somebody should feel shame on our account if he has gone so far as to create us, yes, we remember for the one who either is or isn’t, it doesn’t matter, because either he is or he isn’t: in the end it comes down to the same thing, the essential point is that we should remember, know and remember, that somebody—anybody—should feel shame on our account and (possibly) for us. Because as far as I am concerned, if I were to set off from my privileged, my ceremonial, I nearly said my sanctified memories, but then, I don’t mind, if we are going to use grand words, then so be it: from my memories, sanctified and, indeed, consecrated at the black mass of humanity, then gas would start to leak, guttural voices would croak Der springt noch auf, the final Sh’ma Yisroel from A Survivor from Warsaw would be whimpered, and the tumult of world collapse would raise its din . . . And after that a gentle drizzle of surprise, daily renewed that, would you believe it, I leapt up and so to say concealed again after all, ich sprang doch auf, indeed I’m still here, though I don’t why, unless it was pure chance, the way I was born, I’m just as much an accomplice to my sticking around as I was to my coming into this world—all right, I concede, a grain more shame attaches to hanging around, especially if one has done one’s utmost to hang around, but that’s all, nothing more: I wasn’t willing to be taken in like other suckers by the general passion and breast-beating clap-trap about sticking around, God help us! and in any case you’re always partly to blame, that’s all there is to it, I have stuck around and therefore I am, I thought; no, I didn’t even think, I just was, simple as that, like a Survivor from Warsaw, like a hanger-on from Budapest who sets no store on his hanging on, who feels no need to justify his sticking around, to attach notions of purpose to his having hung on, yes, to turn his having hung on into a triumph, however quiet, however discreet and intimate, yet essentially still the only genuine, the only possible triumph, as the prolonged and propagated perpetuation of this hung-on-to existence, namely my own self, in descendants—in a descendant: you—would be (would have been); no, I didn’t think about that, I didn’t think that I needed to think about that until this night overtook me, that all-illuminating yet pitch-black night, and the question arose before me (or, to be more precise, behind me, behind my long spent life, since, thank God, it’s too late and will now always be too late), the question, yes—as to whether you would be a brown-eyed little girl, with the pale specks of your freckles scattered around your tiny nose? Or else a headstrong boy, your eyes bright and hard as greyish-blue pebbles?—yes, contemplating my life as the potentiality of your being, contemplating it at all, strictly, sadly, without anger or hope, as one contemplates an object. As I said, I didn’t think of anything, even though, as I said, I ought to have. Because surreptitiously some kind of mole work was going on here, a grubbing and a machinating that I ought to have known about and, of course, did know about, I just took it to be something other than it really was, though what exactly, I don’t know— perhaps some kind of reassuring movement, I suspect, much as a blind old man might suppose the ringing, scraping noise of diggers is the earth-mastering work of sewer laying whereas what they are digging there is a grave, and what is more, a grave specifically for him. In short, I suddenly caught myself writing because I had to write, even though I did not know why I had to, the fact is I noticed that I was working incessantly, one might say with an insane diligence, always working, driven not solely by the need to make ends meet, because even if I did not work I would still exist, and if I were existing then I don’t know what that would drive me to do, and it is better that I don’t know, even if my bones, my guts, have an inkling, to be sure, for the reason why I work incessantly is that while I am working I am, and if I did not work, who knows if I would be, therefore I have to take it seriously because the most deadly serious associations subsist between my continued subsistence and my work, that much is blatantly obvious and not in the least normal, even if there happen to be others, even a fair number of them, who likewise write because they have to write, though not everyone who writes has to write, but in my case there was no getting away from the fact that I had to, I don’t know why, but it seems this was the only solution open to me, even if it solves nothing, on the other hand at least it does not leave me in a position of—how shall I put it?—unsolvedness that would compel me to regard it as unsolved even in its unsolvedness and consequently torment me not only by virtue of unsolvedness but also by the shortcomings of this unsolvedness and dissatisfaction over that. In hindsight, I may perhaps have considered writing was an escape (and not entirely groundlessly: at worst I supposed I was escaping in another direction, towards a goal other than the one towards which I was actually escaping and even now increasingly escape), an escape, indeed a salvation, a salvation and absolutely indispensable demonstration of myself and, through myself, of my material and moreover, to use grand words, mental world to the one—anyone—who will feel shame on one’s account and (possibly) for one; and that night had to ensue for me to see at last in the darkness, to see among other things the nature of my work, which in its essence was nothing more than digging, the continued digging of the grave that others had begun to dig for me in the air and then, simply because they did not have time to finish, hastily and without so much as a hint of diabolical mockery (far from it: just like that, casually, without so much as a look around), they thrust the tool in my hand and left me standing there to finish, as best I could, the work that they had begun. And so all my flashes of recognition were merely recognitions leading towards this recognition, and whatever I did, it all became just a recognition within me that led to this recognition—my marriage, just as much as the fact that I said
“No!” instantly and at once, without hesitation and virtually instinctively, yes, still instinctively, for the time being merely instinctively, albeit with instincts that ran counter to my natural instincts, which, however gradually, would (did) become my natural instincts and indeed my very nature; so this “no” was not a decision in which I might (might have), let’s say, decided freely between a “yes” and a “no”; no, this “no,” the decision, was a recognition, but not a decision that I reached or could have reached, rather a decision about myself, or not even a decision but a recognition of my verdict, a decision that could be regarded as such only insofar as I did not decide against the decision, which would undoubtedly have been the wrong decision, for how could a person make a decision against his fate, if I may use this pretentious expression, by which (fate, that is to say) one usually takes to mean what one least understands, which is to say oneself, this treacherous, this unknown, this perpetually countervailing factor that in this form, strange and estranged, as it were bowing in disgust before its power, one nevertheless finds simplest to call one’s fate. And if I wish to see my life as more than just a series of arbitrary accidents succeeding the arbitrary accident of my birth, which would be—how shall I put it?—a rather unworthy view of life after all, but rather as a series of recognitions in which my pride, at least my pride, can find gratification, then the question that assumed an outline in Dr. Obláth’s presence, I might even say with Dr. Obláth’s assistance—my existence viewed as the potentiality of your being—now, in the light of that series o
f recognitions and in the shadow of the onward march of time, was altered, once and for all, in the following manner: your non-existence viewed as the necessary and radical liquidation of my own existence. Because this is the only way in which everything that happened, everything that I did and that was done to me, has any meaning, only this way does my meaningless life have any meaning, including my continuing what I started, to live and write, it doesn’t matter which, both together, for my ballpoint pen is my spade, and if I look ahead, it is solely to look backwards, if I stare at a sheet of paper, I see solely into the past: and she traversed a greenish-blue carpet as if making her way on the sea since she wished to speak with me because she knew that I am who I am, B., writer and literary translator, a “piece” of whose she had read that she absolutely had to talk to me about, she said, and talk about it we did until we talked ourselves into bed—God help us!— and we talked afterwards, and meanwhile too, non-stop. Yes, and I recall she started by asking if I was serious about what I had said in the heat of the discussion that had taken place beforehand; but I don’t know what I said, I said, as I really did not know, I had said so many things, and I had been just on the point of departing unnoticed (“à l’anglaise,” as they say) because I had been irritated and bored by the foregoing discussion, during which I had said what was said, driven by my habitual and loathsome compulsion to speak, a compulsion that assails me chiefly at times when I would prefer to stay silent, on which occasions the compulsion is nothing other than a vocal silence, a verbalized silence, if I may be allowed to overstate the modest paradox: so remind me, I asked, and she, in a choking, husky voice, sketched out a few purchase points, almost severely, aggressively and altogether with a sense of dark, tense excitement—a sexual charge transposed or sublimated into the intellectual realm, or purely and simply disguised by the intellectual realm, I mused lazily and with that unerring sense of certainty with which one is regularly in error, with that resolute blindness whereby one never recognizes continuity in the momentary, consistency in the accidental or a collision in an encounter from which at least one of the parties is bound to emerge as a limping wreck, a sexual charge, I mused naturally and shamelessly, in the way that we all transpose or sublimate or purely and simply disguise our own sexual charge. Yes, and especially now that in my dark, unfathomable night I see rather than hear that social discourse, I see the gloomy faces around me, but only as so many theatrical masks bearing their various roles, those of the weeper and the joker, the wolf and the lamb, the monkey, the bear, the crocodile, and this whole menagerie was murmuring quietly in some huge ultimate swamp where the protagonists, as in one of Aesop’s horror fables, were still drawing the final lesson, and someone came up with the melancholy idea that everyone should say where he had been, at which the names began to drop with a weary spattering, like rain from a passing cloud which has long ago spent its force: Mauthausen, the Don Bend, Recsk, Siberia, the Transit Centre, Ravensbrück, Fö Street, 60 Andrássy Avenue, the internal resettlement villages, the post-56 jails, Buchenwald, Kistarcsa . . . by now I was dreading it would be my turn, but fortunately I was preempted: “Auschwitz,” said somebody in the modest but self-assured tones of a winner, and the whole gathering nodded furiously: “Untrumpable,” as the host himself admitted, half enviously, half grudgingly, and yet, when all is said and done, with a wry smile of acknowledgment. Later on the title of a modish book of that period was brought up, a book with a sentence that was modish then, indeed is so to this day and in all likelihood always will be, that the author, after proper but, of course, quite futile clearing of the throat, in a voice still hoarse with emotion, declares “There is no explanation for Auschwitz”—just that, tersely, intensely, swallowing quietly, and I remember how, to my amazement, this gathering of, after all, for the most part hardheaded people accepted, analyzed and debated this simplistic statement, scrutinizing it this way and that, with eyes blinking slyly or hesitantly or uncomprehendingly from behind their masks, as if this declaration to nip all declarations in the bud was actually declaring something, though you do not have to be a Wittgenstein to notice that in point of linguistic logic alone it is flawed and reflects at most certain desires, a false or frankly infantile morality and sundry suppressed complexes but apart from that has no declarative value whatsoever. I believe I actually said so too, after which I just talked and talked, unstoppably, to the verge of logorrhea, taking note from time to time of a woman’s gaze that was fixed on me as if seeking to tap a source deep inside me; and, in the thick of my compulsive need to speak, what sprang fleetingly and quite possibly faultily, reflecting at most certain desires and sundry suppressed complexes—as I say, what sprang to mind is that it had been her, the woman who later on became my wife but before that my lover, whom I got to know only after that conversation, when, tired, embarrassed and forgetting all, I had been just on the point of departing unnoticed (“à l’anglaise,” as they say) and she traversed a greenish-blue carpet as if she were making her way on the sea. I don’t even recall what I said, though obviously I gave vent to my opinion, which obviously cannot have changed much since then, if indeed it has changed at all, which I find very hard to believe, except nowadays I am not much given to venting my opinions, whence perhaps my vague doubts regarding my opinion; but then to what end, and to whom, would I give vent to my opinion, and above all where, since I don’t lodge permanently in holiday homes in some mediocre mid-Hungarian hill range in order to cope with the nonpassing of time by giving vent to opinions in the company of Dr. Obláth and high intellects of his ilk—not at all, I reside permanently, or near-permanently, in a one-and-a-half room doodah, there, I nearly said it: apartment, God forgive me—my apartment—my now sun-baked, now wind-buffeted (and sometimes both together) lair on the fourteenth floor of a tower block, looking up from time to time into the brilliant air or at the clouds in which I am digging my grave with my ballpoint pen, diligently, like a forced laborer who is whistled up every day to drive the spade deeper, to play death on the violin with a darker, sweeter tone; here I would be able to vent my opinion, at best, to the thrumming water pipes, the rattling heating pipes and the howling neighbors, here in this tower block in the heart of the Józsefváros district of Budapest, or rather not its heart but its entrails, a block that is so conspicuous, so startling, like an oversized artificial limb, in this ground-hugging neighborhood, but from my window I can at least peek over the (what a surprise!) still extant old fence, and see the pitiful secret of a paltry garden which was a constant source of excitement in my childhood but now excites me not at all, indeed distinctly bores me, as indeed does the thought that, due to certain circumstances (my divorce, my predilection for the worst yet not necessarily the simplest solutions, and then too the fact that the money doesn’t exactly roll in), so anyway due to certain circumstances I have ended up back here, in the place where I spent a number of miserable childhood summer and winter vacations, where I gained a number of miserable childhood experiences, so the thought that I am again living here, as long as I still have to live, fourteen floors above my childhood, and therefore inevitably, and now purely for my annoyance, sometimes assails me in the form of totally superfluous memories of my childhood, for surely these memories long ago fulfilled the function that they had to fulfill, their stealthy rat work, eroding everything, gnawing away at everything, they could safely have left me in peace by now. But to get back to . . . what was it? . . . to my opinion—God help us!—I most probably must have said that this statement, which is to say the statement “There is no explanation for Auschwitz,” is faulty in purely formal terms, since for something that is there is always an explanation, even if, of course, merely an arbitrary, erroneous, so-so kind of explanation; nevertheless, it is a fact that a fact has at least two lives, one a factive life and another, so to say, cerebral life, a cerebral mode of existence, and this is none other than an explanation, the explanations or, better still, set of explanations that overexplain the facts to death, which is to say ultimately annihilate or
at least obscure the facts, and this hapless statement that “There is no explanation for Auschwitz” itself is an explanation, being used by its hapless author to explain that it would be better for us to remain silent about Auschwitz, that Auschwitz does not (or did not) exist, because, you see, the only thing for which there is no explanation is something that does not or did not exist. However, I most probably said, Auschwitz did—that is, does—exist, and therefore there is also an explanation for it; what there is no explanation for is that there was no Auschwitz, that is to say, it would be impossible to hit upon an explanation for Auschwitz not coming into being, for the state of the world being such as not to be reified in the fact we call “Auschwitz” (if I may be allowed at this juncture to pay my respects to Dr. Obláth); yes, there would be no explanation precisely for an absence of Auschwitz, from which it follows that Auschwitz has been hanging around in the air since long ago, who knows, perhaps for centuries, like dark fruit ripening in the sparkling rays of innumerable disgraces, waiting for the moment when it may at last drop on mankind’s head, for in the end what is is, and the fact that it is is necessary because it is: The history of the world presents us with a rational process (quotation from H.), because were I to see the world as a series of arbitrary accidents, then that world would have, well, a rather unworthy view (self-quotation), so let’s not forget: To him who looks upon the world rationally the world in turn presents a rational aspect: the relation is mutual—again something H. said, not H., Leader and Chancellor, but H., grand-scale visionary, philosopher, court jester and head butler of choice morsels to leaders, chancellors and other titled usurpers, who, I fear, was moreover absolutely right about this, all that is left for us is to examine closely the subsidiary question of what kind of rational process it is of that world history presents to us and, furthermore, whose rationality looks rationally upon the world in order that the relation may be—as indeed, I’m sorry to say, it is—mutual, I most probably said; the explanation for Auschwitz, I most probably must have said, to my way of thinking the explanation for Auschwitz, I most probably must have said, since that was and indeed still is my opinion, is inherent in individual lives, solely in individual lives; Auschwitz, to my way of thinking, is a rational process of individual lives, viewed in terms of a specific organized condition. If mankind were to start dreaming as a whole, that dream would necessarily be Moosbrugger, the good-natured sex killer, as we can read in Musil’s The Man Without Qualities, I most probably said. Yes, individual lives, as a whole, and then the whole mechanics of carrying them through, that’s all there is to the explanation, nothing more, nothing else, all things possible do happen; only what happens is possible, says K., the great, the sad, the wise one, who already knew from individual lives exactly what it would be like when criminal lunatics look upon the world rationally and the world in turn presents a rational aspect to them, that is to say, is obedient to them. And don’t tell me, I most probably said, that this explanation is just a tautological way of explaining the facts with facts, because yes, indeed, this explanation, hard as I know it may be for you to accept, that we are governed by commonplace felons—hard even when you already call them commonplace felons and know them as such— nevertheless as soon as a criminal lunatic ends up, not in a madhouse or penal institution, but in a chancellery or other government office you immediately begin to search for what is interesting, original, extraordinary, and (though you don’t dare to say so, except in secret, of course) yes, great in him, so you are not obliged to see yourselves as such dwarfs, and histories of the world as so absurd, I most probably said; yes, so that you may continue to look upon the world rationally and the world in its turn may present a rational aspect to you. And that is entirely understandable, even entirely commendable, even if your method is neither “scientific” nor “objective,” as you would like to believe, it is not; it is sheer lyricism and moralizing insofar as it seeks to restore a rational, or in other words endurable, world order, and those who have been banished from the world subsequently edge their way back into the world again through these back and front doors—anyone, that is, who is inclined to do so and who believes that the world will henceforth be a place fit for people, but then that is quite another matter, I most probably must have said, the only problem is that this is how legends are born, we can learn from these “objective” lyrical works, these scientific horror stories, say, that the great man had an outstanding tactical sense—right?—as if an outstanding tactical sense were not precisely the means by which every paranoid and manic madman misleads and befuddles those around him and his doctors, and then that social conditions were such-and-such, while international politics were such-and-such, and then some, once philosophy, music and other forms of artistic hocus-pocus had corrupted people’s capacity to think, but above all that, when it comes down to it, the great man, let’s not mince words, was a great man, he had about him something of the disarming, the fascinating, in short: something of the demonic, that’s it, a demonic streak that was quite simply irresistible, especially if we have no will to resist, seeing that we just happen to be hunting for a demon; a demon is just what we’ve been needing for a long, long time for our squalid affairs, to gratify our squalid desires, the sort of demon, of course, who can be persuaded to believe that he is the demon who will take all our own demoniacality on his shoulders, an Antichrist bearing the Iron Cross, and will not insolently slip through our fingers to string himself up before time, as Stavrogin did. Yes, you see and label them as common criminal lunatics, yet from the moment one lays his hands on the orb and scepter you immediately start to deify him, reviling him even as you deify him, listing the objective circumstances, reciting what, objectively, he was right about, but what, subjectively, he was not right about, what objectively can be understood, and what subjectively cannot, what sorts of hanky-panky were going on in the background, what sorts of interests played a part, and never running short of explanations just so that you can salvage your souls and whatever else is salvageable, just so that you can view commonplace robbery, murder and trafficking in souls in which we all, all of us sitting here, somehow play or have played a part, one way or another, in the grand opera-house limelight of world events, I most probably must have said, yes, just so that you may fish partial truths out of the great shipwreck in which everything whole has been smashed, yes, just so as not to see before you, behind you, underneath you and at every turn the yawning chasm, the nothingness, the void, or in other words, our true situation, what it is you are serving and the prevailing nature of the prevailing régime, a dominating power which is neither necessary nor unnecessary but simply a matter of decisions, decisions that are made or not made in individual lives, neither satanic nor unfathomably and spellbindingly intricate, nor something that majestically sweeps us up with it, no, it is just vulgar, mean, murderous, stupid, hypocritical, and even at the moments of its greatest achievements at best merely well organized, I most probably must have said; yes, first and foremost, frivolous, because ever since the machines of murder have been uncovered here, there and in so many other places, ever since then it has been the end, the end for a good while, of any seriousness that might be taken seriously, at least in respect of the notion of domination, any sort of domination. And just stop once and for all, I most probably said, this “There is no explanation for Auschwitz,” that Auschwitz was a product of irrational, incomprehensible forces, because there is always a rational explanation for evil, it may be that Satan himself, just like Iago, is irrational, but his creatures are very much rational beings, their every action may be deduced, in the same way as a mathematical formula may be deduced, from some interest, greed for profit, indolence, lust for power and sex, cowardice, the need to gratify some urge or other or, if nothing else, then, in the final analysis, from some form of madness, paranoia, manic depression, pyromania, sadism, erotomania, masochism, demiurgic or other form of megalomania, necrophilia and what do I know which of the multitude of perversions, perhaps all of them at once, whereas, I
most probably must have said, now pay attention, what is truly irrational and genuinely inexplicable is not evil but, on the contrary, good. That is precisely why I have long since had no interest in leaders, chancellors and other titled usurpers, however much you may be able to recount about their inner worlds; no, instead of the lives of dictators, for a long time now I have been interested solely in the lives of saints, because they are what I find interesting and incomprehensible, they are what I am unable to find merely rational explanations for; and even in this respect Auschwitz, however sick a joke this may sound, Auschwitz proved a fruitful enterprise, so however much it may bore you, I will tell you a story, and then you explain it to me, if you can. As I’m sitting in front of a roomful of old hands, I shall be brief, and if I say no more than Lager, and winter, and a hospital transport, and cattle wagons, and a single issue of cold food rations, when the journey will last for who knows how many days and the rations are doled out in tenths, and, lying on the wooden contraption that passed for my stretcher, I could not take my dog-eyes off a man, or rather skeleton, who, I have no idea why, was only ever referred to as “Teacher” and who had picked up my ration too, and then the entrainment, and of course, time after time, the roll call doesn’t tally, and a yelling and commotion and a kick, then I feel myself being snatched up and dumped in front of the next wagon, and it’s a long, long while since I saw either “Teacher” or my ration—that’s enough for you to picture the situation precisely. Likewise how I felt: first of all, I had nothing to feed my eternal tormentor, hunger, the irascibly voracious wild beast that had long since become a stranger to me, and now hope, that other wild beast, had begun to rage as well, having hitherto purred faintly, muffled maybe, but insistently, that, all appearances to the contrary, there was still a chance of staying alive. Except that with the ration gone this all at once looked extremely dubious, while on the other hand, and I clarified this cold-bloodedly to myself, my ration would precisely double “Teacher’s” chances—so much for my ration, I thought—how shall I put it?—not overjoyed but all the more soberly. Yet what should I see a few minutes later? Calling out and looking frantically all around, “Teacher” was staggering towards me, a single issue of cold rations in his hand, and when he glimpses me on the stretcher he quickly places it on my stomach; I am about to say something, and it seems that astonishment must be written all over my face because he, though already scurrying back—if they don’t find him in his place they will simply beat him to death—he says, with clearly recognizable signs of indignation on his little face, already preparing for death, “You didn’t imagine for one moment . . .?” So much for the story, and even if it were true that I do not wish to see my life merely as a series of arbitrary accidents succeeding the arbitrary accident of my birth, because that would indeed be a rather unworthy view of life, I have still less wish to see things as though they had all happened in order that I should stay alive, since that would, perhaps, constitute an even more unworthy view of life, although there’s no getting round the fact that “Teacher,” for example, did what he did in order that I should stay alive, to look at it purely from my viewpoint, of course, because he himself was plainly guided by something else, plainly it was primarily to preserve his own life that he did what he did, only incidentally to preserve my life too. And the question here, and find me an answer to it if you can, is why he did that. But don’t try putting it into words, for you know as well as I do that under certain circumstances, at a certain temperature, metaphorically speaking, words lose their substance, their content, their meaning, they simply deliquesce, so that in this vaporous state deeds alone, naked deeds, show any tendency to solidity, it is deeds alone that we can take in our hands, so to speak, and examine like a mute lump of mineral, like a crystal. And if we take as our starting-point (and clearly there is no other point from which we can start, is there?) that in an extreme situation such as a concentration camp, and giving particular consideration to the total breakdown of body and mind, and the resulting almost pathological atrophy of the faculty of judgment, what generally guides anyone is solely one’s own staying alive, and furthermore, if you think about it, that “Teacher” had been offered a twofold chance of staying alive, yet he rejected that doubled chance, or to be absolutely precise, an extra chance on offer over and above his own chance, which, in point of fact, represented someone else’s chance, this suggests that precisely the—how shall I put it?—very acceptance of that second chance would also have nullified the sole chance he still had to live and stay alive; so according to this there is something, and I can again only ask that you don’t try putting names to it, there exists a pure concept, untrammeled by any foreign matter, such as our body, our soul or our wild selves, a notion which lives as a uniform image in all our minds, yes, an idea whose—how shall I put this?—inviolability, safekeeping, or what you will, was for him, “Teacher,” the sole genuine chance of staying alive, without which his chance of staying alive would have been no chance at all, simply because he did not wish, and what is more, in all likelihood, was unable, to live without preserving this concept intact in its pure, untrammeled openness to scrutiny. Yes, and in my opinion this is what there is no explanation for, since it is not rational as compared with the tangible rationality of an issue of food rations, which in the extreme situation called a concentration camp might serve to avoid the ultimate end, if it could serve that purpose, if that service did not run up against the resistance of an immaterial concept which sweeps even vital interests to the side, and this, in my opinion, is a most important testimony for fates in that great metabolism of what, in point of fact, constitutes life—much, so much more important than the banalities and rational acts of terror that any leader, chancellor or other titular usurper ever offered or could offer, I most probably said . . . But I am becoming bored with my own stories, though I don’t repudiate them and I can’t stay silent about them either, because it is my business to tell them, though I don’t know why it is my business, or to be more precise, why I feel as if it were my business, when of course I have no business in the whole wide world, since all my business here on earth has come to an end and merely one thing still remains for me, we all know what that is, and that will not be up to me, no, truly not; and now that I study my stories from the rear, so to say, from afar, wistfully, like the smoke curling upwards from my cigarette, I see a woman’s gaze fixed on me as if seeking to tap a source from within me, and in the luminance of this gaze I suddenly understand, I understand and almost see how my stories are braided into twisting threads, soft hooks woven from colored threads that I cast around the waist, breasts and throat of my (then still future, but now ex-) wife, but before that my lover, lying in my bed, her silky head resting on my shoulder, ensnare her and bind her to myself, spinning and twisting, two agile, motley circus performers who will later take their bows, deathly pale and empty-handed, before that jeering spectator, failure. But— yes— we must at least have the will to fail, as Bernhard’s scientist says, because failure, failure alone, is left as the sole fulfillable experience, I say, and thus I too have the will, if I must have a will to anything, and I must, because I live and write, and both are willings, life being more a blind willing, writing more a sighted willing and therefore, of course, a different kind of willing from life, maybe it has the will to see what life has the will for, because it can do nothing else, it recites life back to life, recapitulates life, as if it, writing, were itself life, though it is not, quite fundamentally, incommensurably, indeed incomparably not that, hence if one starts to write, and one starts to write about life, failure is guaranteed. And now, in my bottomless night, rent by lights, sounds and the pains throbbing inside me, I seek answers to the final, big questions, knowing full well all the while that to every final, big question there exists just a single final, big answer: the one that solves all things because it stills all questions and all questioners, and for us, ultimately, this is the sole existing solution, the final goal of our willings, even if ordinarily we take n
o notice of it and don’t in any way have the will for it, for then we would have no will at all, though speaking for myself I don’t see what purpose might still be served by quibbling; nevertheless, while I am recapitulating my life here—God help us!—this life here, and I ask myself why I bother, apart from having to work, maniacally, with lunatic diligence and without a break, because associations of mortal seriousness are sustained between my continued sustenance and my work, that’s perfectly obvious, all the same, recapitulating my life here, I am probably driven by some surreptitious hope of my surreptitious will, namely, that I might one day become acquainted with this hope, and I shall probably keep on writing, maniacally, with lunatic diligence and without a break, until I have made its acquaintance, because what reason would I have for writing after that? And when later on, as the pair of us roamed the dingy and not so dingy streets, my wife (to-be and ex-) asked what name I would give, all the same, to that particular pure concept, untrammeled by any foreign matter, about which I had spoken earlier, at the gathering, in connection with “Teacher,” who, incidentally, she declared was “a very moving figure” and she hoped she would encounter him again in one of my pieces, she said, a remark to which I turned a blind eye, so to say, as to a physical blemish which should not be allowed to disturb the magic, at least for the moment while the magic still is magic, and without hesitation I rejoined that that concept was, in my opinion, freedom, and freedom primarily because “Teacher” did not do what he ought to have done, that is, what he ought to have done according to rational calculations of hunger, the survival instinct and madness, and the blood compact that the dominating power had entered into with hunger, the survival instinct and madness, but instead, repudiating all that, he did something else, something that he ought not to have done and that no rationally minded person would expect from anybody. At that my wife (though not yet that at the time) fell silent for a while, then suddenly—and I recollect her face upraised to me in the dancing lights of the night, both soft-grained and glassily opalescent and glistening, like a 1930s close-up, and I recollect her voice too, which trembled with the emotion and agitation of her audacity, or at least that was what I supposed at the time, and maybe it was so, though why would it have been since nothing is quite what we suppose or would like to suppose, the world not being a notion but a chimera of ours, full of unimaginable surprises—suddenly declared that I must be very lonely and sad and, for all my experience, very inexperienced to be so lacking in faith in people, yes, to need to be producing theories in order to explain a natural (yes, that’s what she said: natural), a natural and decent human gesture; and I recollect how much these words upset me, a remark that was so utterly amateurish and so beguiling in its very untenability, I recollect, yes, just as I also recollect the smile that followed, timid at first but turning quizzical, then rapidly confidential, a play of expressions that I have tried to conjure up so many times subsequently, because in a certain sense it always entranced me, to start with pleasurably, later, when I no longer managed to conjure it up, painfully; or in other words, to start with its reality, later on its lack, and still later on just its memory, the way it usually is and, it would seem, has to be, as it is never any different—I recollect all this, my emotions suddenly compacting, becoming almost uncomfortably immanent and confused, and even more the question she asked as to whether she might take my arm. “Certainly,” I replied. But at this point it would be fitting for me to relate roughly how I was living at the time so that I may understand and recognize what I need to understand and recognize, and that is in what respect this moment differed from other, similar moments in which, just as in that moment, it was decided that I would soon be going to bed with a woman. And I put it this way, “it was decided,” because even though it is true—and what could be more natural, naturally—that I myself always play a goodly part in such decisions, even to the extent of taking on the role of prime mover, or at least an appearance of that, nevertheless this practically never presents itself to me as a decision; on the contrary, it presents itself to me as an adventure which renders impossible even the possibility of there being a decision, like a vortex opening at my feet, when my blood is seething inside me like a waterfall, stilling all other considerations, and at the same time I am perfectly clear, well in advance of the usual outcome of the adventure, so that as far as a decision is concerned, if it were to lie within my power, I would hardly decide to commit myself to adventures of this kind. But maybe it is precisely this which attracts me, this contradiction, this vortex. I don’t know, I just don’t know. Because this has happened to me more than once, the selfsame thing, the selfsame way, so I have to infer from this constant repetition that some sort of pattern is stealthily actuating and guiding me: a woman with a timid smile and scurrying movements, in the archaic guise of a loose-tressed, barefoot serving wench as it were, quietly and modestly asks permission to enter—how shall I put it in order to avoid having to utter the banality that I shall nevertheless utter, because what else could I say, if the cheap trick has proved itself since time immemorial, and splendidly at that?—asks permission to enter my ultimum moriens , my ultimate failure, in other words my heart, whereupon she takes a look around with a charming and inquisitive smile, delicately touches everything, dusts down one thing and another, airs the musty crannies, throws out this and that, stows her own stuff in their place, and nicely, tidily, and irresistibly settles in until I finally become aware that she has completely squeezed me out of there, so that boxed in like an outcast stranger I find I am steering clear of my own heart, which now only presents itself to me distantly, with closed doors, like the snug homes of others before the homeless; and very often I have only managed to move back in by arriving hand in hand with another woman and letting her lodge there instead. I carefully thought it all through in this much detail, or this plastically I might say, as only befits my profession as writer and translator, after one of my longer-standing, almost painfully and interminably long-standing relationships had come to an end, a relationship that at the time, or so I believed, was taking a fairly heavy toll on me and, seeing it was thereby threatening the freedom that was absolutely necessary (not just necessary: indispensable) for my work, I was induced to prudence yet at the same time to further reflection as to what would follow. That was chiefly because I couldn’t help noticing that regaining my long-yearned freedom by no means conferred the stimulus to work that I expected from this turn of events; indeed, I disconcertedly had to admit that I had worked more energetically, I might say more angrily, and thus more productively, while I had merely been struggling for my freedom, indecisively now breaking up, now getting back together again, than I was working now,when I was free again, to be sure, but this freedom only filled me with emptiness and boredom; just as a good deal later, another sort of state, to wit the happiness that I experienced with my wife during our relationship and then at the beginning of our marriage, likewise taught me that this state, to wit that is to say happiness, also has an adverse effect on my work. So first of all I took a hard look at my work, as to what it really is and why it creates demands that are so oppressive, or at any rate tiring and often frankly unattainable, virtually suicidal; and even if I was then still groping far away—God, and how far—from true clear-sightedness, from a recognition of the true nature of my work, which is in essence nothing other than to dig, to keep on digging to the end, the grave that others have started to dig for me in the air; at any rate, I recognized that as long as I am working I am, and if I were not working, who knows, would I be? could I be? so in this way the most deadly serious associations are sustained between my continued sustenance and my work, one precondition of which, it seems, must be, I supposed (because, however sadly this may reflect on me, I was unable to suppose otherwise), unhappiness, though not of course unhappiness of the sort that would immediately deprive me of even the possibility of my working, such as illness, homelessness, poverty, to say nothing of prison and the like, but rather the sort of unhappiness that women a
lone can confer on me. As a result, and especially since at the time I happened to be reading Schopenhauer’s speculation “On the Apparent Deliberateness in the Fate of the Individual,” which can be found in one of the volumes of Parerga and Paralipomena, a set of which I latched upon as plunder in an antiquarian bookshop during the period of library liquidations following the country’s great ethnic upheavals and wave of emigration, moreover so cheaply that even I was able to afford the four bulky black tomes, survivors of censorships, book burnings, pulpings, and all manner of other book-Auschwitzes, as a result I could not entirely rule out the possibility that, to avail myself of that most obsolete expression in wholly obsolete psychoanalysis, I am possibly subject to somewhat of an Oedipus complex, which, after all, taking into account the not exactly orderly circumstances of my younger days, would be little wonder, I supposed now, the only question I asked myself was whether the influence (albeit not the sole determinant, for the mere possibility of this self-analysis was in itself more than encouraging, I supposed) came from the father-son or the mother-son relationship, and the answer I gave myself was that it was most likely the role of the mother’s son, the mother’s rejected son, that manifests itself now and again in my behavior. I even went so far as to construct a hypothesis around this, as the jottings I made at the time testify. According to this, the father’s rejected son inclines more towards a transcendental problematic, whereas the mother’s rejected son, and that is what I had to postulate myself as being, tends towards a more sensory, pliable and impressionable material, towards plasticity, and I supposed ready examples of the former were to be found in Kafka, and of the second in Proust or Joseph Roth. And even though this hypothesis probably rests on an extremely shaky footing, and these days I would know better than not only not to write it down but even to bring it up as a topic for a flagging late-night discussion, all the more because it simply no longer interests me (oh, I’ve moved on a long way since then), and if I still have any recollection of it at all, then it is just as a brief, still aimless and hesitant step on the long, long, who could know how protracted path to true clear-sightedness, or, in other words, conscious self-liquidation; at any rate, it is a fact that the—how shall I put it?—benefit of this complex flowed from me into my work, its harm from my work into me, so I was able to deduce from the apparent deliberateness manifested, if not exactly in my fate, then at least in my behavior at the time, that I furtively produce, verbally create, the situation and role of the mother’s rejected son, presumably on account of the accompanying very singular—and, were I not a little ashamed, I would say gratifying—pain, which, from the viewpoint of my work, it seems I absolutely require (naturally, along with freedom, which is my prime requirement). Yes, because it appears that in my pain I end up hitting on creative forces, no matter what the price, and no matter that it may just be ordinary compensation finding an outlet in creativity, what is important is that it nonetheless finds an outlet and that through the pain I live in some sort of truth, and if I did not live in it, perhaps the simple truth might—who knows?— leave me cold; as it is, however, the notion of pain is intimately and permanently interwoven within me with the aspect of life, the (I am quite certain) most authentic aspect of life. And in this I then also spotted an explanation for the phenomenon that I was talking about previously, namely, why, when I am in possession of my complete freedom, my stimulus to work is reduced, whereas when I am in the thick of fighting for my freedom and in all sorts of mental turmoil, it is increased, for obviously the way the neurosis induced by my complex (or which induces my complex) affects me is that, if it is in its receding phase, then my desire to work also subsides, but if some new trauma arrives to rekindle the neurosis dormant within me, my desire to work is also ignited. That’s perfectly clear and simple, so now one might think all one needs is to provide for continual triggers to keep the fires of my work incessantly burning—and I formulate it in this pointed manner precisely in order to underline its absurdity to myself, because as soon as I had completed this self-analysis I also squared accounts with my complex, indeed, I instantly took a natural aversion to it, or to be more accurate, not only to my complex but also to myself for building up the complex even as I was concealing it from myself and playacting, precisely this idiotic infantile complex, attesting to intellectual immaturity and betraying inadmissible vulnerability, when there is nothing I hate more than infantilism. I was thus cured at least of that particular complex, or to be more precise, I pronounced myself cured, not so much in the interests of regaining my health of course but more my self-esteem, so that when, not long after that, I entered into a relationship with another woman, I laid down the possibly harsh-sounding but nevertheless highly practical condition that the word “love” and its synonyms should never be uttered between us, or in other words, that our love could last only as long as we were not in love with one another, whether mutually or unilaterally was neither here nor there, because the moment that this misfortune should happen to overtake either or, perchance, both of us, we would have to terminate our relationship instantly; and my partner, let me put it that way, who also happened to be recovering from a fairly severe amatory mishap, accepted this condition without demur (at least so it seemed) though the untroubledness of our relationship, I don’t doubt it, evidently soon troubled her and would have eroded our relationship had I not in the meantime made the acquaintance of my ex- (or at that time still future) wife, which in the end (at least for me) represented the radical solution. Around this time, moreover, I was still living in a sublet room, which undeniably seemed absurd, so to say, under the circumstances of a consolidation that by then was heading into its second decade, at a time when— albeit usually at the cost of myocardial infarcts, diabetes, chronic gastric ulcers, psychosomatic breakdowns, moral and financial ruin or, in the better cases, merely the total disintegration of family life—nearly all my friends and acquaintances or whatever I might call them had acquired their own apartments, as for me, I didn’t think about it, or to the extent that I did think about it I thought that I could not entertain the thought of it, simply because it would have required me to live in a different way, under the badge of money and, above all, of moneymaking, and that would have entailed so many concessions, misconceptions, compromises and, all in all, so much inconvenience, even if I were to have lulled myself into thinking that it was all just temporary, purely a means to an end, because how can we live even temporarily in any way other than the way we must permanently and generally live without its bitter consequences rebounding on our normal life, that is to say, more or less the life that, after all, we have stipulated for ourselves, in which we are, after all, the masters and legislators, and I was therefore simply unable, and did not even wish, to take upon myself all these absurdities, the absurd inconveniences of acquiring an apartment in Hungary, which first and foremost would have put my freedom, my independence of mind and as a matter of fact my independence from external circumstances under threat, under total threat at that, so that I had to set myself against that danger totally, or in other words, with my whole life. And actually I must admit that my wife was right, for after reconnoitering my circumstances at the time with searching tenacity and irresistible probing, accompanied by those plays of expression that were already then slowly becoming familiar and which, so I thought at the time, acted upon me like an ever-surprising and miraculous sunrise, she declared that meant I was imprisoning myself for the sake of my freedom. Yes, undoubtedly there was some truth in that. To be more accurate, that was precisely the truth. That, given a choice between the prison of acquiring an apartment in Hungary and the prison of not owning an apartment in Hungary, the latter suited me better, since there (in the prison of not owning an apartment in Hungary) I was better able to do as I pleased, better able to live for myself, sheltered, concealed and uncorrupted, until this prison—or, if one insists on making comparisons, I could perhaps better call it a preserving jar—suddenly, and undoubtedly through my wife’s magic touch, sprang open,
and my subtenant life all at once proved to be unsheltered, unconcealed, corruptible and consequently untenable, just like my subsequent and eventually my present life too, and just as, I suppose, every life proves to be untenable once it is contemplated in the light of our flashes of recognition, for it is precisely the untenability of our lives which leads to our flashes of recognition, in the light of which we come to recognize that our life is untenable—and it really is that, untenable, because it is taken away from us. Yes, I lived my subtenant life as if I were not quite living, diminished, temporarily, absentmindedly (taking only my work seriously), with that feeling, unclarified but sure, and therefore not standing in need of clarification, feeling, that it was, as it were, merely a waiting period of uncertain duration elapsing between my only two pieces of true business, that of my coming into being and that of my passing away, which I must somehow while away (preferably with work); yet this waiting period is my only time, the only time I can account for, though I don’t know why and to whom I should account for it, perhaps to myself, above all, so that I may recognize what I still have to recognize and do what I still can do, but then to everybody, or to nobody, or to anybody who will be ashamed on our behalf and possibly for us, since I am unable to account for my time either prior to my coming into being or after my passing away, if these states of mine have anything at all to do with the only time I have—something (that is, that they could have anything to do with it) I find hard to believe. And now that, in the clarity of my night as it descends upon me, I contemplate my subtenant life at length and fretfully, with a cool expertise maybe, yet not free from certain preconceptions either, I suddenly believe I recognize its archetype, and more specifically believe I recognize it in my concentration camp life not so many years, though also an eternity ago; to be precise, in that phase of my camp life when my camp life was no longer real camp life, insofar as liberating soldiers had taken the place of the incarcerating soldiers, yet it was camp life all the same because I was still living in a camp. It happened precisely the day after this change in state (that is, that liberating soldiers had replaced the incarcerating soldiers) that I staggered out of the hospital barrack Saal, or room, in which I was then quartered, since I was, to put it mildly, ill, which in itself of course hardly constituted grounds for my being accommodated in the hospital barrack but, owing to a coincidence of certain circumstances which, in the final analysis, took the form of a piece of good luck only slightly more astounding than the accustomed bad luck, I nevertheless happened to be being accommodated in the hospital barrack, and the next morning I staggered out of the Saal, or room, to the so-called ablutions, and as I opened the door to the so-called ablutions and was just about to move towards the wash trough, or perhaps before that to the urinal, when my feet simply (and I am unable to come up with anything more apt than this tired cliché, because that was almost literally what happened) they simply became rooted to the spot, for a German soldier was standing at the washbasin and as I entered he slowly turned his head toward me; and before fright could cause me to collapse, faint, wet myself or who knows what else, through the greyish-black fog of my terror I noticed a gesture, a hand gesture by the German soldier, beckoning me towards the washbasin, a rag that the German soldier was holding in the hand that was making the gesture, and a smile, the German soldier’s smile; in other words, I slowly grasped that the German soldier was just scrubbing the washbasin, while his smile was merely expressing his readiness to be of service to me, that he was scrubbing the washbasin for me, or in other words the world order had changed, which is to say that it had not changed at all, which is to say that the world order had changed merely this much, and yet even just that much was not an entirely negligible change in that whereas yesterday it had been I who was the prisoner, today it was he, and this put an end to my sudden terror only inasmuch as it gradually tamed the immediate feeling into one of persistent and unshakable mistrust-fulness, matured it within me, one could say, into a way of looking at the world that my subsequent camp life (because I continued to live like this, as a free camp inmate in the camp, for quite a while) bestowed on my free camp life such a singular flavor and piquancy, the unforgettably sweet and tentative experience of life regained: that I was living and yet living as if the Germans might return at any moment, and therefore not fully living after all. Yes, and I have to believe (though it was probably as yet unknowing, allowing for the circumstances: the constraint of not owning an apartment that, in the final analysis, I prolonged this experience, the unforgettably sweet and tentative experience of my free camp life, into my subtenant life, this experience of a life before and after all flashes of recognition, unencumbered by any of life’s burdens, least of all the burden of life itself, that I was living, but living as if the Germans might return at any moment; and if I impart to this notion, or way of life, or whatever I should call it, a certain symbolic significance, it immediately seems it is thus less absurd, for there is no getting away from it, in a symbolic sense, the Germans might return at any moment, der Tod ist ein Meister aus Deutschland, sein Auge ist blau, Death is a blue-eyed master from Germany, he can come at any moment, track you down anywhere, take aim at you, and he makes no mistake, er tri ft dich genau. So that was how I lived my subtenant life, in a way that was not quite living and indisputably not quite a life, rather it was just being alive, yes, surviving, to be more precise. Obviously, this subsequently left deeper imprints in me. I suppose certain of my obvious peculiarities also have their roots in this. I suppose I ought to talk here about, for example, my relationship to property, the property that sustains everybody, mobilizes everybody, maddens everybody, about this relationship which is actually nonexistent, or at most existent merely as a pure negativity. I don’t believe, and cannot even imagine, that this negativity is a congenital negativity, some kind of defect, otherwise how would I explain my rigid attachment to certain of my more trivial personal chattels (books) or, if it comes to that, to my most important chattel: myself, the fact that I have always sturdily, one might say radically, guarded the chattel I regard as most important (myself), on the one hand against any form of effective self-destruction that is not a decision of my own free will, and on the other hand I have always guarded it, and continue to guard it, indeed increasingly so, against the cheap and perverted seductions of any sort of communal idea (which, by the way, I could just as well list among the varieties of effective self-destruction), even if, of course, I am merely guarding it for another form of destruction; no, I have no doubt that this negative relationship of mine to property was shaped purely by the survival of my survival, by this so very singular and in a certain sense not entirely unproductive, though, of course, sadly untenable mode of existence, which demonstrated my subtenant life to be likewise self-explanatory. In the subtenancy into which I moved during the darkest of those years, which, in accordance with the twisted laws of hell, we were obliged to proclaim incessantly, aloud and in chorus, as the most glittering years, and where I was greeted virtually as a savior, since my presence seemed to protect the sole commandeerable, distrainable, expropriable, billetable, partitionable, requisitionable, etc., etc., room in what was, incidentally, a fairly pleasant apartment, tucked away in a secluded Buda side street, and for which, for that very reason, I had to pay only a virtually symbolic rent that was raised only equally symbolically in the course of subsequent years; as I say, in that subtenancy, neither then, when I could not yet even think about property, nor later, when I could (indeed, perhaps should) have thought about property, yet did not think about it at all, as I say, there I was not threatened by the hazards that are the concomitants of property, the desperate and distressing measures demanded by cracks in pipes, ceilings and elsewhere, the speculations that are the concomitants of property, as to whether or not the property is satisfactory, and ought one not to have at one’s disposal more, or at least more satisfactory, property, while of course taking the best possible advantage (i.e., profit) from the existing, unsatisfactory property; no, an obsession
al notion of changing could not possibly have occurred to me, that chafing impulse which might continually dangle before me the possibility of imaginary choices, incessantly pester me and hoodwink me into thinking that I could swap my being here for being somewhere else, that I could exchange my tower-block apartment—of course, at the price of the necessary running around, shelling out, official processing and other unforeseeable complications—for a more satisfactory one, when I don’t even know what it is that would satisfy me more, since I am not even satisfactorily acquainted with my desires, and that is before saying anything about the insoluble worries over furniture, as a result of which my tower-block apartment even now, after so much time, is still not satisfactorily furnished, for I simply don’t know how I should furnish my apartment, I have no conception of an apartment furnished for myself, not the slightest idea what sort of apartment I would like, what sorts of articles I would like to see it furnished with. In my subtenancy, each and every one of the articles was the property of the householders; they were already waiting for me to settle in among them, and in the course of the long, long years that I spent among them perhaps it did not so much as enter my head even to change the place of a single one of the articles, let alone exchange them for other articles or, perhaps, swell their ranks with newer articles purely because, let’s say, I saw an article, wanted it and bought it (aside from books, my books, which I placed at first in a cupboard, then, when that was full, on the table, and then, when there was no more room there either, simply on the floor, until the householders themselves supplementally installed a low supplemental makeshift bookcase); no, as I say, I had no desire at all for, did not buy, indeed probably did not even look at articles, for nothing drives me closer to distraction than a shopwindow piled high with articles, those kinds of shopwindows quite literally dispirit, depress, even demoralize me, so, as I said, I do not look at them at all if possible, which is obviously a sign that I can hardly have any demands of this nature, in this realm (the realm of articles) I make do with the bare necessities, as they say, and probably I am most truly grateful to be placed in a ready-furnished setting where all I have to do is to accept, become acquainted with and grow accustomed to the constellation. I think I was born to be the ideal hotel resident, but because times changed all I could be was a resident of camps and subtenancies, I jotted down at the time in my notebook, from which I am now, decades later, copying into this other notebook, somewhat surprised that I was already then jotting down these kinds of things, which clearly shows that even then I was not living completely blind to my situation, to the untenability of this untenable situation and untenable life. Around that time, I remember, I suffered greatly from a feeling (in reality I might better to call it an ailment) which for my own purposes I termed a “sense of strangeness.” The sensation has been well known to me from early childhood on, essentially my constant companion in life, but around that time it haunted me in a manner little short of hazardous, not allowing me to work during the day nor allowing me to sleep at night, leaving me at once tense to breaking-point and enervated to the point of inertia. It’s a well-defined nervous ailment, not a figment of the imagination, I at any rate believe that in its essence it has a basis in reality, in the reality of our human condition. Usually it starts with what is often an awe-some, but sometimes, especially back then, intolerably acute feeling that my life is hanging by a single thread; it’s not a matter of whether I am living or dying, death has nothing to do with it, in fact it has to do with nothing other than life, and life alone, it’s just that life suddenly assumes within me an aspect and form, or more accurately a formlessness, of the utmost uncertainty, so I am not at all sure about reality; yes, I am seized by total uncertainty about the extremely suspect experiences that are presented to my senses as is for reality, the real existence of myself and my surroundings altogether, an existence that, as I have already said, at the time of such experiences or what I might perhaps better call paroxysms, anyway at the time of these paroxysmal experiences, is connected by just a single thread to life, my own and that of my surroundings, and that thread is my reason alone, nothing else. But then, not only is my mind mistake-prone and, to put it mildly, a far from perfect instrument or sensory organ, or whatever I should call it, on top of that it usually functions sluggishly, haltingly, fuzzily, indeed at times hardly at all. It only follows my actions like someone in bed with the flu does another’s bustling about around him, registering almost everything only after the event, and though one tries to direct this stranger’s rummaging and activity with the occasional listless word, if the latter pays no attention, or happens not to hear, with a resigned impotence one gives up bothering anymore. Yes, this is the “sense of strangeness,” a state of total estrangement which contains not even a slight hint of the fantastical, the astonishing, or an unbridled imagination but just torments one with the tedium of the routine, the commonplace; yes, an utter homelessness, though it neither knows nor gives cognizance of any home, either abandoned or waiting for me in the way that, for example—and this is a question that I have often posed myself in such states—death would be a home, for example. But then, I have replied to myself on such occasions, I ought to believe in the other world, but the snag is precisely that I cannot believe in this world, least of all when in these states, where I am reduced to addressing such questions to myself and when I hold the existence of another world (to wit, the other world) to be just as much an absurdity as the existence of this world; that is to say, I don’t hold it to be at all inconceivable, nor yet conceivable, of course, that another world (to wit, the other world) may exist, only that even if it does exist, then it certainly does not exist for me because I am here. That is, barely here at that; I am only more or less alive, and that fills me with a sense of some unnameable sin. At such times I often tried (try) to sober up, as it were, but in vain; it seems that it is possible for me to connect with life solely in the form of some sort of logical game, like playing chess or making calculations on a piece of paper and, by inscrutable ways and means, all at once some sort of reality derives from the abstract result—in the way (and this was one of my favorite examples at that time, I even noted it down on a pad, from which I am now writing it down here), so in the way, I wrote, let’s say, one holds two wires together, screws them down, inserts the other end into a hole in the wall, presses a button, and the lamp burns; what has happened is an entirely conscious calculation of probabilities, I wrote, the result is the expected one but nonetheless amazing and, in a certain sense, incomprehensible, I wrote. Everything, but everything, is mere deduction, conjecture and probability, no certainty anywhere, no shred of proof anywhere, I wrote. What constitutes my existence? Why am I? What is my essence? For all these questions, I wrote, it’s common knowledge that it is hopeless for me to seek not the answer so much as merely reliable signs; and even my body, which sustains me and will eventually kill me, is strange, I wrote. “Maybe if for just one moment in my life, just a single moment, it were given to me to live in step, so to speak, with the detoxifying actions of my kidneys and liver, the peristaltic movements of my stomach and intestines, the inhalatory and exhalatory movements of my lungs, the systole and diastole of my heart, as well as the metabolic exchanges of my brain with the external world, the formation of abstract thoughts in my mind, the pure knowledge that my consciousness has of all these things and of itself, and the involuntary yet merciful presence of my transcendental soul; if, for just a single moment, I might see, know and possess myself in this way, when there could be no question of course of either possessor or possession, but my identity would simply spring into existence, which can never, ever come into existence; if just one such unrealizable moment were to be realized, maybe that would abolish my “sense of strangeness,” teach me to know, and only then would I know what it means to be. But since that is an impossibility, it being common knowledge that we don’t know, and can never know, what causes the cause of our presence, we are not acquainted with the purpose of our presence, nor do w
e know why we must disappear from here once we have appeared, I wrote. I don’t know why, I wrote, instead of living a life that may, perhaps, exist somewhere, I am obliged to live merely that fragment which happens to have been given to me: this gender, this body, this consciousness, this geographical arena, this fate, language, history and subtenancy, I wrote. And now that I am noting down what I noted down then, one of my nights then is suddenly revived within me, a dream of mine or, to be more accurate, a waking state of mine, or perhaps a waking dream or a dreaming wakefulness, I don’t know which, but anyway I recall it in extraordinary detail, as if it had occurred only yesterday. I was woken, or plunged into a dream (I don’t know which, and it doesn’t matter at all), by a quite unusually acute “sense of strangeness” such as I had never felt before. That too was a brilliant night, like my present night, glistening velvety-black and pervaded by a motionless, mute, but imperturbable consciousness, and I suddenly realized it was virtually a complete impossibility that this incisive, passive consciousness should all of a sudden simply cease to be and disappear from the world. Yes, and it was as though this consciousness were in no way my consciousness, more a consciousness of myself , and thus while I may know about it, I cannot have it at my disposal, as if, like I say, it were an ever-and omnipresent consciousness not belonging exclusively to me, from which I simply cannot free myself and which, quite fruitlessly and to no purpose, torments me personally to death. On the other hand, I sensed with absolute clarity that this passive consciousness was nonetheless actually not an unhappy consciousness, and that even if I, though only as a subject of that consciousness, were to be unhappy at this moment, that was more a consciousness of my own impotence in relation to that consciousness, in relation to that pitiless, eternal, tormenting, but for all that, as I said, by no means unhappy consciousness; thus, on fully awakening, or plunging fully into my dream (as I said, it really doesn’t matter which), it was subsequently impossible for me not to draw inferences as to the mystery, or rather impossible not to reflect at least that this consciousness is a part of something that encompasses me too within itself, that it is not of my body yet is not completely of my mind either, even though it is mediated by my mind, that it is therefore not exclusively mine, and in truth this consciousness may be the ultimate kernel of my being, which created and evolved this whole thing (my being, that is to say). It was impossible for me not to suppose, therefore, that this consciousness implied a duty, and that even if I were only postulating this duty, its commandments were nevertheless inviolable or, to be more accurate, they could, of course, be violated, but only with the feeling that one has violated the commandment, in other words with a guilty conscience; yet at the same time, and as far as I am concerned, this is the most peculiar part of it, this commandment is not exclusively—how shall I put it?—a moral commandment; no, it also contains an element, requirement, indeed demand, calling directly on one’s handcrafting talents, so to say, that the world “must be constructed,” “must be described,” “must be studied,” and at a time of its own choosing one must be able to demonstrate— it doesn’t matter why, it doesn’t matter to whom: to anybody who will be ashamed on our account and (possibly) for us—that one’s religious duty, totally independently of the crippling religions of crippling churches, is therefore understanding the world; yes, that when all is said and done, it is in this, in understanding the world and my situation, and in this alone, that I may seek my—and again, how shall I put it in order not to say what I am bound to say?—my salvation; yes, for what else would I seek, if I am already seeking something, were it not my salvation? Then again, I also supposed that all this is merely the sort of thought that one is bound to think; in other words, that a person thinks these sorts of thoughts as a result of his condition, because he is compelled to think these sorts of thoughts as a consequence of his condition, and since a person’s condition, at least in certain respects, is a condition that is prescribed and predetermined from the outset, a person is therefore able to think solely predetermined thoughts, or at least ruminate and ponder solely on matters, subjects and problems that are prescribed and predetermined from the outset. For this reason, I supposed, I ought to be thinking thoughts that I don’t have to think, but I no longer recollect if, after that, I did indeed ponder on such thoughts, apart from pondering at all, of course, which I didn’t have to do, and becoming a writer and literary translator, which there was all the less reason for me to have to become, indeed, which I was only able to become in spite of circumstances, by outwitting and deceiving circumstances, by incessantly hiding away and escaping into the labyrinth of circumstances, out of the path of the bullheaded monster whose galloping feet, only in passing as it were, trampled on me now and then, even so, in spite of the monstrous and devastating circumstances, which did not brook thought in any form except in the form of slave thoughts, which is to say not at all; circumstances which glorified, exalted and celebrated slave labor alone and under which I was able to live, be and exist at all practically only in secret, by denying myself out loud and shielding fearfully and mutely within myself my velvety-black night and hopeless hope, which perhaps first slipped past my lips, many, many, many years later, that evening when—taking note, from time to time, of a woman’s gaze that was fixed on me as if seeking to tap a source from within me—I spoke about “Teacher,” that there is a pure concept, untrammeled by any foreign material, whether our body, our soul, our wild beasts, a notion which lives as a uniform image in all our minds, yes, an ideal which (and I did not say this, though I secretly thought it), which perhaps I too will be able to stalk, get closer to and one day even succeed in capturing in writing, a thought that I suppose I don’t have to think but think independently of myself, as it were, and think even if the thought speaks against me, even if it annihilates me, indeed perhaps truly then, because that is perhaps how I would recognize it, that may perhaps be the measure of the thought . . . Yes, so that was the way I was living at that time. And now that I am relating all this, I do indeed roughly understand and recognize what I need to understand and recognize. As to whether this moment might have differed from other, similar or not even the slightest bit similar moments of mine that initiated a relationship or affair, I can only answer: yes, indeed, it differed radically from them. Just as, at least in a certain sense, I myself also differed radically from myself. For to sum up my subtenant life at that time, my thoughts, my inclinations, my motives, my whole sub-tenanted survival state at that time, I have to conclude that all the signs are that already then everything stood ripe and ready within me for a change of state. I am surely not imagining it when I suppose that I started to speculate, mistakenly, and thus untenably and intolerably, about my life. That I should not look on my life merely as a series of arbitrary accidents succeeding the arbitrary accident of my birth, because that was not just an unworthy, mistaken, and thus untenable, indeed intolerable, but above all, useless—at least for me, an intolerably and shamefully useless—view of life, which I ought to and wish to see much rather as a series of flashes of recognition in which my pride, at least my pride, can take satisfaction. Consequently, the moment in which it was decided that I would soon be going to bed with a woman, that is, with her, who was to became my wife and later my ex-wife, that moment could not have been an accidental moment either. Because it is absolutely clear that everything I have written down here, and which, as I said, stood ripe and ready within me for a change of state was now, as it were, summed up in this moment, even though by the nature of things, I myself could not have been aware of it as yet, yes, even though all I can recollect is her face upraised towards me in the dancing lights of the night, soft-grained and at the same time glassily opalescent and glistening, like a 1930s close-up. Who would have believed where and what I would be enticed to by the promising gleam of this face. And if I add that, as it later became clear, everything likewise stood ripe and ready for a change of state within her too, my future (or ex-) wife, then I may also submit that our meeting was not only no
t accidental but manifestly a fated meeting. Yes, not much time passed before we were talking about our shared life, though in reality we wanted a fate, both of us our own fate, since that is always individual, unlike anybody else’s, and cannot be shared with anybody else’s. Whatever we talked about, therefore, was all just talking beside the point, pretext and equivocation, albeit undoubtedly not deliberate talking beside the point, pretext and equivocation, or in other words, not lying. Because how could I have known, as today I know better than all else, that everything I do and which happens to me, that my states and occasional changes in state, altogether my entire life—my godfathers!—serve for me merely as means to recognition in the series of my flashes of recognition—my marriage, for instance, serving as a means towards the recognition that I am unable to live in a married state. And decisive as this recognition was in the series of my flashes of recognition, it was just as fateful, of course, from the viewpoint of my marriage, even if, from other points of view, coldly considered, without marrying I could never have reached this recognition, or at best could only have reached it through abstract inferences. Thus, there seems to be no escaping every accusation and self-accusation, the sole excuse that I have going for me being identical to the accusation that can be leveled against me: that when I contracted my marriage, which as I now see was undoubtedly out of motives and for the aim of self-liquidation, it was at least my belief that I was, on the contrary, contracting it under the badge of the future, of happiness, that happiness about which my wife and I had spoken so much and so timidly, yet also intimately and resolutely, as if it were some secret and almost grim duty that had been sternly laid upon us. Yes, that’s how it was, and now our entire life, its every sound, incident and feeling, is something I see, or rather, however strange, hear, like some kind of musical fabric beneath which the main, great, all-embracing, one-and-only theme continually ripens and condenses in order that, bursting out and outblasting all else, it may assume its autocracy: my existence viewed as the potentiality of your being, and later: your non-existence viewed as the necessary and radical liquidation of my own existence. It was just a pretext that straightaway that evening, in talking about “Teacher,” continuing with the lessons of “Teacher’s” case, or more specifically his act, I laid bare and explained to my wife (who at that time was not yet and is now no longer my wife), as I say, I enlightened her as to the chances, or rather lack of chances, of deeds that are doable in such situations, that is, in situations of totalitarianism. Because, I said, totalitarianism is a mindless situation, hence each and every situation that supervenes within it is also a mindless situation, although, I said, and perhaps this is the most mindless aspect of it all, by very virtue of our lives, merely by sustaining our lives, we ourselves contribute to sustaining totalitarianism, of course insofar as we insist, I said, on sustaining our lives; and this is merely, as it were, a self-fulfilling, one might almost say primitive trick of organization, I said. Hypotheses of totalitarianism are, so to say, naturally based on Nothingness, I said. Selection and expulsion as well as the notions on which they are based, are all nonexistent, null and void notions, I said, and they have no other reality than their sheer naturalism—for instance, shoving a person into a gas chamber, I said. I fear all this could not have been too entertaining, and if I now reflect on whether there might have been some other aim to what I said, beyond what I said, to the best of my recollection there was not; as best I recollect it was just my anguish still speaking out of me, the same compulsion to speak that had also made me speak a few hours earlier at the gathering, as well as my impression, however odd or unusual it may have been, that the woman who was walking beside me, walking beside me on her clacking high-heeled shoes, and thus whom I could see only vaguely, from the side and in the gloom of the night, though I did not even try to look at her because I still carried within me the image of her as, barely an hour before, she had traversed a greenish-blue carpet towards me as if she were making her way on the sea, and thus this woman walking by my side was interested in what I was saying. In totalitarianism, I said, executioners and victims alike perform a total service in a single cause, the cause of Nothingness, though naturally, I said, that service is by no means an identical service. And although “Teacher’s” act was an act performed under totalitarianism, an act extorted by totalitarianism, and hence ultimately an act of totalitarianism, or in other words of mindlessness, the act itself was nevertheless an act of total victory over total mindlessness, precisely because only here, in a world of total termination and extermination, could the ineradicability of the ideal—or obsession, if you prefer—that was alive within “Teacher” transfigure into a declaration . She then asked whether, apart from what I had been made to suffer, I had suffered or was maybe still suffering perhaps from my Jewishness as such. I replied that I would have to think about that. There is no denying that I have known and felt since long ago, from the first stirrings of my thoughts, that some mysterious shame is attached to my name, and that I brought this shame with me from some place where I had never been, and I brought it on account of some sin, which, even though I never committed it, is my sin and will pursue me throughout my life, a life which is undoubtedly not my own life, even though it is me who is living it, me who suffers from it, and me who will later die from it; nevertheless, I suppose all of that, I said to my wife, does not necessarily have to ensue from my Jewishness, it may simply ensue from me, from my essence, my person, my transcendental self, if I may put it that way, or else from the general and reciprocal modes of behavior and manners of treatment shown towards me and practiced by me, or in plain language from the social conditions and my personal relationship to those conditions, I said, for as it has been written judgment does not come suddenly, the proceedings gradually merge into the judgment, I said. The subject of my “piece” came up as well, the particular piece of writing that she had read and which, as she said, she absolutely had to discuss with me. Which means that I too must speak about this particular piece of writing, to give a broad outline of what sort of piece it was. The piece was, in point of fact, an extended short story of the type that is usually described as a “novella,” which had been published around that time deep within the haystack of a bulky anthology of short stories and novellas, by no means without all sorts of denigrating and insulting precursory complications that I shall refrain from describing, because they bore and disgust me, besides which, in itself, it was merely a modest and, one could say, dispensable contribution to Hungarian literary life, that denigrating and insulting, and, above all else, shameless and shameful literary life, resting as it does on its exclusions, privileges, pre-and postdilections, its official and confidential commercial blacklisting systems always casting doubt on quality, always unctuously deferential to aggressive dilettantism as if it were genius, of which I was, and am, a now horrified, now astonished, now indifferent, but always merely external observer, insofar as I am and must be at all—oh, what do I have to do with literature, with your golden hair, Margarethe, for a ballpoint pen is my spade, the sepulchre of your ashen hair, Shulamith; yes, anyway, this short story or novella, so be it, is a monologue by a man, a man still on the youngish side. This man, who had been brought up by his parents in the strictest Christian faith, or bigotry, one might say, now finds out, during the days of the apocalypse, that the unsealed brand has been placed on him too: in the spirit of the so-called laws that suddenly come into force, he is classed as a Jew. Now, before they take him away to the ghetto, the cattle wagon, or to who knows (he least of all) where and what sort of death they will condemn him, he writes his story, “the story of decades of cowardice and self-denial,” as he writes (that is to say, I have him write). Now, what is noteworthy about the whole thing is that in his brand-new Jewish existence he finds a release from his Jewish complex, a general liberation, for he has to recognize that merely being debarred from one community does not automatically make one a member of another. “What do I have to do with the Jews?” he asks (that is to say, I
make him ask): nothing, he realizes (that is, I make him realize), now that he is one himself. While he had been enjoying the privileges of a non-Jewish existence he had suffered on account of Jews, or Jewish existence or, to be more precise, the whole corrupt, suffocating, deadly and death-dealing suicidal system of privileges and discriminations. He had suffered on account of some of his friends, colleagues at the office, the wider community at large that he believed was his homeland ; he had suffered from their hatred, their narrow-mindedness, their fanaticism. He had conceived a particular abhorrence for the inescapable debates that went on about anti-Semitism, the excruciating futility of all those debates, as if anti-Semitism, he realizes (that is, I make him realize), were not a matter of conviction but of temperament and character, “the morality of despair, the frenzy of self-haters, the vitality of devastators,” as he says (that is, I have him say). On the other hand, he had also felt a certain awkwardness towards Jews in that, try as he might to like them, he was never sure about the success of the attempt. He had Jewish acquaintances, even friends, whom he either liked or disliked; yet that was different, because he had liked or disliked them out of purely individual considerations or reasons. But how could one feel an active liking for an abstract notion like the notion of Jewishness, for example? Or for the unknown mass of people that was crammed into this abstract notion? To the extent that he succeeded, he succeeded somehow only by dint of liking them the way one likes a stray animal that one has to feed but about which one has no way of telling what it is dreaming and what it is capable of. Now he was relieved of this torment, his entire presumed responsibility. With a clear conscience he could now despise whomever he despised, and he no longer had to like those whom he disliked. He is liberated because he no longer has a homeland. All he has to decide is what he should die as. As a Jew or a Christian, as a hero or victim, possibly as the injured party of a metaphysical absurdity or of a demiurgic neochaos? Since these concepts mean nothing to him, he decides that at least he will not pollute the pure fact of his death with lies. He sees everything simply because he has won the right to clear-sightedness: “We should not seek meaning where there is none: the century, this execution squad on permanent duty, is now once again preparing for decimation, and destiny has decreed that one of the tenth lots should be cast on me—that’s all there is to it,” are the last words he says (with my own words, of course). Of course, it wasn’t all quite so spare, but here I have stripped it down to the essentials, leaving out the dialogues, the twists in the plot, the setting and the other characters, including that of the lover who leaves him. The last time we see our hero he is seated on the ground, rocking to and fro, bursting in an uncontrollable fit of laughter. “The Laugh” was indeed what I had intended to use as the title, but the director of the publishing house, who was widely known to carry a service weapon at all times, even in his office (the publishing house), even though he was never to be seen in uniform and he did not even carry this service weapon, an automatic, in a service holster but tucked into a bulging hip pocket of his trousers; well anyway, this director rejected the title as being “cynical” and “trampling on the sanctity of memories,” and so forth, so how the story came to be published at all, albeit with a disfigured title, is something I have never understood to the present day, nor do I wish to understand, because I am repelled that I might understand and gain a glimpse into the inextricable web of ulterior motives which spares nothing at all, destroys everything, and even what it does allow to exist, it does so only for destructive motives; so, just like the figure I created, I too content myself with the fact that in the course of the decimation—though it was much more like a trisection—my story, somehow or other, happened to draw one of the lucky numbers. What had gripped my wife in the story was, as she put it, that a person can decide for himself about his Jewishness. Until then, whenever she had read works about Jews or concerning Jews she had felt as if she was once again having her face ground into the mud. Now, for the first time, my wife said, she felt that she could hold her head high. On reading my piece, my wife said, she had felt what my “hero” had felt, for although he dies, before that he is accorded inner liberation. Even if only fleetingly, she too had experienced that sense of liberation, my wife said. More than anything before, this piece of writing taught her how to live, my wife said, and for the second time that evening the swiftly alternating ripple of expressions again flickered across her face, that—I don’t know how else to put it— chromaticism of smiles which gave me the feeling I could melt and be transformed into anything. I soon became acquainted with the background to these statements, my wife’s childhood and adolescence. Although my wife had been born after Auschwitz, childhood and adolescence had been spent under the mark of Auschwitz. More specifically, under the mark of being Jewish. Under the mark of the mud, to quote from my wife’s aforementioned words. My wife’s parents had both passed through Auschwitz: I was still able to make the acquaintance of her father, a tall, bald-headed man, with features that were guardedly austere in the presence of strangers but unreservedly harsh in the circle of his more intimate friends or family, but she had lost her mother early on. The woman had died of some disease brought back from Auschwitz, sometimes swelling up and at other times losing weight, sometimes suffering bouts of colic and at other times covered with skin eruptions, a disease that science proved effectively powerless to tackle, just as science also proved effectively powerless to tackle the precipitating cause of the disease, Auschwitz, for the disease my wife’s mother had suffered from was, in reality, Auschwitz itself, and there is no cure for Auschwitz, nobody will ever recover from the disease of Auschwitz. Her mother’s illness and early death had incidentally played a decisive part in determining that my wife should become a physician, my wife said. Later on, while talking about such matters, my wife cited a couple of sentences which, she said, she no longer knew where she had read but she had never forgotten since. Not immediately, but quite soon afterwards, it occurred to me that my wife must have read the sentences in one of the essays of Untimely Meditations, the one titled “On the Uses and Disadvantages of History for Life,” and this reinforced my belief that the sentences we have a need for seek us out sooner or later, because if I didn’t believe that, I don’t understand how those sentences could have reached my wife, who, to the best of my knowledge, never showed any interest in philosophy, least of all in Nietzsche. The exact sentences, which I soon tracked down in the disintegrating, red-bound volume of Nietzsche that I had seized upon once in some dark corner of an antiquarian bookseller’s, read as follows, albeit not in my own translation: There is a degree of sleeplessness, of rumination, of the historical sense, which is harmful and ultimately fatal to the living thing, whether this living thing be a man or a people or a culture. After which, or before it, I couldn’t say offhand: . . . He who cannot sink on the threshold of the moment and forget all the past, who cannot stand balanced like a goddess of victory without growing dizzy and afraid—and from here on my wife knew it by heart— will never know what happiness is—worse, he will never do anything to make others happy. My wife was made aware of her Jewishness, and all that was bound up with this, in early childhood. There had been a time—“my ponytailed, freckle-faced little-girl period,” my wife called it—when she had imagined that the other children would have to love her a lot on account of all that. Now that I come to write down her words, I suddenly see her, the way she laughed when she said that. Later on her Jewishness became equated for her with a sense of futility. With defeatism, despondency, suspicion, insidious fear, her mother’s illness. Among strangers a dark secret, at home a ghetto of Jewish feelings, Jewish thoughts. After her mother died, an aunt of her father had moved in with them. “She has such an Auschwitz look,” she had immediately thought, my wife said. Seeing only a former or future murderer in everybody. “I don’t know how I still managed to grow up into a more or less healthy woman.” Leaving the room the moment that Jewish matters were mentioned. “Something turned to stone inside me
and resisted.” Hardly spending any time at home. Studying was an escape as later on were medicine and lovers, several brief and passionate affairs. She had had two “most awful experiences,” my wife said—both, she remembered, when she was around sixteen or seventeen years old. On one occasion she had spoken heatedly about the French Revolution, saying it had been little better than the Nazis. Her great-aunt responded by saying that she, being a Jew, had no right to talk about the French Revolution in that way, because had there been no French Revolution the Jews would still be living in ghettos today. After this rebuke from the great-aunt, so my wife remembered, she had not spoken a word at home for days or maybe even weeks. She had felt that she herself no longer existed, that she had no right at all to lay claim to her own feelings or thoughts, that solely because she had been born a Jew she could have only Jewish feelings and Jewish thoughts. That was when every day they ground her face into the mud had been formulated and she had declared it to herself for the first time. The second experience: she is sitting with a book in her hand, a book about atrocities, with photographs of atrocities, a vacantly staring, bespectacled face behind barbed wire, a young boy with a yellow star, hands raised in the air, his peakless cap slipping down over his eyes, on either side an escort of armed soldiers; she is looking at these pictures and a cold chill of malice, from she herself takes fright, creeps into her heart, and exactly the same thought occurs to her as my “hero” had thought in my short story: “What has this to do with me? I’m a Jew myself,” my wife said. But until she had read these and other similar thoughts in my story, she had only been able to think them uneasily, and afterwards had felt guilty for having them. That was why, after reading my story, my wife said, she had felt she could hold her head high. And she repeated, and more than once at that, that I taught her how to live: that beside me, my wife said, she felt herself to be free. Yes, in this dark and all-illuminating night of mine these are the sounds, images and motifs that now stand out from the jumble of those few lightning-fast years that were my marriage, until I suddenly see ourselves at a window, the window of our apartment, again at night time, a no-longer-winter-but-not-yet-spring evening when the city’s noxious vapors were pervaded now and again by a scent that came, like an otherworldly message, perhaps from distant plants that were stirring anew, out of habit as it were, seeking to live anew, out of habit as it were, and on the other side of the road three half-drunk men were stumbling homewards from the nearby bar, the white fur collar on the sheepskin coat one of them was wearing gleamed up towards our window and, holding on to each other, they were singing in subdued voices, the last traffic in the street had just sped by, there was a moment’s silence, then, as in an orchestral pause, their voices too carried up to us, and we could hear clearly what they were singing: We’ve just come from Auschwitz, there’s more of us than before, the sound drifted up into the night, and at first I did not actually hear it, but then I did hear it. But what does it have to do with me, I thought, so-called anti-Semitism is a purely private affair that, even though I personally may die from it anywhere, at any time, even today, after Auschwitz, I reflected, nowadays that would be a sheer anachronism, a fallacy in which, as H. would say, not H., Leader and Chancellor, but H., philosopher and head butler to all leaders and chancellors, the World-Spirit is no longer present, in other words, a provincialism, nothing more, a genius loci, a local idiocy; and if they want to shoot or beat me to death, I reflected, they will say so in good time, I reflected, the way they have generally always given prior notice. Only then did I look at my wife, cautiously, because she was suspiciously quiet, and in the cold light from the street and the warmer light that was filtering out from the room behind us I clearly saw the tears streaming down her face. There will never be an end to it, my wife said, there is no escaping this curse, she said, and if only she knew what it was that made her a Jew, given that she was simply incapable of religious faith and, possibly out of laziness or cowardice, or as a result of other predilections, she was simply unacquainted with the specifically Jewish culture of the Jews, and also incapable of showing any interest in it as it simply did not interest her, she said, so what was it that made her Jewish, if in fact neither language, nor lifestyle, nothing, nothing at all, singled her out from others who lived around her, unless, she said, it was some sort of occult, atavistic message hidden away in the genes that she herself did not hear and therefore could not know about. At which point, dispassionately, callously, and almost calculatedly, as with a well-directed dagger thrust or a sudden strong embrace, I told her that was all a waste of time, her searching for presumed causes and pseudo-explanations was futile, just one thing made her Jewish, nothing else: The fact that you were not in Auschwitz, I told her, and at this my wife fell silent, first like a scared child, but then the features very quickly changed back into her own, the features of the wife I knew and of someone else whom I only now discovered in my wife’s familiar face, a discovery which, so to speak, shook me; and our by then not so torrid nights were rekindled once again. Because, yes, by then the contradictions in my marriage were already starting to show, or to be accurate, my marriage had begun to show itself for what it was: a contradiction. In recollecting those times, I recall most of all certain reflexes of mine which kept me in a state of constant tension and internal agitation, in much the same way, perhaps—at least this is how I imagine it—as beavers, those actually rodent-like small creatures, must be driven by instinct to construct and model their complicated systems, veritable strongholds, of dams, escape passages and chambers. Around that time, besides of course literary translation, the stacks of translations that enabled me to put bread on the table, I was preoccupied by a plan for a more ambitious literary work; a novel, the subject of which, skipping the details here, was to be a soul’s path, the path of a striving from darkness to light, a struggle to attain joy, engagement in this struggle as an obligation, happiness viewed as a duty. At that time I talked a great deal (no, that is an understatement: at that time I talked almost incessantly) about this plan with my wife, who visibly took the greatest possible pleasure in these discussions, and above all in my plan as such, because in it she saw, and of course not entirely without reason, a monument to our marriage as it were, and therefore I could never tell her enough about it, describing the plot, sketchy at first, of course, but later plumped out from day to day, the proliferating and solidifying and ramifying motifs and ideas, to which, amid a flicker of chromatics suddenly brightening then swiftly fading across her face, she would attach her own timorous comments, to which every now and again, and precisely in hope of that chromaticism of the play of features, I would give approving assent, encouragement and appreciation; we raised this plan together, so to speak, nursing and coddling and petting it as if it were our own child. Looking back, of course, it was all a mistake, no doubt, a mistake to allow my wife to encroach upon this most sensitive, most secret, most unprotected sanctum of my life, my existence, which in a word is my work, a sanctum that, quite to the contrary, I have to protect and defend, as I had done before and have done ever since, so to say surrounding it with a barbed-wire fence against all unauthorized intruders, against the very possibility of intrusion, any sort of intrusion, by anybody; just as it is an indisputable fact that I did indeed sense the danger in the intense interest on my wife’s part, embracing and reaching into my whole life, fierce and yet at the same time achingly tender, while on the other hand, I did not in all honesty wish to forgo that interest either, just as one does not wish to forgo the warming sunshine that suddenly bursts upon one after the long dark days of winter. For when it came to my setting out to realize my plan, to actually write the novel, it turned out that the concept was unrealizable; it turned out that the material oozing from my ballpoint pen, as from an infective pustule, into the entire tissue of the plan, each and every cell of it, was such, I would say, as to pathologically alter that tissue, each and every cell of it; it turned out that it is impossible to write about happiness, or at least I can’t, which in
this case amounts to the same thing after all; happiness is perhaps too simple to let itself be written about, I wrote, as I am reading right now on a slip of paper that I wrote then and from which I am writing it down here; a life lived in happiness is therefore a life lived in muteness, I wrote. It turned out that writing about life amounts to thinking about life, and thinking about life amounts to casting doubt on life, but only one who is suffocated by his very lifeblood, or in whom it somehow circulates unnaturally, casts doubt on that lifeblood. It turned out that I don’t write in order to seek pleasure; on the contrary, it turned out that by writing I am seeking pain, the most acute possible, well-nigh intolerable pain, most likely because pain is truth, and as to what constitutes truth, I wrote, the answer is so simple: truth is what consumes you, I wrote. Naturally, I could impart none of this to my wife. On the other hand, I did not want to lie to my wife either. As a result, therefore, we came up against certain difficulties in the course of our time together and our discussions, especially when the subject of my work, and most especially the achievements that could be expected from my work, was brought up: writing as literature, the to me remote, unimportant and infinitely uninteresting issue of likes or dislikes, the question of the meaning of my work, questions that, in the end, mostly debouched into the shameful, squalid, insulting and humiliating topic of success or the lack of it. How could I have explained to my wife that my ballpoint pen is my spade? That I write only because I have to write, and I have to write because I am whistled up every day to drive the spade deeper, to play death on a darker, sweeter string? How could I be expected to complete my self-liquidation, my sole business on this earth, while fostering within myself some seductive ulterior motive, the seductive ulterior motive of achievement, literature, or maybe success? How could my wife, or anyone else, wish for me to put to use my spectacular self-liquidation and, what is more, put it to use so that I might thereby sneak, like a thief with a skeleton key, into some sort of literary or other future from which I have already been debarred by reason of my birth, and from which I have anyway debarred myself, and to accomplish work founded on that future with the selfsame strokes of the grubbing hoe with which I must dig my grave bed in the clouds, the winds, the nothingness? It is questionable whether I myself saw my position as clearly, as distinctly, as I am now describing it. Perhaps not completely, but the aspiration, not to speak of the good intention, was undeniably there within me. As to what I might have been thinking then, and with what sorts of feelings I might have been grappling, a good indication is given by a fragmentary slip of paper that I found when searching through the fragments of my marriage. Evidently, it was a slip that I had intended to place beside my wife’s tea cup, as I was accustomed to doing at times when, due to my work having stretched late into the night, I did not get up for breakfast. This is what it says: “. . . That we should be able to love one another and yet still remain free, though I am well aware neither of us is able to evade the lot of a man and the lot of a woman, and thus we shall be party to this torment that a mysterious and, in truth, none too wise Nature has apportioned to us; in other words, that the time will come again when I shall reach out my hand for you and desire you, and all I shall desire is that you be mine; yet at the same time as you too reach out your hand and finally become mine, I shall still place bounds on you in your submission in order that I may preserve what I imagine to be my freedom . . .” So much for the fragment, and since I found it among my writings, a slip of paper mixed up among my other slips of paper, it is certain that I did not prop it up against my wife’s tea cup but must somehow have mixed it up together with my writings and slips of paper, but it is also certain that is secretly what I thought, and I lived in accordance with my thoughts, indeed directly lived those thoughts, inasmuch as I always did have a secret life, and that was always my real life. Yes, it was around then that I started to construct my escape passages, my beaver stronghold, to hide and shield things away from my wife’s eyes and hands, so that from time to time—and, I have no doubt, on account of my defensive barriers—I fancied that I detected a lurking resentment in my wife’s behavior, and this observation grew into a reciprocal resentment and later into a persistent anguish within me that portrayed, or sought to portray, my wife’s shifting mood as a much more serious resentment than it really was, since it would not have taken much effort on my part to appease my wife, little more than a single appropriate, timely and well-chosen word, even one such gesture, would have done the trick, yet I clung to my anguish, obviously because I perceived my state of rejection in it, while the intolerable feeling of rejection sought compensation, and lonely compensation in turn manifested itself within me once again as creative force; in other words, it ignited my neurosis, my love of work, my fever and rage for work, haughtily carrying all before it but only necessitating newer and still more strenuous defensive reflexes, in short, re-activating the whole diabolical mechanism, the deadly merry-go-around, which first dips me in my anguish only to raise me aloft, but solely in order to quickly hurl me back, ever deeper . . . And certainly, quite certainly, this too played a part in the rekindling of our nights, on one of which darkly glittering nights, whose dark, velvety light nevertheless differed so much from the dark, black lights that lose themselves in the darkness of my present night—on one of our darkly glowing nights my wife said that to all of our questions and answers, those questions and answers that touch upon our entire life, we can only respond with our lives as a whole, or to be more precise, with our entire lives, because every question we pose from now on and every answer we give from now on would be an unsatisfactory question and an unsatisfactory answer, and she could imagine fulfillment only one way, because, for her at least, no other fulfillment could substitute for that sole, undivided, genuine fulfillment, or in other words, she wanted a child by me, my wife said. Yes, and