by Simon Strauß
This is a Genuine Rare Bird Book
Rare Bird Books
453 South Spring Street, Suite 302
Los Angeles, CA 90013
rarebirdbooks.com
Copyright © 2019 by Simon Strauss
Translation copyright © 2019 by Eva & Lee Bacon
© Aufbau Verlag GmbH & Co. KG, Berlin 2017
(Published with Blumenbar; »Blumenbar« is a trademark of Aufbau Verlag GmbH & Co. KG)
first north american trade paperback original edition
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever,
including but not limited to print, audio, and electronic.
For more information, address:
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Set in Minion
epub isbn: 9781644281000
Publisher’s Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Strauss, Simon, 1988-, author. |
Bacon, Eva, translator. | Bacon, Lee, translator.
Title: Seven nights / Simon Strauss ; translated
by Eva & Lee Bacon.
Description: First North American Trade Paperback Edition | A Genuine Rare Bird Book | New York, NY; Los Angeles, CA: Rare Bird Books, 2019.
Identifiers: ISBN 9781644280515
Subjects: LCSH Young men—Fiction. | Deadly sins—
Fiction. | City and town life—Fiction. | Boredom—Fiction. | BISAC FICTION / Literary
Classification: LCC PT2721.T73715 S48 2019 |
DDC 833/.92—dc23
For M and S and for T
Dandy, you know you’re moving much too fast,
And Dandy, you know you can’t escape the past.
Look around you and see the people settle down,
And when you’re old and grey you will remember what they said,
That two girls are too many, three’s a crowd and four you’re dead.
Oh Dandy, Dandy,
When you gonna give up?
Are you feeling old now?
You always will be free,
you need no sympathy,
A bachelor you will stay,
and Dandy, you’re all right.
—The Kinks, “Dandy”
Through so many forms of existence, Through “you” and “we” and “I,”
And always with persistence The age-old question: Why?
That is a children’s query. But later you understand:
One bears—no matter how weary—the evil, the odd and the eerie
By far-ordained command.
The snow, the sea, the carnation, whether once blossomed, fell apart.
Two things have remained: The frustration and the mark of a haunted heart.
—GOTTFRIED BENN
(Translation: Karl F. Ross)
Contents
BEFORE THE BEGINNING
I SUPERBIA
II GULA
III ACEDIA
IV AVARITIA
V INVIDIA
VI LUXURIA
VII IRA
BEFORE THE END
GLOSSARY
BEFORE THE BEGINNING
I am writing this out of fear. Out of fear of the seamless transition. Of not having noticed that I’ve grown up. No initiation, no final exam. I simply floated into thirty. Got all the degrees, always showed up on time, smiled a lot, not much crying, cried a little, but mainly smiled. Jumped onto many bandwagons, took a short ride, then changed direction. I’ve traveled to distant places.
I know my way around the world. Have spoken with a lot of people, seen a lot of images, heard a lot of voices. Stood in the wind, here and there. But what really means something to me, what I really believe, I cannot say. Where I want to go, that’s much easier: up and up—the ladder is long.
I’ve never lacked ambition. Even in school, I was the first to class, ready for the teacher to confirm with a nod that I had scored the highest grade. When I arrived at university, I told the professors what they wanted to hear. I loved to see their faces light up when I hit the right tone at the right moment, when I referenced the theory they were waiting to hear. I betrayed my heart for them. And in the evening, washing dishes, told myself there would still be time for dissent. And I would visit Rome when the weather was nicer.
A sympathy junkie. Quick to profess things I know too little about. Dreaming of opposition, but in the crucial moment remaining silent or halfheartedly searching for common ground. When it gets loud, I cover my ears. When an angry glance cuts in my direction, I look up at the ceiling, the cracks in the paint.
And now I sit here, in the middle of the night, listening to the rain tap the windowsill. All the lights have gone out in the windows across the street. Tatort is over, the salmon tartare consumed. Only the occasional sight of the naked man, still caught up in his dream, opening the fridge and reaching for a bottle of milk. The white fluorescent glow hits his thighs. Otherwise, nothing but silence.
And I think, I hope, there’s still something to come. Quickly, before it’s too late. I have no reputation to lose yet. No art collection, no front lawn. No children who could eventually leave home, nor early fame that would later strip away courage.
But soon, very soon, I will have to decide. On a life, a job, a woman. Soon the days and meetings will pass, without changing anything. The moments will remain without consequence and the tremors will subside. There will be structure. And I will be a servant to my ambition.
I am afraid of looking back later on gray, straight paths. Of losing my emotions along the way. Of routine taking over. Of the sheltered security, of convention bringing me to my knees. I am afraid of never having raised my voice, of always remaining at a library volume, that’s what I fear, sitting here at my tidy desk, with a candle and a pen, ready for dictation. The projects will come, I will be challenged and promoted. Exiled to an office with a window that can’t be opened. I feel threatened to my core by the drab frame of my future life. The frame is already hanging in the upper-right corner of the white wall, ready to fit me in, to pin me into a fixed pose.
From the beginning I’ve had a space by the warm stove, always well fed, handed every opportunity. The opera subscription came with birth. I was born a weakling and my privileges have only made me weaker. Danger is something I have never felt. Without a clue that paths could lead anywhere but up. I am trapped in a bubble of happiness. I’ve fought for little. There were always enough ping pong tables between classes. When I turned eighteen, compulsory military service was abolished.
With every good grade, every agreeing nod, I’ve become duller: “What you’re saying isn’t wrong, but you could look at it in a different way.” Compromises compromise. They weaken your handshake. Take the elevator too often, and you won’t be able to find your way to the back stairs. You’ll get stuck in comforts, lose your desire, lose the urgency.
I’m afraid of not wanting more than I have. I’m afraid I’ll miss the right moment to leap. It’s not enough to climb construction fences at night, pouring sand in your shoes and rubbing mud on your coat to give the impression of adventure and real risk to anyone who might visit. A torn jacket sleeve and a hickey on your neck don’t make you a hero. It’s not worth breaking the law just for short trips beyond the comfort zone. They don’t lead into the open. They merely ensure that everything stays as it was before.
The fear of failure is nothing but a tic, a way to prepare for defeat. But the fear of compromise is the real barrier. Soon I will only lead conversations t
hat begin with “Stress” and end with “so much to do.” Will sit in lunch breaks and dream of sabbaticals and promotions.
Before falling asleep, I’ll think about raises and wonder if there’s enough baby food in the fridge. Clouds will drift above my head, and I’ll never look up at them. Stars will fall and I’ll be too tired to make a wish. I’m afraid of prenups and stuffy conference rooms. Afraid of bank holidays and the first insincere smile. Of my free existence coming to an end, of a permanent position, retirement funds, spa weekends in May. Afraid of the Curriculum Vitae, maybe.
That’s what this night is about. That’s why I’m writing. The only battle worth fighting is that for emotion. The only desire that counts is that for a beating heart. Too much ground has been lost to cynicism. It wraps its cold fingers around everything, blows out the last candle, locks the last emergency exit, tears down the last curtain. Cynicism is claiming victories on all fronts. And for those of us who fall behind, it’s there to tend to our wounds with Nivea creme. It leads us to believe that all we need to catch up is its help. In reality, though, cynicism is hollowing us out, drilling deep into our core, extracting the precious resources that are stored there.
In its company, we are quick to laugh at others. Only later do we realize how weak it has made us. How our emotions, our sympathy, our enthusiasms have atrophied. We arrogantly believe that sheer calculation can achieve anything. In the dusty archives of reason, we too often search for answers that can only be revealed under the open sky. There is a hidden place inhabited by a secret that can be pondered, but never solved. Only purely logical thinkers can deny this. “Evidence exhausts the truth,” Georges Braque said. And Claudel: “One who admires is always right.”
These are the sentences I repeat to myself. A bit utopian? Perhaps. But if you live without them, aren’t you missing something? You, who carry out your conversations with hands in your pockets, with shrugging shoulders while chewing gum. Treating irony as your insurance policy, your false bottom. You keep everything at arm’s length. At worst, you get agitated, but never serious.
Don’t you sometimes long for wilder thinking too? For ideas without structure, utopias without metrics, sharp edges and corners to get hung up on? Aren’t you ashamed to not have an answer to the question: “What is an opinion of yours that the majority doesn’t share?” Its goal is not provocation, but consciousness. To comprehend where one stands, and with whom.
I want to feel the desire for reality again, not just for realization. I want the courage for a bigger connection, for a whole narrative. We’ve admired the wrecking ball of Deconstruction long enough. Now the time has come for ambitious architects. For new developments not in danger of collapse.
Where are those of you with a passion for planning and dreaming? Why am I still sitting here alone, looking out into the dark? Enamored with the loneliness that I pretend to feel. Night thoughts on the second floor: prewar building, stuccoed ceiling, bar lock—a feeling for eternity.
Now and then, someone stumbles from the bar at the corner, yelling his drunkenness into the night. That gets the dogs from the neighbor downstairs barking. They don’t know of my thoughts, the dogs. If they did, they’d keep quiet and devoutly fold their paws underneath me.
I long for community because I’m not good at being alone. Because I’m not up to the “vast inner solitude” that Rilke praised in his Christmas letter to Kappus. Not yet. The world I carry within is sustained by dialogue, by exchange, by the bat of an eye. I need conversations, glowing faces. Freedom and friendship—these words have the same root. They belong together. It’s not too late to break through the virtual with a handshake, with a hug. There’s still time to band together, to start a group with the name “New Sensualism.” Memory can still become present.
So come to my table and fold your hands behind your head. I’m waiting for you. Because who else is still talking about sentiment? Who has a feel for their own heartbeat? Which mothers and fathers, which teachers and priests, which coaches and therapists encourage you to be overwhelmed? Who gives hope for another, wider world?
I dream of a long staircase that leads up to a secluded room. Entrance is only granted to those who make mistakes, take detours, experiment. This room contains nothing but a long table and wooden chairs. At the table is a group of would-be loners, at the fringe of the general public, only truly at home in this group. They’re not friends, they’re not close. Their tone is not yet trained. Their youth unites them. The criterion: Not yet thirty. And: to be a questioner, not a smartass.
To come together here means most of all: to feel friction. It is a place where gazes are returned expectantly, not deflected in tired skepticism. A place where naivete isn’t looked down upon. Confident are those who have the strongest imagination, not the strongest rationality. A secret club for those who still believe in secrets.
But because I haven’t found it yet, this staircase, only dream of it (but frequently!), I’m left with nothing but fear. Fear of losing what I have. Fear of not getting what I want.
It is the first gift from the gods: Primus in orbe deos fecit timor—First the gods invented fear (Statius). Because fear is not simply the ugly flipside of joy. It has miraculous powers, motivating people to tame their world through language, myths and science. To fit it into a clear form. To give it an expression.
Fear can lead me to suddenly get up from my desk, on a night like this, to go out onto the balcony, shy at first, with an unsteady step. The rain has intensified. The branches of the chestnut tree crackle in the wind. A few crows are perched on the roof, looking down at them with contempt: No composure, these branches, always just going whichever way the wind blows. The fear gives me courage, makes me step out to the railing, call and shout and swear with outstretched fingers: “I don’t want to be a nobody.”
Before the moment of transition comes, before the future can incorporate me forever, I want to break free one last time from the fixed course. I want to hang on the hands of the clock, to try to be an agitator myself. Just once I want to feel what it’s like to take a deep breath, step out of the shadows and look down at the world below. I want to. And I can.
Because I have received an offer. Someone I barely know, whom I have met only recently, has sealed a pact with me. He’s going to lead me, he said, where I want to go. I don’t know why, but I told him everything, spoke of my despair, my deficit. And he listened, unabated, never glancing at his watch. He looked at me and led me into temptation. And in the end, after I finished pouring out my soul, he said, with a twitch tugging at his mouth, that he knew exactly what I was missing. And that he knew the way.
Every night at seven, he would get in touch to send me on a foray into the city. I would always encounter one sin, one of the seven deadly sins. “So that you may find one that suits you,” he said. “Or refrain from them forever.” For a night, I would have the chance to search for the storm, to cause it myself. But by daybreak, I would have to finish my writing. Until seven o’clock, seven pages, each time. I was told to think it over. I’d have a night to consider.
This night is over. Behind the crows, the sun is rising. I don’t know what he wants from me, what’s in it for him. This man, he’s on the other side. Older than thirty. He has a life and a path. I don’t know if I can trust him. But I have no excuse. No alternative. I will accept: I will be greedy and proud, gluttonous and lustful, will be wrathful, envious and slothful. I will pull seven all-nighters, to push off the moment of transition, to escape the impending future just for a little while longer.
Maybe I can only preserve my inner self by revealing it. For one night, for seven pages. The attack will make me attackable, but also protect me from too much protection. Since I don’t encounter danger anywhere, I’ll have to search it out myself.
I will sin. Seven times. Write seven times through the night, like I’m doing now. With this strange confidence, in this deserted silence, this spare light. No sque
aling tires. No ringing phone. No running washing machine. The distant is close. Almost tangible. Now I could become anything, say anything. That’s how it seems. No wound so deep that I can’t dig deeper. No pain so intense that it can’t be the key. Only I don’t yet know if what I feel at night will withstand the light of day…
But night is also a time of fear: Loneliness crawls out of the corners, chokes my soul and bites my nails. Narrows the focus back to only me, and the awareness disappears. A moment ago, I felt great, important. Now I’m smaller than small. A nothing, a nobody. Someone who pulls his nose hair and imagines his friends weeping at his funeral. Which music is played, what photograph stands in the background. At night, people don’t like to be alone—not only because it’s colder under the covers, but also because the ghosts don’t have to pick whose heart they’ll grip first.
The nighttime writer is ambiguous. Sitting on one shoulder is the fear of failure. On the other, the courage to take on everyone. Sometimes he looks across his possessions, regards the world from above, sees how to make things better, believes in the inherent thought, the deed, the meaning. Then he looks down at himself, and he’s only a small piece, a cog set in motion by external forces. He sees a young man with graying temples who drops his pen.
There are opportunities that are specific to a certain age. Then you have to decide: either-or. The old game of chance. I have made my decision. I want it. Want to write the first few sentences. Want to gush unguardedly. To draw a sketch, build a model, make a wish list.
This is my first and last breath. A warmup for the short appearance before the curtain falls. These words are an instigation, but also a farewell. Written at night, to be read at night. Ideally spread out over the span of seven. They contain courage. Desire. And fear. Be careful with them. Because they could mean something.
He who sent me will remain silent for now. Only once will he speak. At the end. When every-thing is done.
Until then: Join me at the window. Close your eyes. And break the glass...
