Hello
Gentle Reader
There
comes a point as a reader, where one understands the less then subtle signs
where the relationship between reader, author, and the written content itself
is non-existent. Persistent readers, who are devoted to completing a book,
always push forward head on. To them finishing a book is as much a conquest as
it is goal. This is only accomplished after reading the final sentence; turning
the final page; slamming the book shut; and placing the book on its resting
place, be it shelf or pile. Other readers—such as I—no longer have either the
obligation or the commitment to finish a book, just for the sake of finishing
it. A fair trial is commenced, but if there is a failure of interest; a lack of
meaning; no attempts at engagement, the book must be tossed aside, and time
well spent elsewhere. Such is the case of Peter Handke’s novel “On A Dark Night
I Left My Silent House.” A surreal road trip, head injury, and continual
sojourns into mushrooms gets old quickly. At the halfway point, it became clear
there was no redemption, with this novel.
When
Peter Handke was announced as the Nobel Laureate in Literature for two-thousand
and nineteen I was immediately surprised and did not greet the news with either
cheer or jeer; but rather looked at it with forewarning lukewarm contemplation.
Before the announcement date of the Nobel Prize for Literature for both
two-thousand and eighteen and two-thousand and nineteen; the Swedish academy
had just barely pulled itself out of a scandal. One that saw the Nobel Prize
for Literature postponed for a year; royal intervention; numerous resignations;
a public dispute between oppositional members; and an unprecedented strong
stance taken by the Nobel Foundation, in releasing firm statements, and
warnings to the waring Swedish Academy. Eventually and finally, reasonable
rationale overtook the rhetoric issued by the Swedish Academy, and its
otherwise public dispute. Though not without adjustments being made to the
Swedish Academy. Some of these changes were long overdue and should have been
dealt with first and foremost when the initial shadow of the scandal began to
form. Others carried the weight of compromise and caveat. For some, and mainly
the Swedish Academy, these compromises, caveats, were the beginnings of a
conclusion, and the start of a solution.
The
Swedish Academy, however, is not one to read a room properly, and the
announcement of Peter Handke as the Nobel Laureate in Literature for the year
two-thousand and nineteen, was met with immediate praise, and calls for concern
by some; followed by delayed outrage—but outrage nonetheless. Throughout his
writing career, Peter Handke has been known as a provocateur. Handke’s early
work were experimental in their shift in language and perspective, one that
moved away from the historical apologist perspective taken by Henrich Boll and
Gunter Grass. Handke viewed these immediate postwar German language writers as
morally inept and bankrupt, and in their bankruptcy, they were no longer able
to move either the German language or literature forward away from holocaust
apologist predilections. Handke alongside his contemporaries, sought to move
German language literature into newer realms, which no longer worked its way
through the guilt of Second World War actions. Handke was successful early on
his career. His dramatic works brought his name to the forefront of German
literature. Handke continued throughout his career to write works for the
theatre, as well as filmscripts, while also writing acclaimed novels, along
with essays and non-fiction (which have also caused significant controversy).
Despite
being hailed as one of the greatest post-war German language writers of the
Twentieth Century and maintaining that same reputation with minor tarnishes
into the Twenty-First Century; I’ve failed to enjoy Peter Handke as a reader.
His novels have not been thrilling, or imaginative; or curating any linguistic
experimentation. They’ve failed to provide any real meaningful observations on
socio-economic, political, cultural issues. This is not saying that Peter
Handke is lacking in these feats, traits, or qualities; rather it merely states
they have not become apparent to me. Others have read his work and make
proclamations of his literary prowess. Despite these declarations of praise,
Peter Handke has always fallen flat. His prose always appearing tone deaf. His
characters indifferent; their fates incurious. His language plain, without
remarkable poeticism or lyricism. His themes postmodern and somehow come across
as dated, and out of fashion. Of course, the only other book I read by Handke
was: “Across.” Again, the underwhelming feature of his work came as
disappointment. “Across,” detailed the account of Andreas Loser, a meticulous
classics professor with an obsessive interest with thresholds. Much like the
pharmacist from Taxham in “On a Dark Night I Left My Silent House,”—Andreas
Loser is an emotionally distant, reserved, and reclusive individual. He’s one
with little care or interest in external individuals, and who via happenstance
finds himself stumbling into surreal situations, and through a subconscious
dream logic, maneuvers and navigates himself through it. Even when, Andreas
Loser commits a violent and righteous criminal act, it is met a tepid response.
No jolt of concern; no schadenfreude of praise. All that is left is just a cool
indifferent gaze. The pharmacist is no different, a man of few curiosities and
traits. He is by far more clinical then healer; more detached then he is
connected; and much like Andreas Loser has his own eccentric interest in
mushrooms rather than mushrooms. It’s no wonder, Andreas Loser makes routine
commentary and appearances throughout the novel, as an implied friend or
acquaintance of the pharmacist. The two if not literary intertextual siblings;
are at least characteristically spiritually related.
After
reaching the halfway point of the novel, my tolerance came to its conclusion.
Annoyed, frustrated, and irritated, I no longer was able to persevere reading
my way through the thorn ridden thicket of the novel. The pharmacist and I were
not meant to engage or become interested in each other. His fascination with
mushrooms though a unique quality, failed to provide itself a redeeming
quality. His complete apathy towards his situation, his passivity became
asphyxiating and insufferable. A reaction; a response; anything would have been
appreciated. Yet all the pharmacist was compelled to do was simply observe and
contemplate the situations as they unfolded around him. At no point in time is
he a participant. These are perhaps the qualities that readers love of Peter
Handke. His acute demanding attention to otherwise uninteresting details, so
tedious and monotonous in their revered annotations and remarks. They are
expressed with cold clinical approach, matter-of-factly; with no adoration or
adulteration. I found it became increasingly relentlessly solipsistic;
repetitive and dull. Once again completely lack of interest or engagement in
something else. Though Handke is noted for his detailed saturated narratives,
which become increasingly noted for their symbolic narratives, failed to become
interesting and engaging.
Often
called one of the last great modernists (such as Samuel Beckett); Peter Handke
fails to live up to the standard produced by his modernist forebearers, who
viewed literature as a more idealistic force, which could influence and change
social perspective, provide life to historical narratives, and be a otherwise
influencing change towards society, through its formal experimentation to give
expression to the human experience and psychological perspective. Peter Handke
in comparison is at best a early postmodernist, one who rejects any universal
concept or idea of purpose. Handke’s literary view is more fragmented and
lacking in any universal notion of greater meaning or importance. The human
experience is to individualistic, atomized, insolent in Handke’s view to
provide a complete universal understanding of it operates or functions. How
each individual experience, observes and interacts with the landscape is
completely. Handke’s characters appear less and less interested in engaging
externally with their surroundings, their landscapes, or their co-inhabitants.
Rather they become obsessive only with their own niche eccentric curiosities—be
it mushrooms or thresholds. Despite being a writer who I cannot seem to come to
appreciate to the same style as others, I can concede that Peter Handke is an
important German language writer. Handke’s contribution to German Language
Literature cannot be overlooked. Handke sought to be a changing voice in German
Language literary perspective, moving it away from the apologist attitudes of
previous postwar German language writers. Though I do not personally as a
reader appreciate Peter Handke’s work; it cannot be denied as revolutionary or
groundbreaking in seeking to move the perspective to elevated heights.
Thank-you
For Reading Gentle Reader
Take
Care
And
As Always
Stay
Well Read
M.
Mary
