4 posts tagged “bernhard”
At the end of a philosophical discussion that had tormented two professors from the University of Graz for decades and had brought not only them but also their families to total ruin and which, as they are reported to have perceptively told a third colleague one day, like all philosophical discussions led to nothing and which, finally, in the nature of things, ruined and actually drove this colleague, who had also become embroiled in their discussion, insane, the two professors from Graz, after inviting their third colleague and adversary, out of habit, so to speak, into the house they had rented jointly for the sole purpose of their philosophical discussion, had blown the house up.
They had spent all the money they had left on the dynamite necessary for the purpose. Since the families of all three professors were present in the house at the time of the explosion, they had also blown up their families. The surviving relatives of one of the professors and adversaries, for whom the decades-long philosophical discussion -- as they themselves had clearly demonstrated -- had proved fatal, considered suing the state because they were of the opinion that the state's moral and intellectual bankruptcy had driven all three to their deaths, but they did not bring such an action after all, because they realized the futility of such action. -- "Consistency," Thomas Bernhard, The Voice Imitator
The most intelligent and famous female poet that our country has produced in the present century died in a hospital in Rome from the effects of scalds and burns that she must have sustained in her bathtub, according to the authorities. I used to go on trips with her, and on these trips I shared many of her philosophical views, as well as her views on the course of the world and the course of history, which had frightened her all her life. Many attempts on her part to return her native Austria, however, came to grief because of the shamelessness of her female rivals and the stupidity of the Viennese authorities. The news of her death reminded me that she was the first guest in my then still completely empty house. She was always on the run and had always seen people for what they really were, as a slow-witted, stupid, thoughtless mass that one simply has to break with. Like me, she had early in life discovered the entrance to hell, and entered this hell even though there was a danger of perishing in this hell at a very early age. People are trying to decide whether her death was an accident or whether it was suicide. Those who believe in the poet's suicide keep saying that she was broken by herself, whereas in reality and in the nature of things she was broken by her environment and, at bottom, by the meanness of her homeland, which persecuted her at every turn even when she was abroad, just as it does so many others. -- "Rome," Thomas Bernhard, in The Voice Imitator
Even though I have always hated zoological gardens and actually find that my suspicions are aroused by people who visit zoological gardens, I still could not avoid going out to Schönbrunn on one occasion and, at the request of my companion, a professor of theology, standing in front of the monkeys' cage to look at the monkeys, which my companion fed with some food he had brought with him for the purpose. The professor of theology, an old friend of mine from the university, who had asked me to go to Schönbrunn with him had, as time went on, fed all the food he had brought with him to the monkeys, when suddenly the monkeys, for their part, scratched together all the food that had fallen to the ground and offered it to us through the bars. The professor of theology and I were so startled by the monkeys' sudden behavior that in a flash we turned on our heels and left Schönbrunn through the nearest exit.
— "The Tables Turned," Thomas Bernhard, The Voice Imitator
La Luna, densa e gra[ve], densa e grave, come sta, la luna?
The Moon, dense and profound, dense and profound, how does
it stay [aloft], the moon?
—Leonardo Da Vinci, Philosophical Diaries
I no longer know of a street that leads out
I no longer know of a street
come help
I don’t know anymore
what will happen to me
during this night
I don’t know what morning is anymore
or evening
I am so alone
o Lord
and no one partakes of my suffering
no one stands at my bed
and takes away my torment
and sends me into the clouds
and off to green rivers
that curl into the sea
Lord
my God
I am exposed to the birds
to the exploding stroke of the hour
that wounds my soul
and burns my flesh
o Lord in my word is darkness
the night that beats my fish
under the wind
and mountains of black pain
o Lord hear me
o listen to me I don’t want to be nauseated alone
and endure this world
help me
I am dead
and like an apple I roll
into the valley
and must be choked
under the log of winter
o my God
I don’t know anymore
where my path leads
I don’t know what is good and bad
in the fields in limbs
Lord my God I am tired and poor
my word burns in grief
for You.
A few nights ago, I locked myself out of my apartment for the third time this year. While I sat trying to decide what to do, I was overwhelmed with the thought that my life seems composed of one mistake after another; that I am living through a seemingly endless series of disappointments. No matter how hard I try, I can’t seem to get it right.
Whether it is an awkward public interaction, unreal crisis, or moment of social disconnection, ordinary life is full of abrupt occurrences that create discomfort and isolation. It is often shocking and painful to discover how unsympathetic and harsh the world can be when we fail. The consequences of our transgressions, however small, leave us feeling inept and alone.
The photographs I create are all constructed scenes inspired by my own encounters with this fear and failure. My interest is focused on these breakdowns of everyday life and the subsequent relationship with defeat. The sad humor and vulnerability in the situations I stage allow viewers to identify with the character I portray. In exposing my own shame and seclusion, I am giving name to the anxiety that plagues us all. The images then serve not simply as an illumination of the feeling of embarrassment, but as representations of undisguised human nature.
