by Unknown
A streak of melancholy and depression bordering on madness unquestionably runs through the authors and tales in this book. Hoffmann’s hero Nathaniel toys with and ultimately succumbs to it, leaping to his death. Tieck’s protagonist, the young hunter, likewise loses his mind. Von Eichendorff’s young nobleman battles it out with his demiurges that almost get the better of him. Painstakingly depicting the contours and constraints of a hopeless world, a world from which he feels excluded, Kleist’s last period on the long sentence of his short life is a bullet through the head. The great Austrian modernist master Robert Musil’s tale ‘The Blackbird’ is a vivid account either of the inexplicable, the precise charting of an alternate universe, a parallel irreality, or of a descent into madness, which may very well be one and the same. Fellow flâneurs-raconteurs, the Austrian Peter Altenberg and Swiss Robert Walser, spent spells of time in insane asylums, Walser ultimately withdrawing to one, where he wiled away the last twenty years of his life. Georg Heym dramatized schizophrenia, a condition with which fellow Berliner Unica Zürn battled for much of her life, and to which she ultimately succumbed with a fateful leap. Kurt Tucholsky and Paul Celan were suicides, Ingeborg Bachmann a casualty of depression, alcohol and pills. And yet it would be ill advised to label their work the literature of lunatics.
Tucholsky and Celan surely had extenuating historical circumstances for their depression and their decision to end their lives. Society itself had gone mad. The collapse of social democracy and the seemingly unstoppable rise of Adolf Hitler drove Tucholsky first into exile and finally to his wits’ end. Born in the Bukovina, at the time the easternmost German-speaking outpost of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, today in the Ukraine, poet Paul Celan saw his world collapse and lost his family and almost everything dear to him in the Holocaust – everything, that is, except for the German language. Though his was a death by drowning – he leapt into the Seine – one might well take the metaphoric liberty of suggesting that he strangled on the same syllables he had braided into verse.
It is precisely the uncanny ability of the authors in this book to hold on to lucidity, sometimes at considerable cost, often with an unsettling humour, and to share their flashes of insight into the dark recesses of the human condition, that makes their work worth reading.
Peter Wortsman
Berlin, January 2010–New York, June 2011
NOTES
1. ‘Franz Kafka, the Vulture’, in Selected Non-Fictions: Jorge Luis Borges, edited by Elliot Weinberger (New York: Viking Penguin, 1999).
2. The German term Dichter applies, strictly speaking, not only to poets but also encompasses authors of prose of acknowledged literary merit.
3. Café Klößchen, 38 Grotesken, edited and with an afterword by Joachim Schreck (Berlin, DDR: Eulenspiegel Verlag, 1980).
4. ‘Flutes Offer Clues to Stone-Age Music’, Science Section, The New York Times, 24 June 2009.
5. ‘Heine und die Folgen’ (Heine and the Consequences), Karl Kraus, in Untergang der Welt durch schwarze Magie (Vienna and Leipzig: Verlag Die Fackel, 1922).
6. ‘In der Strafkolonie’, a review by Peter Panter (aka Kurt Tucholsky), Die Weldbühne, 3 June 1920.
7. In a letter from Franz Kafka to Felice Bauer, Kafka designated Grillparzer, Dostoyevsky, Kleist and Flaubert as ‘my true blood-relations’. Franz Kafka, Letters to Felice (New York: Schocken Books, 1967).
PART ONE
The Singing Bone
1812
The Brothers Grimm
Once upon a time a great lamentation arose in a certain land because of a wild boar that tore up the fields of the farmers, killed their livestock and ripped open people’s bodies with its tusks. The king offered a rich reward to anyone who could rid the land of this calamity, but the beast was so big and strong that nobody dared to approach the forest in which it dwelt. Finally the king let it be known that whosoever captured or killed the wild boar would have the hand of his only daughter in marriage.
Now in this land there lived two brothers, sons of a poor man, who came to the king and were willing to take on this hazardous undertaking. The older brother, who was crafty and shrewd, offered his help out of pride; the younger brother, who was innocent and simple, did so out of the goodness of his heart.
The king said: ‘So that you are all the more certain to find the beast, you will enter the forest from opposite sides.’ The older one entered from where the sun sets and the younger one from where it rises.
And after the younger brother had been walking a short while, a little man came up to him, holding a black spear in his hand, and said: ‘This spear I give you because your heart is pure and good; with it you may confidently set upon the wild boar, it will do you no harm.’ He thanked the little man, hoisted the spear onto his shoulder and continued fearlessly on his way. It wasn’t long before he spotted the beast, which came charging at him. He held out the spear, and in the creature’s rage it clove its heart in two. Then he lifted the monster onto his shoulder and carried it homewards, wanting to bring it to the king.
When he emerged at the forest’s far side, he came upon an inn where people went to make merry with dance and wine. His older brother had gone in, having thought to himself that the boar could wait, and that before setting out he would first fortify himself with a glass or two. When he spotted his younger brother emerging from the forest with the prized carcass on his back, his envious and vindictive heart would not let him be. He called to him: ‘Do come in, dear brother, rest your weary bones and have a glass to refresh yourself.’ The younger brother, who suspected no evil intent, went in and told his brother of the kind little man who gave him the spear with which he killed the boar. The older brother held him up till evening, then the two set out together. But when in the dark of night they came to a bridge over a brook, the older brother let the younger one go ahead, and halfway across the water struck him from behind so that he tumbled down dead. He buried him beneath the bridge, then took the boar and brought it to the king, pretending that it was he who killed it, whereupon, as promised, he received the king’s daughter’s hand in marriage. And when the younger brother failed to return, he said: ‘The boar must have mauled him,’ and everyone believed him.
But since nothing can be hidden from the eyes of God, so too had this dark deed to be revealed. Many years later a shepherd drove his herd across the bridge and spotted a snow-white bone lying down below in the sand. He thought to himself: that would make a good mouthpiece. So he climbed down, picked it up and carved himself a mouthpiece for his horn. But when he blew on it for the first time, to the shepherd’s great surprise the little bone started singing on its own:
Oh, dear little shepherd boy,
The bone you blow on knows no joy,
My brother slay me.
Beneath the bridge he laid me
All for the wild boar’s hide
To make the king’s daughter his bride.
‘What a wondrous little horn is this,’ said the shepherd, ‘an instrument that sings by itself, I must bring it to the king.’ And when he brought it before the king, the little horn started singing its song again. The king immediately understood its meaning, had the ground dug up under the bridge and all the slaughtered brother’s bones were unearthed. The evil brother could not deny the deed, was sewn up in a bag and drowned, but the bones of the murdered one were laid to rest in the churchyard in a lovely grave.
Hansel and Gretel
1812
The Brothers Grimm
On the edge of a deep, dark wood there lived a poor woodcutter with his wife and his two children; the boy’s name was Hansel and the girl was called Gretel. He had little to nibble or gnaw on, and once, when there was great famine in the land, he could no longer even bring home his daily crust of bread. As he kept ruminating and tossing and turning that evening in bed, he let out a sigh and said to his wife: ‘What will become of us? How can we feed our poor children, as we ourselves have nothing to eat?’
‘You know what, husband,
’ replied his wife, ‘tomorrow bright and early we’ll take the children into the woods to where it’s darkest and deepest. There we’ll light them a fire and leave them a last few crumbs of bread, then we’ll go about our business and abandon them there. They’ll never find their way home again and we’ll be rid of them.’
‘No, woman,’ said the man, ‘I will not do that; how can I ever find it in my heart to leave my children in the woods alone; the wild animals would soon come and tear them to pieces.’
‘Oh, you fool,’ she said, ‘then all four of us will starve to death, all you’ll have left to do is plane the planks for our coffins,’ and she would not let up until he agreed.
‘Still I feel sorry for my poor children all the same,’ said the man.
But hunger kept the two children awake and they overheard what their stepmother said to their father. Gretel cried bitter tears and said to Hansel: ‘Now we’re done for.’
‘Quiet, Gretel,’ said Hansel, ‘don’t worry, I’ll find a way out.’ And once the grown-ups had fallen asleep, he got up, put on his little coat, opened the back door and slipped out. The moon shone very brightly, and the white pebbles scattered in front of the house glistened like silver. Hansel bent down and stuffed his coat pockets to bursting. Then he went back in and said to Gretel: ‘Calm yourself, my dear little sister, and sleep tight, God will not forsake us,’ and he lay back down in his bed.
At the break of day, even before sunrise, the woman came and woke the two children: ‘Get up, you lazybones, we’re going to the forest to fetch wood.’ Then she gave each of them a crust of bread and said: ‘Here’s something for the midday meal, but don’t eat it before then, for you’ll get nothing else.’
Gretel took the bread into her apron pocket, because Hansel already had his pockets full of pebbles. Then they all set off for the forest.
After they had walked a while, Hansel stopped and peered back at the house, and did it again and again. The father said: ‘Hansel, why do you keep looking back and lagging behind, watch where you’re going and shake a leg.’
‘Oh, Father,’ said Hansel, ‘I’m looking back at my little white cat that’s seated on the rooftop and wants to say goodbye.’
The woman said: ‘Fool, that’s no cat, that’s the rising sun shining on the chimney.’ But Hansel hadn’t been looking at his cat; each time he turned he dropped a white pebble from his pocket on the path.
Once they’d reached the heart of the forest, the father said: ‘Go fetch wood, children, I’ll build you a fire so that you don’t freeze.’ Hansel and Gretel gathered brushwood, a whole heap of it.
The brushwood was lit, and when the flames burned high the woman said: ‘Now lay yourselves down beside the fire, children, and rest, we’re going into the forest to cut wood. When we’re done we’ll come back and get you.’
Hansel and Gretel sat by the fire, and when midday came, each ate their little crust of bread. And because they heard the sound of the wood axe chopping, they thought their father was near. But it was not the axe, it was a branch he’d tied to a withered tree that the wind rattled back and forth. And as they’d sat there waiting a long while, their eyes grew heavy with fatigue and they fell fast asleep.
When at last they woke up it was already the dead of night. Gretel started crying: ‘How will we ever find our way out of the woods!’
But Hansel comforted her: ‘Just wait a while until the moon rises, we’ll find our way all right.’
And when the full moon had risen, Hansel took his little sister by the hand and followed the white pebbles; they shimmered like newly minted coins and showed him the way. They walked the whole night and at daybreak got back to their father’s house.
They knocked at the door. The woman opened it, saw that it was Hansel and Gretel and said: ‘You naughty children, why did you sleep so long in the woods; we thought you’d never come home.’ But the father, whose heart was heavy at having left them behind, was overjoyed to see his children again.
Not long thereafter, things got bad again all over the land, and the children overheard their stepmother say to their father in bed at night: ‘We’re scraping the barrel again, all we have left is a half-loaf of bread, and then we’re done for. The children have to go. We’ll take them deeper into the forest this time so that they don’t find their way back; or else we’re doomed.’ The man felt bad, and thought: better I should share my last bite with my children. But the woman wouldn’t listen to anything he said, and kept on complaining and badgering him. One mistake leads to another, and because he had given in the first time he had to give in again.
But the children were still awake and had overheard the conversation. As soon as the grown-ups were asleep, Hansel got up again and wanted to go out to gather pebbles as he had the last time, but the woman had locked the door and Hansel could not get out. Still he comforted his little sister and said: ‘Don’t cry, Gretel, and sleep tight, God will help us, you’ll see.’
Early the next morning the woman came to drag the children out of bed. They each received a crust of bread that was even smaller than the last time. On the way into the woods, Hansel crumbled it in his pocket, often stopping to toss a crumb on the ground. ‘Hansel, why are standing there and looking around,’ said the father, ‘shake a leg.’
‘I’m looking after my little pigeon that’s perched on the rooftop and wants to wave goodbye,’ replied Hansel.
‘Fool,’ said the woman, ‘that’s no pigeon, that’s the morning sun shining on the chimney.’ But Hansel kept on dropping breadcrumbs along the way.
The woman led the children deeper and deeper into the woods, where they’d never been before. Another big fire was lit, and the stepmother said: ‘Just sit here, children, and when you get tired you can take a little nap – we’re going into the forest to cut wood, and in the evening when we’re done we’ll come and get you.’
At midday, Gretel shared her bread with Hansel, who had crumbled and scattered his share along the way. Then they fell asleep and darkness fell, but nobody came to pick up the poor children.
They awakened in the dead of night and Hansel comforted his little sister and said: ‘Just wait, Gretel, till the moon rises, then we’ll see the breadcrumbs I scattered and they’ll show us the way home.’
When the moon rose they set out, but they could not find any breadcrumbs, for the flocks of birds that circle woods and fields had eaten them up. They walked all night and another day from morning till evening, but they never made it out of the woods and were very hungry, as they’d eaten nothing but a few berries they found on the ground. And because they were so tired, their little legs couldn’t carry them any further, so they laid themselves down under a tree and fell asleep.
It was already the third morning since they’d left their father’s house. They began walking again, but they went ever deeper into the woods, and if help did not reach them soon they were done for.
At noon they spotted a lovely little snow-white bird perched on a branch that sang so sweetly they stopped and listened. And when it had finished singing, it flapped its wings and fluttered before them, and they followed it until they came to a little cottage on the roof of which it landed. When the children approached they saw that the cottage was built out of bread and covered with cake; but the windows were made of clear sugar crystal.
‘Let’s dig in,’ said Hansel, ‘and make a blessed meal of it. I’ll eat a piece of the roof, and you, Gretel, can sup on the window, which ought to taste sweet.’ Hansel reached out and broke a little bit of the roof off to see how it tasted, and Gretel walked up to the window pane and nibbled at it.
Whereupon a soft voice called out from within:
Nibble, nibble, like a mouse,
Who is nibbling at my house?
To which the children replied:
The wind blows wild,
The heavenly child,
and kept right on eating, without batting an eyelid.
Hansel, to whom the roof tasted delicious, tore off a g
reat big hunk of it, and Gretel prised off a whole round window pane, sat herself down and promptly ate it up.
Then all of a sudden the door flew open and an old crone came hobbling out on a crutch. Hansel and Gretel were so petrified they dropped what they had in their hands. But the old woman just shook her head and said: ‘Oh my dear little children, who brought you here? Come in, come in, and make yourselves at home, no harm will come to you here.’ Then she took both of them by the hand and led them into her little house. She fetched out all kinds of good things to eat, milk and pancakes with sugar, apples and nuts. And afterwards, she made up two little beds with fresh white linen, and Hansel and Gretel laid themselves down and thought they were in heaven.
But the old woman only pretended to be nice; she was an evil witch who lay in wait for children, and had only built the house of bread to lure them into a trap. Whenever she laid her hands on a fresh young thing, she cooked it up and made a feast of it. Witches have red eyes and can’t see very far, but they have a keen sense of smell, like animals, and know when people are approaching. When Hansel and Gretel came up close to her house, she sniggered and sneered to herself: ‘I’ve got them in the bag, they won’t get away.’
