GIOVANNI ORELLI
WALASCHEK’S
DREAM
Translated by Jamie Richards
Introduction by Daniel Rothenbühler
DALKEY ARCHIVE PRESS
CHAMPAIGN • DUBLIN • LONDON
Originally published in Italian as Il sogno di Walacek by Giulio Einaudi Editore S.p.A., 1991
Copyright © 1991 by Giovanni Orelli
Translation and notes copyright © 2012 by Jamie Richards
Introduction © 2012 by Daniel Rothenbühler
Introduction translation © 2012 by Aaron Kerner
First edition, 2012
All rights reserved
Frontispiece: Paul Klee
Alphabet I, 1938, 187
colored paste on paper on cardboard
53,9 x 34,4 cm
Zentrum Paul Klee, Bern
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Orelli, Giovanni, 1928-
[Sogno di Walacek. English]
Walaschek’s dream / Giovanni Orelli ; translated by Jamie Richards. -- 1st ed.
p. cm.
“Originally published in Italian as Il sogno di Walacek by Giulio Einaudi Editore S.p.A., 1991.”
ISBN 978-1-56478-756-9 (pbk. : alk. paper) -- ISBN 978-1-56478-722-4 (cloth : alk. paper)
I. Richards, Jamie. II. Title.
PQ4875.R4S6513 2012
853’.914--dc23
2012002891
Partially funded by a grant from the Illinois Arts Council, a state agency
The publication of this work was supported by a grant from Pro Helvetia, Swiss Arts Council
www.dalkeyarchive.com
Cover: design and composition by Sarah French
Printed on permanent/durable acid-free paper and bound in the United States of America
CONTENTS
Introduction
Walaschek’s Dream
Translator’s Notes
INTRODUCTION
A Dream-Dance on the Brink
When asked which of his twenty books—novels, stories, poems, essays—is his favorite, Giovanni Orelli always replies: “Walaschek’s Dream.” It’s the book he enjoyed writing most; in truth, he’d written it more for himself than for others. Even now he precisely remembers the day that the idea for the book occurred to him. As a participant in a plenary session of the Swiss UNESCO commission, he’d been invited to visit the Klee exhibition at the Bern Museum of Fine Arts. In a neighboring room he’d stumbled upon the painting Alphabet I, which Klee had composed on a page of the National Zeitung from April 19, 1938—a sports page with a description of the Swiss Cup final match between Zürich’s FC Grasshoppers and Geneva’s FC Servette. Immediately he felt the desire to write a book based on this picture. And in doing so, to let himself be governed only by his fancies, his mental associations, his dreams, without a thought for the work’s eventual reader, its eventual readability, its ultimate significance. He’d known that something would emerge, but couldn’t have said what. He was in the same position as the painter in Cervantes’s Don Quixote, who, when asked what he was painting, replied: “Whatever comes out.”
Thus, not only is a significant part of the book concerned with an actual game of soccer, it resembles one too, in its haphazardness, its unpredictability. Yet at the very beginning of the novel, Orelli gives a hint as to what will lend the whole thing, in spite of this contingency, a specific trajectory. He records: “This work was written on the occasion of the 700th anniversary of the Swiss Confederation, with the support of Pro Helvetia.” In 1991, when the novel appeared, this simple comment carried a tremendous, even an explosive force. For that 700-year anniversary celebration would be boycotted by the lion’s share of Switzerland’s creative artists—most of Orelli’s writer colleagues, male and female, among them. In November 1989, as the Berlin Wall came down, it had been revealed that the Swiss state security apparatus had spied and opened dossiers on more than 700,000 persons—including almost all of the country’s artists—during the course of the Cold War. For the creative community, the celebration’s boycott was a settling of accounts with the entire Cold War era.
A Critical Panorama of Switzerland
But in Walaschek’s Dream, Orelli settled accounts with Switzerland’s history in an altogether different manner. By beginning with Klee’s Alphabet I—and Walaschek, the footballer who emerges from it—and playfully unfolding a whole web of facts and fictions, Orelli was able to circumvent both boycott and celebration, revealing the contradictions of a Switzerland as cosmopolitan as it was parochial, as magnanimous as it was petty, founded as much on freedom as on constraint. In contrast with Frisch and Dürrenmatt, Orelli was as willing to stress his country’s good points as he was to criticize. Dürrenmatt, in his speech in honor of Václav Havel in November, 1990, likened Switzerland to a prison. In response, Orelli pointed out what Noam Chomsky had said about the USA, the frequent target of the latter’s criticism: That in spite of all, they’d never harmed a single hair on his head.
Like Chomsky, Orelli in Walaschek’s Dream, addressing Switzerland, uses precisely this freedom to mercilessly reveal, for instance, how reluctant his country was to absorb those pursued by the neighboring Nazi regime. He repeatedly cites Marc Vuilleumier’s 1987 study, Immigrants and Refugees in Switzerland, in order to demonstrate how the Swiss authorities, as early as 1933, sought to make Switzerland “a transit country rather than a land of asylum,” striving “to prevent the refugees from remaining by urging them on with strict sanctions, or even physically deporting them. The threats, boycotts, and acts of violence to which Jews as such were exposed weren’t sufficient for them to be considered political refugees.” And in 1938—the year Klee’s Alphabet I was painted—the Swiss implemented new entry requirements for Austrians in the wake of the annexation of that country to the greater German Reich, while at the same time smoothly granting business partners the same visas they denied the refugees. To characterize these policies of the Swiss in dealing with Jewish refugees, Orelli borrows the withering verdict of Sigmund Freud: “Switzerland is not one of the hospitable countries.” Thus, in its apparently playful wealth of associations, Walaschek’s Dream does indeed proffer a highly critical panorama of Switzerland and Europe in the era of Walaschek’s stardom and the creation of Klee’s Alphabet I—a panorama that retained its relevance during the political dust-ups of 1991, and continues to do so today. Yet Walaschek and Klee interest Orelli not merely because the former, a stateless half-Russian, had to be accepted as Swiss by the World Soccer Association before the Swiss authorities would do the same, and because the latter, though born in Switzerland, and granted asylum in 1933, was denied naturalization in 1934 due to a May 1933 treaty with Nazi Germany.
Deliver Me From the Limbo of Oblivion
In both Klee and Walaschek, Orelli demonstrates how leading national figures emerge and endure—or fail to do so. For in 1991, the national heroes of the 700-year-old Switzerland were no longer William Tell and Arnold Winkelried—mythical figures—but rather athletes, artists, writers, and scientists. Yet the athlete Walaschek and the artist Klee were perceived quite differently: in 1938 Walaschek was the man of the hour, but today is in danger of being completely forgotten; in his own time Klee was barely known, but for our own generation, and those to come, his worth is uncontested. As Orelli writes, “The artist is generally a fire that burns slowly and can singe anyone who comes near for centuries. Not so the soccer player—he has to do whatever he can in a hurry, burning with a bright but short-lived flame, like the bonfires on Swiss Nat
ional Day, August 1st, made with tree branches and dry twigs—fleeting.”
Walaschek the footballer would have vanished from our consciousness today if not for Klee’s Alphabet I, in which his name is half-obliterated—and thus emphasized—by the O from Klee’s alphabet, whose letters are scattered wildly across the sheet of newsprint; and if not for Scribe O/17360, “orelligiovanni,” who investigates this O and half-obliterated name, as well as registry number 1736 in the crematorium at Lugano, and the life and work that lie behind it: those of Paul Klee. This is the core of Walaschek’s dream: that his temporary fame as a footballer will be eternalized, that he will persist in the minds of men. “So the dream was: would there be someone for me, will there? Please come! Oh Berkeley of the esse est percipi, deliver me from the limbo of oblivion. From the gray weight that keeps me down in this pit.” Because, “like a trail of snail slime,” sport leaves behind only “a few statistics, trophies, press reports like the one in the April 19th National Zeitung: a trivial heap of petty talk. It’s the herbarium, the museum of the banal, it’s death. Klee wanted to paint death.”
Thus, one of the central themes of Walaschek’s Dream is the fundamental need—not just Walaschek’s, but everyone’s—not to disappear completely after death. According to the empiricist idealism of George Berkeley (1685–1753), however, only what is perceived can be said to exist: esse est percipi. So Walaschek must leave behind permanent traces, not merely the ephemeral trail—the “snail slime”—of statistics, trophies, or press reports. And Klee provided just such permanent traces. By means of the artist’s Alphabet I, and the text founded upon it by Scribe O/17360, Walaschek will be immortalized. Yet Orelli’s text doesn’t follow Berkeley quite so far as to suggest that Walaschek continues to exist only because he remains perceptible through Klee’s painting and the work of Scribe O/17360. To the idealist Berkeley, Orelli opposes the materialist Bertrand Russell, for whom the sensory data available to human perception signals the actual existence of things, even if these things are themselves situated in a space beyond our ken.
The World as Will and Idea
Orelli brings both Berkeley and Russell into play by means of facetious, ironic quotations, which mutually relativize each other. More serious are his references to Arthur Schopenhauer, who is taken up and pursued again and again over the course of the text. In fact, Schopenhauer’s philosophy in The World as Will and Idea allows the book to unite even Berkeley and Russell. Schopenhauer’s concept of the blind Will—continually driving onward toward existence, commanding all and binding all together—resembles Kant’s “thing-in-itself” insofar as it is veiled from direct human sensory perception, yet differs in being tangible as the common mainspring of every action of men and beasts. So that human perceptions of space, time, and causality are available, but not until the individuated appearance of the Will obtains subjective validity. We recognize the world in Schopenhauer as we do in Berkeley—that is, only insofar as we perceive it subjectively; yet, as in Russell, this representation is not exhaustive, but rather implies a force situated beyond space, time, and causality.
Even if these conceptual conjunctions materialize in the text as if through free association, and are always ironically undercut, they are by no means mere intellectual gimmickry. That is to say, the text localizes the Schopenhauerian Will both in Walaschek’s dream—his unconditional drive to secure a continued existence for himself beyond his football career and his lifetime—as well as in the realization of that dream through Klee’s Alphabet I and the text of Scribe O/17360. For how did Walaschek and Klee cross paths with each other in the first place? They knew nothing about one another—were, as the text says, “two ‘constellations’ that hadn’t met.” It’s unlikely that Klee took any notice of the description of the football game, or even the name Walaschek: “he was only aware of having in front of him a page from the newspaper concerning sports.” The momentous branding of Walaschek’s name with Klee’s O occurred purely by chance. That accident, however, leads the text back to Schopenhauer’s blindly surging Will: “there the erasure of half the name is the product of Wille.” And blind Will lies behind the free associations of Scribe O/17360 as well: drawing, as Klee does, on wildly diverse materials, Orelli assembles them into complex collages, astonishing juxtapositions. Here blind Will gives rise—as in Darwin’s account of natural selection—to an abundance of unforeseen meanings, which either flourish in conjunction or founder again, so that what finally emerges is a finely nuanced and supremely organized whole. Orelli treats this seemingly Darwinian collaboration of accident and order with an almost mocking irony, for example, by using an excerpt from Abandonment to Divine Providence, by the French Jesuit Jean-Pierre de Caussade, to describe a successful center-shot in terms of the paradoxes of quietist devotion. But that description, in turn, is perfectly suited to the style of writing employed in Walaschek’s Dream: “Without method, yet most exact; without rule, yet most orderly; without reflection, yet most profound; without skill, yet thoroughly well-constructed, without effort, yet accomplishing everything; and without foresight, yet nothing could be better suited to unexpected events.”
The Greatest Fortune that Can Befall an Author
How readers should approach this unmethodically exact, irregularly ordered, unreflectively profound, and unexpectedly harmonious whole, the text leaves entirely to them. In a fictional dialogue set in an inn (which evokes a learned dispute of the Middle Ages) an innumerable succession of interpretive hypotheses—now contradicting each other, now confirming each other—are tabled in an attempt to get to the bottom of the riddle of the O branding Walaschek’s name. This sprawling allegorization points to the difficulty of any interpretation that attempts to extract a particular message from a single pictorial element, like Klee’s O: “Interpreting an O is like interpreting a note on a trumpet, a solitary note that breaks through a pastoral solitude, in a trumpet concerto or Christmas oratorio, spurted out by a tuba mirum spargens sonum per deserta regionum, by a Stravinsky; and a furious hand turns off the radio, and there it lingers, in the dark, that single note, all night long.”
The interpretation of the O is all the more futile in that Klee applied his alphabet to the sports page “with swift hand, the hand of a divine thief . . . a few hieroglyphics with the appearance of masks: signs of a ‘language no longer known?’ The song of the birds, the flight of the sparrows, the language of the Spanish gypsies?” These signs are—in Schopenhauer’s terms—part of the representation, which remains individual, subjective, and does not allow us to recognize the world itself—the Will—in which it has its source. But as part of a work of art, they do let us understand, as it were, nature’s “half-spoken words,” (Schopenhauer) even if we’re unable to translate this understanding into conceptual knowledge. Hence, with Schopenhauerian sympathy, Klee lays his arm on the shoulder of Scribe O/17360, and consoles him: “My friend, don’t wear yourself out. You don’t have to explain my O. The greatest fortune that can befall an author is not to be read, a painter not to be seen, or to be seen with haste, like on those horrendous group museum tours: as long as the work is talked about, obviously. Or, if they see you, if they read you, you’re fortunate to be misunderstood. If they understand you, no one will think you’re right; if they don’t understand you, everyone will project onto you their inchoate desires, their secret dreams. And your success is assured. You have to be mysterious, like a witch or an astrologist, people have always had a need for magicians and sorcerers.” The plethora of interpretations of the O presented in Walaschek’s Dream is, above all, an invitation to the readers of this book to give their “inchoate desires” and “secret dreams” free rein, to let themselves free-associate, to form their own images of Switzerland, Walaschek, and Klee.
Classical Poetry and Modern Sport
And in those images, as in Orelli’s text, the most heterogeneous elements will come together: the pyramidal structure of the Swiss Cup and the conceptual pyramids of
Aristotle; the Greater German team in the 1938 match against Switzerland and Wagner’s Lohengrin; the 4-2 victory of the Swiss team in that match and the great nineteenth-century writer Gottfried Keller; Walaschek’s disappearance into the archives of FC Servette and the eighteenth-century empiricist idealist George Berkeley. The text pushes its game of combining tremendously disparate fields especially far in the series of team lineups that appear to Walaschek in his dream, lineups that set sundry historical figures cheek-by-jowl with the greats of football:
Pulver
Alcibiades Hannibal
Lempen Socrates Aristotle
Plotinus Walaschek Plato Vonlanthen Sulla
When somebody in the text asks why the Roman dictator Sulla deserves to be included, the reason given is the mellifluousness of his name: “It’s a nice name, fast, for a winger.” These lineups are based on the laws of poetry, like the catalog of ships in Homer’s Iliad: the names of the Portuguese team facing off against the Swiss on May 1, 1938, roar from “a loudspeaker made of fascist alloy” in Milan like the prelude to a madrigal, in decasyllabic and enneasyllabic lines:
Azevédo Simóes Gustávo
Amáro Albíno Pereíra
Likewise, the names of Italy’s three fullbacks yield—according to Italian metrics—eleven syllables, with accents on the fourth, eighth, and tenth:
Bacigalúpo
Ballarín Maróso
binding them smoothly to verses by Dante, Ariosto, and Saba:
mi ritrovaí per una sélva oscúra
e per la sélva a tutta bríglia il cáccia
mi stringerá per un pensiéro il cuóre
Bacigalúpo Ballarín Maróso
This blending of classical poetry and modern sport has more than merely the comic appeal of burlesque, which transforms the sublime into the banal, the banal into the sublime. It is the manifestation of an artistic and literary vision with the power to effect the playful levitation of the extremes of dualistic thought—not merely the sublime and banal, but big and little, true and false, intention and accident. So that the joking can suddenly turn bitterly earnest, as for instance at Klee’s death, when the following lineup is given:
B007HXL46C EBOK Page 1
