PSYCHOANALYTIC COMMENTS

A READING OF HANDKE'S "Singular & Plural"

2011-11-07T08:54:00.000-08:00

The reading of one poem from THEINNERWORLD OF THE OUTWORLD OF THE INNERWORLD:Singular and Plural [a.k.a. "The Turk"] then, later this week, my take on Ms.Weller and the discipline's dealings with Handke's poetic texts.

On a bench in the park sits a Turkwith a thickly bandaged finger: I am sitting on a bench in the park next to aTurk with a thickly bandaged finger: We are sitting on a bench in the park, Iand a Turk with a thickly bandaged finger: A Turk with a thickly bandagedfinger is sitting with me on a bench in a park.

We are sitting on a bench in the park gazing out on the pond, and I seesomething swimming in the pond, and the Turk is gazing out on the pond.

We are gazing at the pond, and I see an object swimming in the pond, and theTurk is gazing at the pond.

We are gazing at the pond, and I see a tuft of grass, propelled by swimmingducks, making its way to the shore, and the Turk is gazing at the pond.

We are gazing at the pond, and I see a tuft of grass swimming shoreward,propelled by swimming ducks, and then I see the tuft of grass floating awayfrom the shore, propelled by ducks swimming in the opposite direction, and theTurk is gazing at the pond.

We are gazing at the pond, and I see a tuft of grass that, propelled byswimming ducks, was about to be washed ashore and then, propelled by ducksswimming in the opposite direction, was about to be washed back into the middleof the pond and now, propelled by ducks intersecting the two groups of ducksthat are swimming in the opposite direction, float suspended in place, and theTurk is gazing at the pond.

We are gazing at the pond, and I see an object I took to be a tuft of grass orsomething I took to be an object that I believed was a tuft of grass suddenlydisappear after it had moved in place, and I stop moving my head in time withthe object on one and the same spot: that is to say, I am startled or, I amstartled, that is to say, I stop moving my head in time with the object on oneand the same spot, and no longer move at all, and the Turk is gazing at thepond.

We are gazing at the pond, and I see a duck surfacing with a tuft of grass inits bill, and I am tired of gazing and am satisfied, and the Turk is gazing atthe pond.

We are gazing at the pond and, without seeing anything, I remember the sportswriter who talked about death, and the Turk is gazing at the pond.

A Turk and I, we are sitting in the park on a bench and are gazing at the pond:I am sitting in the park on a bench next to a Turk with a thickly bandagedfinger: I am sitting on a bench in the park next to a Turk with a thicklybandaged finger: next to me on the bench in the park there suddenly sits a Turkwith a thickly bandaged finger which he is extending away from his other fingers:in the park on a bench sits a Turk with nine unimpaired fingers which hepresses to the palpeter-hhandke-wounded-love-childms of his hands: on a bench in the park sits a Turk with athickly bandaged finger and gazes out at the pond.

This is what ought to be called a"self-state" text. The title of the collection THE INNERWORLD OF THEOUTERWORLD points in that direction. Elliot famously termed the phrase"objective correlative," correlative will do, objective? who is tojudge? Seeming adequate, "good enough," getting close to, approximateto what?

The self and its many elves. Whichand to what degree might have possessed the 26 year old PiotrSivec-Schoenherr-Handke to put him in the state of mind to find and judge theseseveral superficially same-seeming stanzas an adequate expression of his ownself-state and sufficiently emblematic to serve as a projection screen for apotential reader? With a variety of dramas going on barely beneath,occasionally breaking through the attempt to maintain as near perfect virtuosogrammatical surface as that of the nearly unbroken surface of a pond... a stateof revery.

To becalm himself in gazing, inreverying? To encorcel himself with grammatical variations. Language and bodyand eyes and what is beheld rocking moving in synchronicity, which breaks downon a few times...

This is a communicable state.

Self-states are grasped,conceptually, there are other graspings, most successfully by the rubric ofpsychoanalsis called "self-psychology."

What are the most noticeableimmediate features of this text?

Well, let's start with this"Turk". He is clearly identified, the author tells us not whether heis wearing a turban as which a European or American reading this text 100 yearsago might have outfitted him in their then cliche imaginations, his only realidentifying feature is that he has a thickly bandaged finger [why not just abandaged finger?], and that, as is often the case under such woundedcircumstances, he is holding it away from the other fingers on that hand. Hehas nine unwounded fingers, two hands, at one point he is however holding hisfingers away from both hands, either the pain is very great or he is as naiveas a child, he might be of rural origin. Is he over-compensating? Can he nottell one hand from the other? Is this a species of imaginatively doubled pain?

We are not told which finger it isthat is impaired.

Do I have a particular contemporaryimage of "a Turk" in my mind? Not really, but I do have a now nodoubt dated one of Turkish guest workers in German railway stations.

But why not "a man", or"someone"?

Well that's not the drama of it isit? The drama would seem to entail a split, the "I" and "theTurk" who however are doing the same damned gazing, but sat down as wefind out in the course of the text after the narrator was seated on the bench,next to him. Do we even need the Turk? Couldn't it just be I and my woundedfinger sitting on the bench? Maybe the Turk is like the unwounded fingers thatare being held at the greatest possible distance from the source of pain?Something seen, the seeing of a split. But "a Turk" might really havesat down next to Handke and then become a projection screen for his alter ego.However, the narrator is not engaged with him in the endless dialogue going onin fantasy, with one's alter ego [s].

Perhaps there really was a Turk by apond [the poem was written in 1968 in Berlin, with a quickly increasing butthen entirely un-assimilated Turkish guest worker population] whom Handkenoticed and identified and empathized with [?]. It makes no difference, thevery name, the pointedness of it makes him [Handke's Turk] an outsider, he isidentified and identification differentiates him, he feels outside no matter what, he isdifferent. What if instead of "the Turk" we had "A LefthandedWoman" sitting next to the narrator, to the grammatical I? After all,linguistically, the poetic text points to the mind's involvement in grammaticalformulations, their correctness adequateness, the world is being turned intolanguage, we notice the very activity of this happening,

it fusses to try to get it right, forlanguage not just to mimic what is going on but to be linguistically at one andthe same place, language as a kind of snake skin:

and I see an object I took to be a tuft of grass orsomething I took to be an object that I believed was a tuft of grass suddenlydisappear after it had moved in place, and I stop moving my head in time withthe object on one and the same spot: that is to say, I am startled or, I amstartled, that is to say, I stop moving my head in time with the object on oneand the same spot, and no longer move at all,

As a matter of fact, the narrator isstaring so fixedly at the tuft of grass being propelled this and that way byour delightful and delightfully distracting feathered friends that he becomesdisturbed by disappearance of the tuft of grass that is being shoved around.Absence causes a disturbance. In him and in the grammaticality of the text. Itis no longer declarative. Doubt, uncertainty disturb the perfect surfaceparallel to the disturbance that occurs in the pond with ducks diving andresurfacing. The idyll in the park is marred a little.

The reappearance of the tuft of grass resolvesthe disturbance; is followed by relief, the status quo ante has been achieved...A surface drama hinting at what larger dramas underwater?

Handke has said, and I believe him,that he does not revise. He does change the occasional last sentence in histexts, and as he has matured, makes alterations in galleys particularly now thathe has written monstrums of the kind that he once said he never would. Whetherhe wrote pieces like Kaspar and RideAcross Lake Constance in full swoop? For a long time he never spent more than three months ona text, including, it appears, Die Hornissen, Der Hausierer,Goalie's Anxiety at the Penalty Kick, Short Letter Long Farewell, Sorrow BeyondDreams. A Moment of True Feeling, The Lefthanded Woman... The fairly complex six-stranded[1994] 250,000 word novel "Nomansbay" was proudly woven together inone year, the sort of book that no end of U.S. authors are proud to complete byhook and by crook in 10 to 20 years, to hosannas, especially that of spouses ifthey have cheering spouses left, and Handke made some cuts in galleys, he couldhave made just a few more.

So one could fairly safely assumethat "Singular and Plural" was written right there on the spot, itsgrammaticality points to its incidental nature, since Handke always carried anote book and pencil with him which he would produce from one second to thenext. From writing so-called truly incidental poems to writing down involuntaryassociations in Weight of the World takes barely a half step.Incidental, occasional texts, even then tied to a place, an event.

What would you do if you sat next tosomeone with an injured finger? I myself, under similar circumstances, wouldhave pointed to the finger and said: "Ola, Compadre [or"Amigo"], que pasa?" since it is far more likely for me to findmyself sitting next to a homesick Central American, while I however, havelittle of Handke's then, homesickness left in me.

For I connect this, as per Handke,with the homesickness he felt when he went to his first boarding school, theGriffen Seminary, at age 12 I believe. Homesick for a gruesome home!? [well,not the mother wasn't, but the situation as a whole? for sure, yet there wasthe grandfather! The apparently monstrous stepfather]. With what Handke called"that hangnail feeling", the kind of feeling Freud's Little Hans must have endured when he thoughthe'd been bitten by that horse.

A gazing Turk, he keeps a thicklybandaged wounded finger away from his hand and his gaze peeled on the pond andits compliment of ducks; he is trying to distract himself, by holding thefinger away from his hand, a customary act under the circumstances, and hisgaze away from the finger. That the finger is wounded is an assumption, aprojection. The looking away, the trying to focus on distractions is an act ofdefense as is the poem, the text in its entirety.

Who knows how he injured his finger? If Handkewere writing a poem about a Turk who had cut his finger on a BerlinWeisswurst-making-machine, he would have told us. So there is just a woundedfinger which might or might not be symbolic, but evidently sufficiently painfulas to need to be disregarded as much as possible by extending the other nine unimpairedfingers away from both hands... an odd sight... is the pain that excruciating?

A wounded finger elicits some sympathy. All byhimself it appears at a pond but lots of our feathered friends who during thecourse of the the stanzas prove more and more amusing and unpredictable, moreof a distraction, worth watching. It will not be long they will come up to thetwo bench warmers and tug at the cuffs of their pants to be fed?

Ifit is symbolic and sufficiently painful, the injured finger might point to aninjured sense of self. It might point to a state of continuous injury, it mightor might not connect with the love child Handke's exposure, as of age two, to adecades' worth of violent drunken violations of his mother, during which he learned to cover his eyes, to lookaway, yet to peek, it might be what is called "a residue", asequelae.

More specifically the injured finger mightpoint in the direction of the castration anxiety that was induced during thatexposure, but which bebe Peter overcame in his rage by masturbating, where thepleasurable and tension releasing elements of this activity would seem to bethe least important within the internal psychic economy... mastery of thefright... which became Handke's special forte when he has a pencil in hand. Thediary work book "The History of the Pencil" does not address thatcore component. But the famous sentence: "I feel so anxious but everythingI the write is then so calm" ... this certainly is one instance of thisaction which re-occurrs within the mind of a genuine reader. The artist poet assurrogate on that level. These are possible associations of someone familiarwith Handke and aspects of Psychoanalysis...

There are alternatives to writing,reporting this scene? Par ejamplo:

"You know the other day..."

But it was written, probably in onefell swoop. A further distraction away from the painful state, the act ofwriting itself an overcoming, a becalming. In the last paragraph a status quoante has been achieved.

However, Handke ritualizes it througha variety of stanzas; once will not do, we need theme and variation; itritualizes somewhat like a a rosary; the performance of the ritualization atthe moment of competition and completion [for all we know, it was written inone draft] right there and then by whatever nameless pond in whatever namelessregion.

Yes, there really would not have beenanything wrong with writing "a pond in Berlin" [perhaps it was theKrumme Lanke?] But putting in the city name would have taken away from thesingularity of "Turk", the pond, the bench with its two bench warmersand added a superfluous Berlin aura to the poem; delimited the clean focus,adding an unnecessary variable.

"Singular and Plura", thetitle, too, is a pushing away of fingers. The title could also be "Theface of Mastrello Mastriano"... the perfect surface of the text is like amovie actor's mask... one eye brow twitches, a duck dives underwater... amask... a projection screen for the audience...

It takes a fairly cool character todiscociate that successfully. that i think is what people mean when they regardthe irascible handke as cold. that too was learned during that terrifyingdecade.

This short text could also be a25 minute film.

The intention, after all, is not towrite a report for a newspaper, the Krumme Lanke Weekly, it is meant to be adisplay, to be admired, of a particular performance, of the performance ofwriting oneself into something approximating an idyllic becalmed state. It is asmall victory over fright. "Look, Ma! No hands!" It is also avirtuoso performance, the texts from "Innerworld" were written duringHandke's virtuoso period, Kaspar, Ride, etc.

And so the pond, too, remainsnameless. Ponds reflect of course, the author does not tell us whether thispond is muddy, considering those busy ducks and those tufts of grass onepresumes at Duck Soup, not at the clearest of reflections. Still as the pondis... right, what is the need of those ducks, they could easily be edited out?just like the city has been. Then we would have looked, found our reflection inthe pond for sure. But would have lacked a distraction. So, conceivably, withthat wounded finger and feeling generally lonely and lousy we do not want tolook at ourselves in the mirror.

Three stanzas with a good deal ofrepetition, fairly minimal variation. But if you were the kind of superciliousPhilistine jerk that said to me that this is like a cuckoo clock you wouldincur my eternal wrath.

Sort of like a dream that is tried out anumber of times, until it is acceptably formed to pass the governess welldressed into consciousness.

"The Turk" is nearlyentirely becalmed, he has ritualized himself into a state of reverie... thestate an analyst finds himself in when listening into his patient on thecouch... and the killer sentence surges up out of the unconscious: "And hethought of the sportswriter who wrote about death."

Not just a writer, no end of writershave death on their minds. But a "sportswriter"...sports writers havethe nicest of jobs, they have nearly as much fun as the lifelong kids theywrite about. So a "sportswriter" who writes about death, now it'sgetting serious; this is far worse than the wounded finger. Perhaps that isthat whiff of longing of leaping into the pond.

Once more now..

On a bench in the park sits a Turk with a thicklybandaged finger: I am sitting on a bench in the park next to a Turk with athickly bandaged finger: We are sitting on a bench in the park, I and a Turkwith a thickly bandaged finger: A Turk with a thickly bandaged finger issitting with me on a bench in a park.

We are sitting on a bench in the park gazing out on the pond, and I seesomething swimming in the pond, and the Turk is gazing out on the pond.

We are gazing at the pond, and I see an object swimming in the pond, and theTurk is gazing at the pond. [One eye seems constantly peeled on the Turk,as though we are looking both straight ahead and to the side at one and thesame time. A split.]

We are gazing at the pond, and I see a tuft of grass, propelled by swimmingducks, making its way to the shore, and the Turk is gazing at the pond.

We are gazing at the pond, and I see a tuft of grass swimming shoreward,propelled by swimming ducks, and then I see the tuft of grass floating awayfrom the shore, propelled by ducks swimming in the opposite direction, and theTurk is gazing at the pond.

We are gazing at the pond, and I see a tuft of grass that, propelled byswimming ducks, was about to be washed ashore and then, propelled by ducksswimming in the opposite direction, was about to be washed back into the middleof the pond and now, propelled by ducks intersecting the two groups of ducksthat are swimming in the opposite direction, floats suspended in place, and theTurk is gazing at the pond.

We are gazing at the pond, and I see an object I took to be a tuft of grass orsomething I took to be an object that I believed was a tuft of grass suddenlydisappear after it had moved in place, and I stop moving my head in time withthe object on one and the same spot: that is to say, I am startled or, I amstartled, that is to say, I stop moving my head in time with the object on oneand the same spot, [the disturbancereflected in the grammar] and no longermove at all, and the Turk is gazing at the pond.

We are gazing at the pond, and I see a duck surfacing with a tuft of grass inits bill, and I am tired of gazing [something happened just now, to makethe narrator tired and angry... what is it? is it the sentence in the followingparagraph with the thought about the sportswriter?]and am satisfied, and the Turk is gazing at the pond:]

We are gazing at the pond, and, without seeing anything, [Handke, suffering from occasional colorblindness, has he seen black just now?] Iremember the sports writer who talked about death, and the Turk is gazing atthe pond.

A Turk and I, we are sitting in the park on a bench and are gazing at the pond:I am sitting in the park on a bench next to a Turk with a thickly bandagedfinger: I am sitting on a bench in the park next to a Turk with a thicklybandaged finger: next to me on the bench in the park there suddenly sits a Turkwith a thickly bandaged finger which he is extending away from his otherfingers: in the park on a bench sits a Turk with nine unimpaired fingers whichhe presses to the palms of his hands: on a bench in the park sits a Turk with athickly bandaged finger and gazes out at the pond.

Of course I did not read the poemthis way when I translated it in the early 70s. I found it intriguing,beautifully formed, it is also a finger exercise if you were a pianist, you areshowing your mastery, and wanted merelyto be adequate as I could do that. It is a virtuoso performance of trying tokeep the world of perceptions, of perceived phenomena and the world of words insynchronous state, it is just that matters keep popping up from below! As in RideAcross Lake Bottom Lake There are these disturbances, wounded fingers, thoughts of death, ifonly it were just tufts of grass!

Michael Roloff

DER FALL KRAHBERGER

2011-09-03T13:07:00.000-07:00

SCOTOMIZATION, VERNEINUNG, HANDKE, YUGOSLAVIA

2010-06-15T11:11:00.000-07:00

http://twitter.com/summapolitico

Bei dem Aufbau des vielfältig und -seitig angelegten Handke-Yugo Blogs

http://handke-yugo.blogspot.com/2010/05/links-page-for-pages-of-this-blog.html

und Überlegungen wie es zu der Desintegration der Föderation kam, und Handke's Verwicklung darin, bin ich natürlich auf das Thema "Verneinung" gestossen. In Frankreich scheint die Verneinung des Massenmords der Armenier an Hand der Türken strafbar zu sein; im
Land der Deutschsprachigen die Ausrottung der Juden. Und wer erinnert sich überhaupt noch daran was der Zar mit den Chassierern angefangen hat am Ende des 19ten Jahrhunderts.

Handke selbst wurde der Verneinung des Massakers von Srebrenice beschuldigt trotzdem er sich ganz furchtbar bei der Ansicht dieses Mordstätte aufgeregt hat [vide: Sommerlicher Nachtrag].
Nur den Beschuss von Dubrovnik/ Ragusa hat er in dieser Angelegenheit gegenueber einigen Kroatischen Fernsehleuten einmal für unmöglich gehalten - er schien nicht annehmen zu können, dass man etwas
so schönes zerstören wollte; dazu gibt es aber eine handvoll
YouTube Filme die ihn des Verneinens überführen - die sehen auch
ganz harmlos aus, wie die Geschosse da an der Festung verpuffen. Diese ganze Chose bringt einen zu der Frage

warum es so leicht gelungen ist eine ganze Gruppe und einen Mann [Milosevic] zu verteufeln, als ob [?] wir wirklich immer noch in "dunkelsten Serbien" [Die Fahrt im Einbaum] leben. Dass Handke sich gegen eine solche Vereinfachung setzte - da haben es die Leute ihm eigentlich leicht gemacht mit seinem rechthaberischem Selbstexhibitionismus! Wie man so in die Geschichte verwickelt wird!

Also, das bringt mich dazu zu fragen, wie diese Gruppe, diese Frauen und Mannschaft von Therapeuten zu
dem heiklen Thema "Kriminalisierung der Verneinung" stehen?
Sollte man dem "sag mir alles was dir einfällt" noch hinzufügen
und wenn du's nicht tust oder lügst kommst du ins Gefängnis, oder wir üben Shariah gesetzliches mit dir?

Euer aller,
Michael Roloff

http://www.facebook.com/mike.roloff1?ref=name

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http://handke--revista-of-reviews.blogspot.com/2010/05/long-piece-on-handkes-moravian-night.html

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=============

http://www.handkefilm.scriptmania.com/index.html
http://www.handkeTRANS.scriptmania.com/index.htlm
[TRANSLATION SITE AND LINK TO SCHWAGERLE ESSAY]http://picasaweb.google.com/lh/sredir?uname=mikerol&target=ALBUM&id=5476148831173253505&authkey=Gv1sRgCJeIus7_7LaY9QE&feat=email

BLOGS

http://handke-discussion.blogspot.com/
the  American Scholar caused controversy about Handke, reviews, detailed of Coury/ Pilipp's THE WORKS OF PETER HANDKE, the psycho-biological monograph/ a note on Velica Hoca/ open letter to Robert Silvers + NYRB re: JS Marcus.. 
   http://handke--revista-of-reviews.blogspot.com/

http://handke-yugo.blogspot.com/

http://handke-trivia.blogspot.com/
[moravian nights discussion, etc]
 
the newest:
http://handke-photo.scriptmania.com/ 
bpth have the psychoanalytic monograph
http://analytic-comments.blogspot.com/
 
http://www.handkelectures.freeservers.com/index.html 
[the drama lecture]

http://www.van.at/see/mike/index.htm
[dem handke auf die schliche/besuch auf dem Moenchsberg, a book of mine about Handke]

http://begleitschreiben.twoday.net/topics/Peter+Handke/  

With three photo albums, to wit:
http://picasaweb.google.com/mikerol

http://picasaweb.google.com/mikerol/HANDKE3ONLINE# 

http://picasaweb.google.com/mikerol/HANDKE2ONLINE#

http://picasaweb.google.com/lh/sredir?uname=mikerol&target=ALBUM&id=5476148831173253505&authkey=Gv1sRgCJeIus7_7LaY9QE&feat=email

http://picasaweb.google.com/mikerol/POSTED?authkey=YeKkFSE3-Js#

http://www.handke-trivia.blogspot.com
http://www.artscritic.blogspot.com
[some handke material, too, the Milosevic controversy summarized]

http://analytic-comments.blogspot.com/ 
http://www.facebook.com/mike.roloff1?ref=name
Member Seattle Psychoanalytic Institute and Society
This LYNX will LEAP you to my HANDKE project sites and BLOGS:
http://www.roloff.freehosting.net/index.html
"MAY THE FOGGY DEW BEDIAMONDIZE YOUR HOOSPRINGS! +
THE FIREPLUG OF FILIALITY REINSURE YOUR BUNGHOLE!" {J. Joyce}
"Sryde Lyde Myde Vorworde Vorhorde Vorborde" [von Alvensleben]
"Siena me fe, disfescimi Maremma." [Dante]
"Ennui [Lange Weile] is the dreambird that
 hatches the egg of
experience." 
[Walter Benjamin, the essay on Leskov.]

This site and the various handke blogs

and the handke.scriptmania project

http://www.handke.scriptmania.com/favorite_links_1.html

presents academic scholarship, creative personal essays, book reviews, bibliographic materials, etc. concerning the writings of Peter Handke.

Submissions (in Rich Text Format) may be sent to sciptoman AT lycos.com in any language.

^{http://www.handkelectures.freeservers.com}

The Green Room: Books of a Year 2009 - The Second Rank

2009-12-15T07:56:00.000-08:00

The Green Room: Books

LINK OF LYNXES TO MOST HANDKE MATERIAL
AND BLOGS ON THE WEB:

- Hide quoted text -

http://www.handke.scriptmania.com/favorite_links_1.html

- Hide quoted text -

HANDKE LINKS + BLOGS SCRIPTMANIA PROJECT MAIN SITE:

http://www.handke.scriptmania.com

and 13 sub-sites

e.g.

http://www.handkeromance.scriptmania.com/index.html

http://www.handkelectures.freeservers.com/

http://www.handkedrama.scriptmania.com/

http://www.handkescholar.scriptmania.com/

http://www.handkebild.scriptmania.com/

http://handke-photo.scriptmania.com/

http://www.handke-nobel.scriptmania.com/

http://www.handkeprose.scriptmania.com/

http://www.handkefilm.scriptmania.com/

http://handke-watch.blogspot.com/
[moravian nights discussion]

the newest:

http://handke-photo.scriptmania.com/

contains the psychoanalytic monograph

http://analytic-comments.blogspot.com/

The Morawian Night Essay + Handke trivia

http://www.handkelectures.freeservers.com
[the drama lecture]

http://www.van.at/see/mike/index.htm

[dem handke auf die schliche/besuch auf dem moenchsberg, a book of mine about Handke]

http://begleitschreiben.twoday.net/topics/Peter+Handke/

http://handke-discussion.blogspot.com/

[the American Scholar caused controversy about Handke, reviews, detailed of Coury/ Pilipp's THE WORKS OF PETER HANDKE, the psycho-biological monograph/ a note on Velica Hoca/ ]

with three photo albums, to wit:

http://picasaweb.google.com/mikerol

http://picasaweb.google.com/mikerol/HANDKE3ONLINE#

http://picasaweb.google.com/mikerol/HANDKE2ONLINE#

http://picasaweb.google.com/mikerol/POSTED?authkey=YeKkFSE3-Js#

http://www.handke-trivia.blogspot.com


http://www.artscritic.blogspot.com



[some handke material, too, the Milosevic controversy summarized]

MICHAEL ROLOFF

Member Seattle Psychoanalytic Institute and Society

this LYNX will LEAP you to all my HANDKE project sites and BLOGS:

http://www.roloff.freehosting.net/index.html

"MAY THE FOGGY DEW BEDIAMONDIZE YOUR HOOSPRINGS!" + MAY THE FIREPLUG OF FILIALITY REINSURE YOUR BUNGHOLE!"" {J. Joyce}

"Sryde Lyde Myde Vorworde Vorhorde Vorborde" [von Alvensleben]

of a Year 2009 - The Second Rank

Dear Louise Lambrich

2009-12-10T17:18:00.000-08:00

Thank you for your comment which I will make part of this post and to which I reply below:

"Louise L. Lambrichs has left a new comment on your post "A COMMUNICATION ABOUT THE HANDKE CASE":

Deeply interested by your paper. But do you read French ? If you do, you may read "Le cas Handke", I published in 2003, three years before the "Affaire" in France and Germany (www.inventaire-invention.com)

. Interesting is how Handke's literature allows to understand what happened in Former Yugoslavia. Of course, the context should be also well understood... Unfortunately, if French scholars read English and American studies, I'm not shure that American do read the French... ! Personally, being Jew, French, German, Austrian and Belgian, I don't think that "ethnicity" is relevant to think the case. The main question is the question of unconscious denial, in this specific context. Handke is blind... as many others. I remain you that a new genocide happened in Eastern Europe, and that Handke supported openly Milosevic. Do you have an idea of the reasons ? Sincerely.

I discuss Handke's denial in the posting on the Milosevics controversy at:

http://handke-discussion.blogspot.com/

and as a matter of fact have written a series of long papers on that subject.

Denial is a common and even essential human psychological capacity, necessity.

In Handke's case it became emphatically necessary during his childood trauma, one of the sources of the creation for his "other-worldly" art. On the other, I have never known someone who sees so much, is such a great phenomenologist. If you read his JUSTICE FOR SERBIA carefully you notice that he refuses to report anything he has not seen, and when, e.g. he sees corpses floating down one of those rivers, he angrily skips a stone across it, instead of falling into the standard language of condemnation; he reports his wife Sophie Semin saying to him, about Dubrovnik, "and so you are going to deny that too?" - which means that he himself is aware of his tendency to deny. And not so long ago he denied the shelling of Dubrovnik once again, to some visiting Croatian magazine and t.v. reporters in Chaville. Very funny, and then tried to supress that he had said so once again! Even more touching!

Denial occurs for two main reasons, one because acknowledgment creates unbearable pain, the other for reasons of self image, which can be just as painful, and also as in the foolish case of Ahminejab of Persia because he wants to eliminate the raison d'etre of Israel. Denial has been criminalized meanwhile, it derives from my profession, my analytic caste, and it is a monstrosity to criminalize denial, in France I gather denial of the Turkish genocide of Armenians has meanwhile been criminalized... once you go down that road you end up at the very heart of hypocrisy and have people as in the middle ages going around with death heads in their hands, saying that they will not deny death. I well know the origin of the prohibition of denial as an aftermath of the Shoah, but it is a mistake. Handke in his somewhat problematic play EINBAUM / VOYAGE BY DUGOUT has the case of the Serbian bystander of an atrocity who was arrested in German for not intervening back in Serbia and who was then condemned to five years in a German prison for that inaction - he represent this case, which really happened, through a character called "the Forest madman", because the fellow when the Germans finally saw the error of their ways and sent him back to Serbia, he was despised: what had he done - he had watched, witnessed an atrocity, about which he could do nothing, he had not denied it even, but he was condemned for having seen. If you see where this insanity of prohibition of denial then leads. I am also appalled at French denial of their 90% collaboration and passivity under German occupation, and then seizing DeGaulle's statement about "heroic la France" as a cover, just the way the Austrians seized on the opportunity to regard themselves as victims of Hitler, whereas they were only victims of their hopes and wishes and hatred of Jews, and the way the French then treated the women who had slept with German soldiers, and that the Comedie Francaise canceled the production of a great play, Handke's THE ART OF ASKING. Handke has his monstrous sides in some ways, but I would say that denial in the instance of Yugoslavia is the least of it, and the French news media exclusively making Serbians and Milosevic's responsible is also an act of total idiocy. You might say, that all the tribes became murderous, for reasons that they scarcely know, I would say because of two national security directives under Reagan that declared economic warfare, and then when the center of socialism started to fail, you get the disintegration into ethnic nationalist beastialities.

I do read French do not know your book, will gladly read yet another on the subject,

perhaps we can correspond via e-mail? mikerol [at] lycos. com

A COMMUNICATION ABOUT THE HANDKE CASE

2009-12-09T10:04:00.000-08:00

I concur Harold Bloom's observation that no Shakespeare no Freud. And
also Professor Bloom’s take on "strong" writers seemingly needing to
slay past greats as well as their contemporaries, which makes for such
hue and cry all around, at least the literary journals.

A middling NY production of OTHELLO was in Seattle a few months back:
Iago, played by a first rate Brit, was featured. "The beast with two
backs" indeed! Shakespeare plays so well because the language, the
metaphors, the knowledge of the human beast makes up for a middling
production. An absolutely lovely TEMPEST the other day first rate
director, M. Burke Walker, and some future stars from the U.W. Drama
School's graduate acting program: and a small stage transports into
transformative realms.

My great case, "Peter Handke, Wounded Love Child” I discussed ever so
briefly when Leon and I met at the paper he delivered when The
American was in Seattle. My gut reaction to Leon was of an analyst
mother to whom I could entrust myself. A very rare being. He was
interested in my noting that Handke had said that he "wrote out of his
wound." [“The Art of Asking” – if ever there was a play for analysts!]
Handke a love child during the first two years extra-uterine, but also
intra, since he was all his mother Maria Sivec had left from the love
of her life [see his SORROW BEYOND DREAMS which details his exposure
to violent drunken primal scenes the decade subsequent.] Discussing
the case with Werner Schimmelbusch [current the head of SPSI] Werner
guessed, correctly, that Handke most likely was an anaclytic
depressive, as indeed he is. And, reading German, was most attracted
to such a stylist - as my analytic grandfather of sorts, Kurt Eisler,
was anything but, which made it easier not to get such a great library
together with his ancient couch.

Handke's origins in a poverty stricken, bi-ethnic, family of farmers
and carpenters [the Slovene grandfather installed eventually as
surrogate for the absent actual and detested German father and
stepfather figures] is the kind of writer that would have forced Freud
think twice about his belief that Shakespeare had to be of noble
origin. Handke's genius had the fortune for a priest to further his
wish to attend seminary, and have good schooling and supportive
teachers, self-made man and writer though he is, who terrorized his
family as of puberty with his demand to write near all the time!
“Quiet!”
Which it turned out was his way of calming his anxiety [he initially
proclaimed "I am the new Kafka"]. Hysteria makes for good dramatists,
who with two of his dozen plus plays, in particular THE RIDE ACROSS
LAKE CONSTANCE and the wordless succession of images that is THE HOUR
WE KNEW NOTHING OF EACH OTHER, "cleans out our clocks," makes us see
fresh, the first time I had that taste, foretaste it was to be, of
what eventually I learned to call "a good hour," was at the Lincoln
Center performances of LAKE CONSTANCE in 1971, I would go for ten
minute stints each evening of its five week run [Lacan would have
understood] to be refreshed; and there Handke completed Brecht's
project of a non-Aristotelian [sans blood and awe inspiring fall of
'great' figures!] theater, the epic of the every-day, estranged anew
the world is pure again.

Dr. Tuch's essay on exhibitionism was what was missing to help explain
Handke's compensatory, insatiable kind - that manifests itself not
only in his near constant writing and need to be in the public eye,
but also in socially untoward manner. With his childhood past it was
then not too surprising that he suffered from all the nauseas
attendant such exposure, including - talking organ manifestations - of
the eyeballs!, being, additionally, autistically hyper-sensitive [or
possibly having been made so by the exposure? raw?] and as a young man
was in near constant rage, no end of matters made him angry - tired;
and even more unfortunately that, despi deep longing for peace, he
beat up women, especially those who lived with him, and fathered
children whose mothers he left uncared for [duplicating the worst that
his two fathers had bequeathed], suffers from what he says are three
near epileptic fits per day; can not suffer having even his closest
friends in his home and takes them mushroom hunting [peaceful beings
in his universe] makes great mushroom stew that he will serve to media
people whose presence seems to allay the nausea at other bodies! That
several wives have left the lay-a-broad, finding him to be an ice cold
fish, and that the first time this happened, shortly after his
mother’s suicide, he went into a fugueing state that persisted over a
number of years, until a panic attack hospitalized him with
tachycardia – talking psychosomatics once again – which panic Valium
put under control with: one time that the writing failed to produce
the usual calm. [There would be one future instance, in New York,
where he was writing A SLOW HOMECOMING, where he suddenly had writer’s
block, couldn’t get beyond the first pathos-filled sentence that he
had rehearsed for years.]

Dr. Tilman Moser, former author when I was a publisher in New York [I
did his YEARS OF APPRENTICESHIPS ON THE COUCH, and to considerable
consternation in these quarters then in the U.S., the late 70s] then
wrote a chapter in his ROMANE ALS KRANKHEITSGESCHICHTEN about Handke’s
novel THE MMENT OF TRUE FEELING about a certain Gregor Keuschnig who
suffers a suicidal state [Handke leaves out the precipitating
occasion, the wife disparu! But not the moment of alleviation, the
sight of his daughter’s comb, mirror, lock of hair, the moment of
“true” feeling thus being love, pulling you back from the brink], but
it is always good to know that a writer like Handke writes in what
might be called the plus-quam-perfect, to write the novel makes him
hot because it becomes the tombstone to a past event, novels of which
kind afterwards he frequently puts into a future that in the novel has
passed. With all his sadism, his need to be the top mountain goat, he
is no esthete, but has an aesthetic and in certain prose works, such
as CROSSING THE SIERRA DEL GREDOS achieves what he and others call
“ecriture pure” – which doing might make sense to those of you who
have followed me, pure in the sense of living in prose of a kind that
is transformative of the reader’s experience as he reads,
approximating what I described above as occurring through
participating in the experience of those two plays. It begins to
include experiencing his texts as filmic. DEL GREDOS has one of the
great endings: the heroine finally reaches the writer of her biography
who appears to have been intimate of her every thought and feeling
during her trek, during which she sees herself filmed, and when they
finally meet in Don Quixote’s La Mancha you realize that Handke loves
writing the way you and I have loved someone passionately during our
life, and if you are a genius you can transport us very physically by
means of words and syntax [!!!] and the reading experience into that
state of mind.

During the period of Handke's Kronenberg-Paris crisis 1971-1974 he
kept a diary of spontaneously occurring thoughts - if you knew him
during that period, as I did, as of 1966, the Gruppe 47 meeting at
Princeton he would keep flashing, a ball point at that time, and make
a note in one of his note books [whose collection he appears to have
sold for a total of a million Euros to two major collections of that
kind in the German language literature collecting world] which was
then published as “Weight of the World”, process notes of his own I
suppose, reading of which as an overall experience tends first to put
the reader into a depressive mood, but then lifts the reader out of
it. W.o.W. notes some of the matters I mention above about
hospitalization and the heart, but also that Handke consulted a
therapeutician in Paris, apparently of the Catholic persuasion, at any
event saying to Handke one Easter that he too felt the weight of the
cross. Handke, whose sense of language despises what he calls the “dog
language” of the therapeutic – you note how nausea drives him into
another language world – agreed with the fellow’s observation that he
was disconnected from his feelings, as he then became anything but. I
have put a condensed version of what in necessary exposition is a
rather lengthy case history at:

http://analytic-comments.blogspot.com/

And if you wish it in its entirety, and ask me question, whatever… I
am all yours. Zvi, who has has become precious to me via this medium,
thought what I did was "O.K" where I hoped for criticism; Dr. Tuch
appears to have been unable to follow what really is a very straight
narrative with some excursions, not the way most of you will write up
a case history. It starts with meeting a kid dressed like a Beatle
whom you had seen expose himself and confront his elders, who claimed
to be the "new Kafka", his wearing dark glasses under conditions of
the most expensively modulated night time lighting in NY, and his
sadistic village grin.... A different kind of detective story. For
Werner Bohleber at Psyche the case is a bit too heikle it appears:
after all, Handke with all his troubles and his notoriety had become
the superstar of German prose. Tilman Moser thinks I am being
vengeful for some past hurt, well yes Handke invariably injures those
closest to him as Wim Wenders once told me, who must have been too;
but all I really did once I became interested in Handke's denials in
his novel DER CHINESE DES SCHMERZENS [ACROSS in English] was to follow
the trail wherever it might lead, and could not have imagined...
Handke is no softee, and if the emperor decides to take off his
clothes he asks to be described, some of that may be painful indeed,
but nothing will waken like a little pain now and then. His once lover
Marie Colbin going public with having been beaten up, got Peter Handke
to address having been so infuriated as to want to kill her, in his
2007 entirely autobiographical, but also evasive, MORAWISCHE NACHT.
I thank you for your indulgence and for whatever comments you may make.
Michael Roloff

Peter HHandke: Wounded Love Child The Psychoanalytic Monograph, Condensed

2009-09-27T21:35:00.003-07:00

Peter Handke: Wounded Love Child

The Psychoanalytic Monograph, Condensed

By Michael Roloff

I first became aware of Peter Handke at the Gruppe 47 meeting in Princeton New Jersey in May 1966 where he delivered a general onslaught against the there read texts. Fairly well versed in contemporary German writing, I was sitting next to the Spiegel reporter Erich Kuby who, as he started to make notes, told me who it was who was speaking, but was being prohibited from launching general attacks. That this event would become the major news from this meeting can be attributed to the truth of Handke's statement on the impotence of the there delivered texts, none of which made for the kind of éclat that Handke’s statement did, as his own did not either. The vehemence of Handke’s attack, however, did not much impress me, who has or at least once was nonchalant about major upheavals, and because I had participated in U.S. creative writing programs where far harsher things are said. On the basis of this single performance you would not conclude that Handke was an exhibitionist as he then turned out to be, also in the socially disfavored sense, whereupon he feels “a little diabolical” as he told me in Paris in the mid-70s. As a matter of fact it was Dr. Robert Tuch’s piece on compensatory trauma based exhibitionism {1} that then made me conclude my work, to the extent that I can finish it at this or any time. And if it were not for Handke’s exhibitionism and his need to write nearly at all times, itself both symptom and cure [at age 67 he has that number of books to his credit as well as approximately twenty some plays and twenty translations, from the ancient Greek, Elizabethan, French, American, and Slovenian, and rumor has it that on his deathbed he will tell us what he, who at his birth is said to have clutched the stub of a pencil, what his depressed mother’s Borborygma -bowel growls! - communicated intrauterine!] so as to calm himself, his being in need of public performances and being photographed {2}, and publishing four volumes of diaries during his life time, and in his novels and also non-fiction projects using his self, putting as he announced he would, his self into play, manifesting changing self and self states as his primary material - without that mass of material I would be hard pressed to have undertaken a project of this kind.

At Princeton I also happened to notice what is best described in the German words as a "lüsterne" expression pass over Handke's face, at the presence of Max Frisch, sheer raw ambition as I have seen it only a few times in my life. It invariably spelled: trouble ahead!

After Princeton, I and two friends, one of them had a spacious residence, gave a party for German and American writers. There I talked twice to Handke; the first time he explained, on being asked, that he wore nightshades - even in expensively modulated lighting conditions! - because he had eye problems. It would be some years before I read in his 1980 Die Lehre der St. Victoire [The Lesson of Saint Victoire-{3}] that he suffered from occasional bouts of color blindness, which is very much a sub-rubric and a complicated one in the etiologies that I explored to the then 1990 state of available evidence but did without reaching a definite conclusion. Handke himself writes in L.St.V. that he searched in his two families - his mother, Maria Sivec, was of the Slovenian minority in Carinthia; two of her brothers died during World War II; Handke’s actual father, a Herr Schoenherr, derives from the Harz region in Thuringia and Handke has Handke – the German mishmash of a Polish name - for a last name because his real father, the love of his mother’s life, was already married and refused to marry Maria, whereupon she married a fellow German soldier, Bruno Handke, who was stationed with the same company of soldiers in Griffen, Carinthia, Austria in 1942, which makes Handke a bastard with the to be expected legitimacy and father and identity problematics, at least for the first forty some years of his life. Both father and stepfather survived the war, the wounded Bruno Handke returned to Berlin in 1944, where Peter Handke, now two years old, first encountered him the same year. Until then, young Peter had been, as I inferred long ago and of which there exists ample evidence {4} and as he confessed in his 2008 even more than usually directly autobiographical novel Moravian Nights {5} very much his mother’s exclusive love, a love child and a compensatory one if ever there one was for a joyous mother; with his grandfather Sivec as the sole male figure to intrude into the baby’s consciousness until the quickly hated Bruno Handke became the terror father figure in 1944 due to the then ensuing decade long bouts of violent drunken primal scenes, Handke would then hate everything German for many years. {6}

The evidently curious Handke failed to find evidence for the phenomenon of bouts of color blindness among his relatives, and, if not of genetic or strictly physiological origin, I initially postulated that his eye problems was rooted in Handke’s then near constant state of rage and hysteria. For the plethora of matters and their extraordinary enumeration of what both infuriated and tired young Handke see his 1989 Essay on Tiredness {7}, one of them the “cat on a hot tin roof noises” in the room above his. Many if not all consequences, including Handke’s numerous nauseas – including of the eyeballs! - can be accounted for by the decade-long trauma of exposure to violent drunken primal scenes, no matter that Handke writes in one of my chief sources, his 1971 book about his mother’s suicide Sorrow Beyond Dream {6} that one solution to the exposure was to put the blanket over his head - presumably his strength to dissociate in order to write objective texts may have gained an extra fillip from the so strengthened defense against the experience as well. It was while reviewing, around 1990, his 1984 novel Across [Chinese des Schmerzens {8}] that begins with the sentence “Close your eyes, and the world will arise anew” that I became aware of Handke’s capacity to say “no” to some matters to which the answer was obviously “yes,” which puzzlement on my part then eventuated in this work and even greater admiration for the work he has accomplished in living with and partly overcoming liabilities over which he was given no choice.

One other useful sequelae of this decade long traumatic exposure, aside the ability to dissociate, for a writer [the Rembrandt painting of a woman clipping her fingernails was Joyce’s metaphor for the same disinterested state of mind, so akin the scientific mode], is that Handke suffers from insomnia and therefore does most of his writing at night, which then has unfortunate social consequences, and that he survived the anxiety by successfully masturbating {9} just as many of his early texts constitutes a victory over fear, an experience the real reader can share {10}; thus it being not all that surprising that our great manifester who had initially presented himself to the world as “the new Kafka” would eventually call himself the “anti-Kafka!” Handke himself has mentioned how surprised he was that everything was so calm on the page after he had felt anxious, and takes pride in how geil, how “hot”, his formulations are; and I postulate in this instance something like the obverse of Freud/ Breuer’s original thesis of hysteria, a conversion of hysteria based anxiety into the strength of a calm self. Nor is it all that surprising that someone with Handke’s trauma and background would eventually become a writer of mythic openness and a transfigurer par excellence.

Focusing on Handke’s “nausea of the eyeballs” I speculated initially that Handke’s rage might account easily for the bouts of color-blindness as in the proverbial “seeing black”; add to that what Handke calls his explosions of sacred rage and his then states of anxiety, an underlying dis-associated hysteria that keeps breaking through the defenses which then requires writing to calm himself down and to avert… and voila! - that would suffice: except that, in 1989, Handke, in a book-length interview with Herbert Gamper {11}, confessed that he still experienced occasional bouts of autism, scarcely a self-diagnosis that. I would witness some of these episodes which thus became somewhat explicable to me in retrospect; and, considering the extreme hyper-sensitivity of all of Handke’s senses, sheer quantitative, unmodulated input would suffice to explain the phenomenon of occasional color blindness as well, the old breaching of the barrier. Needing to review all my findings and speculative conclusions in the light of Handke’s autism, however, threw a major wrench into them, unless what was diagnosed as “autism” is itself a derivative of the decade long childhood trauma. Handke’s autism for me means that he has the eyes of an eagle, the nose of your best blood hound, the ears of your best bat, and the skin of a porpoise, the sense of taste of the finickiest feline, that he is socially gauche, that he cannot have other bodies in the room with him for long – currently, in his abode outside Paris, he at once takes even the closest friends out for a mushroom ramble in the forest [mushrooms signify peaceful harmless being for someone who much yearns for being at peace and being harmless himself, of which he I hear tell he makes the world’s best mushroom stew] and only interviewers and photographers or T.V. crews are allowed to stay in the domicile, through whom Handke can communicate and manifest himself to the world. {2}. And that he still has a mild case of Tourettism a frequent attribute of autism, augmented and made sacred as that may have been by his eventually self-chosen father figure, his grandfather’s royal cussing, and which can be delightful when turned into musical salvoes as it is at the end of his famous Publikumsbeschimpfung/ Public Insult. {12} And also that everything has to be just so, perfect, and that he needs to be in control, as are most of his works; that is, that the standard of perfection is one of his own literary texts. In other words, a wife’s delight!

The color of the glasses that Handke wears has become far lighter over the years, either because of anti-anxiety medication which he has perhaps takes more than just occasionally in extreme states, or because his sensitivity to light has abated, but eye problems is the chief reason why Handke has never managed to get a driver's license and thus has become most likely the greatest reporter and observer of what occurs during bus trips {13}, and needs friends to chauffeur him; that is, unless he, who must be one of the last great walkers on the earth – another way that this so very solitary writer has of calming himself [on which it has indeed become “hard to walk,” I only know one better, a little Scotsman who traversed the entire thousand mile long coast lines of Baja California Norte and Sur both up and down, which has no end of bahias that add at least another 500 miles to the task!]

At the first of our two brief conversations Handke was dressed as a kind of Beatle, and had that kind of haircut, closely checkered yellow black shirt, a pink carnation in the vest pocket, and it turned out that he loved their music even more than I did, and as we find out in his 1991 Essay on the Jukebox {7} sought refuge during dreaded family childhood outings in his home region in jukeboxes. His mode of dress has changed so frequently afterwards that he appears to be as much male model as writer. {2}

At the N.Y. party when Alan Ginsberg approached Handke and me as we were talking the second time, I - who has a somewhat but less than Handke village background - could not but help notice a sadistic village grin spread over my guest’s face at something that Ginsberg said: as Handke says: "The smell sticks." My Elephant memory! Meanwhile he manages to make fun of this expression on his face himself.

While in New York, Handke took a West German News crew up to the top of the Empire State Building and announced [they were not the first to be so informed, Ted Ziolkovsky a Hesse specialist at Princeton was, too], that he, Handke, was "the new Kafka." We all recall Kafka himself announcing in Prague that he was the first and that therefore there would be many others! My man was confident to a fault! Upon Suhrkamp Verlag’s acceptance of his first novel, Die Hornissen {14}, written at age 22 on the now Croatian Island of Krk/ Cordula, Handke ceased his law studies at the University of Graz which he, farsighted and thinking that like a 19^th century writer he would create a large body of work {4}, law studies that he had undertaken to receive one of those wonderful sinecures that cultured nations provide to writers who cannot make a living at their craft, that of cultural attaché, and as such Handke would later assume a personae, one of his near innumerable focused masks, but this a major one, for several of his major works under the name of Gregor Keuschnig, Gregor being the name of one his beloved deceased uncles whose war time letters had been an heirloom of the Sivec clan back in Griffen [some of Handke’s works – Sorrow Beyond Dreams, The Repetition, Goalie’s Anxiety at the Penalty Kick - indeed have become heirlooms to quite a few around the world], Gregor being the first name most frequently and fondly assumed by our author. {15}. Prior to university studies, Handke, assisted by the village priest, had achieved his goal of attending the seminary Tanzenberg, but quickly felt homesick and for the first time felt nausea at “other bodies”, wrote down a long dream and sent it to his mother in which he identified himself with her dead brother Gregor, who had studied horticulture in Ljubljana prior to his induction into the German army [which dream I interpret as an unusual but highly successful adjudication of the oedipal challenges someone like Handke faced, especially so from what anthropologists call “the avunculate” and to which phenomenon I trace many of Handke’s most attractive and sympathetic sides] and did his first writing and was “discovered” by his first German teacher, and back home, as adolescent, terrorized the family with his insistence on complete quiet when he was writing, and since he was writing nearly all the time even then…; but left the seminary over a matter of conscience that led to an altercation and completed his matura at a Gymnasium at not too distant Klagenfurt [known for its great author Robert Musil]; worked in a card board cutting factory; and was dirt poor.

And here we are at Pannah Grady’s apartment in the Dakota in late Spring in 1966, in whose courtyard Handke’s dedicatee, John Lennon, would be killed by a young goon from the state of Georgia years later [while I was on the Georgia Gold Coast, in 1980, where the news came out that a fellow from Georgia was the assassin they said it was sure to be a Negro], and Handke is dressed like a Beatle and is chipper as only a kid can be who was already a virtuoso, a Liszt with words in quelling anxiety, labora verimus very early on! And who would have thought that he already had such a past on his pelt! Leaving a bastard child behind uncared for in Krk as we find out in Moravian {5}. And that he would, via a period as a young Turk deconstructor become the reconstructor of a narrative mode on the order of Goethe, Stifter and Flaubert and still a complete virtuoso, and a bit of a lazy one now on occasion as the great success story that he is, who has manage to incorporate the medium of film into narrative and has written equally if not far greater plays than he did during his youthful period, in two of which, the 1970 The Ride Across Lake Constance and the 1992 The Hour We Knew Nothing of Each Other he, as we say in Amurrican, cleans out our clocks, utterly refresh us, make us see the world anew; to put this into more accustomed literary terms: Handke accomplishes, completes the task Brecht set himself, to produce anti-Aristotelian non-cathartically cathartic drama, strange and new, and in those instances he is utterly playful. “Play on” as it says at the end of Walk About the Villages {16} his richest work; that is, we have Mr. Handke’s permission!

Handke creates EXPERIENCES – on the stage in that his plays bear affinity to happenings, sleight of hand juggling acts, of necessity also of our culture so dominated by visual media, his earlier play more obviously than the later ones that accommodate themselves somewhat to usual but also employ more ancient stage practices, and so do his books whose initial reception ought to be a phenomenological description of the reader’s experience. E.g. doesn’t the very syntax of The Repetition slow down your breathing, make you a “king of slowness”? Isn’t reading Absence also like experiencing a film? And therefore disconcerting? Not that scarcely anyone in the dramatic cultural overall Disneyfied desert that Los Estados Unidos Norte is has noticed, or are willing to follow the rake’s so very interesting progress.

And there am I, who turned down C.I.A. imprecations in Berlin in 1957, and after translating all the early Handke plays up to and including his richest, also most revelatory magnetic work, that lodestone Walk About the Villages during a critical moment during my analysis {16} and some adventures in the publishing world, will become a sleuth of my then vis-à-vis’s psyche! And occasional critic, but chiefly acclaimer of the value of his writing.
By 1967 I had read what the fuss was about and acquired Handke's first plays and second novel, Der Hausierer {17}, for the U.S. publisher I worked for. Not knowing to whom to assign the translation of these very playful texts, Self-Accusation, Public Insult & Kaspar {12}, I started to play with them on my typewriter, finding the experience delightful. Since the Suhrkamp agent was unsuccessful in finding performances for the plays, I then found a pick-up troupe and did them at a large variety of New York venues, experience of translating and rehearsing these texts bringing home to me that the fellow was a genius, who in an unusual way had access to the music of the spheres, at the very least to its syntax, especially in that respect and as a formalist. By that I mean the ability to sustain a large complex of matters simultaneously in mind, and to do so rapidemente, that is also Henry James’ definition. I do not subscribe to the notion of mad geniuses, rather to the notion that the world can drive geniuses mad, as it and some of the many women he has tangled with have on occasion brought out the psychotic side of the so high-strung Peter Handke, not an attractive spectacle, most notoriously so during the disintegration of Yugoslavia, where it was evident that his petulant behavior signified the extraordinary injury his being suffered for what for him was the destruction of his land of peace, and so his behavior would have called for understanding instead of cudgels and derision. Fat chance of course in the world such as it is, if even the analytic community, supposedly “scientific” and claiming to produce “understanding” can fight like dogs and cats!

At my troupe’s performance of Public Insult [Publikumsbeschimpfung] at the Goethe House an analyst told me that the piece served to make the audience as self-conscious as the best group therapy session might; thus providing me with first hint of the transport of Handke’s own extreme critical self-consciousness onto an audience.

Some years ago now, when I discussed the great Handke case in detail with Dr. Werner Schimmelbusch, who subsequently become the head of S.I.S.P.I., the Seattle Chapter of the Psychoanalytic Association, he pointed out that what with Maria Sivec’s lovelorn and depressed state of mind yet happy to have at least the child she was bearing to term, Handke, most likely suffered from what is technically called “anaclytic depression” [leaning, osmotic], and I had to assent to that speculation since especially some fairly early texts of Handke’s induce a depressed feeling in the reader, but as I and other readers have experienced, then seems to write himself and the reader out of that state of depression. Listen up pharma! Thus Handke is a both directly and subtly activist author, which is what attracted me to his work.

Handke himself felt that something dreadful had happened to him at birth, speculated about a birth trauma. However, the extant midwife’s report {4} speaks of an uncomplicated birth, pursuit of which subject then allowed me to put to rest the once analytic controversy on the subject since the massage the insensate skin of the fetus receives as it is delivered through what is now the birth canal is not liable to be a traumatic procedure; and I think Charles Darwin would agree with me.

More likely, the dreadful event in Handke’s past had its inception at his and his mother leaving Griffen and going to Berlin in 1944 which was under daily massive bombing raids and the inception of the night time exposure to violent primal scenes, coincidence of which would certainly do the trick.

I know of several horrendous screen memories of my own, one dating to the inception of British bombing of Bremen in 1940/41 and one to a brief visit to Berlin in 1943 while the Zoo there was bombed; thus let us not forget what the terrorism of “Shock and Awe” produced in the children of Belgrade and Bagdad more recently.

Just this week I reread, now in electronic transmissible form, the extraordinary physician Dr. Charlotte Pommer’s account of the end of the war and the siege of Berlin, who, working in the Berlin Police Hospital, managed to save both my parents there from the Gestapo – Stalingrad comes to Germany, Kafka wins! And so that period is very much present again.

After 1966 I saw Handke next in 1969 in Berlin to discuss my Kaspar translation. In Berlin Handke composed nearly all the early wonderful plays and novels, he was living on the Uhland Strasse, I believe it was, in the apartment of the kind of German prince who likes to connect with the artistically talented, an apartment filled with stacks of newspapers, rather dank. I was perfectly happy to leave it at once and go to an outdoor restaurant on the Ku-Damm, and thought nothing about having baby Amina shown to me. Based on that experience you wouldn’t conclude that here is a man who needs to show and can’t bear being alone in a room with anyone for very long! Handke notes in his account of his life with his first daughter, A Child’s Story [1980-{18}] how upset he was with the young revolutionaries visiting him not caring a hoot about having his baby shown to them. Around the time of the publication of that book, happening to be in a victorious mood, I outplayed Handke at Tarot in Salzburg {19}, infuriating him and was punished by not being shown his re-imported first wife! Thus I think we can safely assume that the works that Handke bestows on the world are also to be regarded as shown gifts, with all that goes with response to or failure to respond to such offerings.

Next, in 1971, Handke and his then wife Libgart Schwartz and his close friend Fredi Kolleritsch showed up in New York for a 21 stops in 28 days tour of the U.S. as an Austrian cultural package, which produced the wonderful Godaresque novel A Short Letter Long Farewell which features a wife pursuing a husband, and with a gun, during which visit I noticed one event that I was subsequently able to explain to myself as one of his “autistic” episodes, in as much as that suffices for an explanation. Handke suddenly stepped away from a conversation between two of his earliest American admirers, Stanley Kaufman and Richard Gilman and myself and secreted himself at my record player and put on a Beatles record. Also, his tour was marked by Tourettisms galore, some of which I only heard of the second time I moved to the West Coast, and I could not but help notice that our supremely arrogant author, who was sleeping around in Berlin, treated his wife insultingly and I guessed she would split in short order, as she then did with dire consequences for my man’s state of mind, as we can read in the three long progressively more stormy fugueing poems of Nonsense & Happiness {20}, and in his novel of the suicidal Austrian cultural attaché Keuschnig in A Moment of True Feeling {21} where we have that moment that love – for the child – burst through and our Kafka begins to change into anti-Kafka.

Moving to Paris from Kronenburg where he had moved from the too noisy Berlin in 1970, Handke saw an analyst who mentioned to him that he was emotionally remote, a statement with which Handke agreed, and suffered from panic attacks one of which landed him in a hospital. The doctors said that there was nothing seriously wrong {22}, it was a tachycardia, and the taking of valium did the trick of calming him down. However, as only in rare matters that seem seriously to damage our author’s self-image as he imagines it seen publically, Handke prevaricated both about the reasons for his wife leaving him and the reason for the hospitalization. Libgart Schwartz did not leave him to resume her work as an actress because she had never stopped, and there is nothing wrong with Handke’s heart valves, as we can find out about the panic attacks in his correspondence with the German poet Nikolaus Born {23}, and from Letter to St. Victoire where Handke tells us that the only thing his hated stepfather Bruno Handke was proud of was that Peter was declared fit for service in the Austrian army [you have to present yourself for a physical at age 18], it appears the Austrian army cares not whether you have Handke’s kind of eye problems, or maybe he pointed it out and that is the reason he never did the required basic training.

Handke has said the reason he keeps affiancing himself to actresses is because they are “light,” or “lighter.” Thinking on what that might mean in the case of someone who is so beauty-oriented as of the earliest age { see the photos in 4 or follow the link at 2} yet of a depressive nature, and so media-oriented, I connect it with the title of his first published diary, Weight of the World [1975-{23}]: indeed a beautiful woman helps defray depression I suppose; makes you feel better about yourself if you are badly self-imaged, not only that, a man himself will look better in the company of a pretty woman, she reflects on to him; it makes him look better, lighter; he can show her off [or withhold showing off] and actresses can be considered to be play-acting, i.e. not completely real, perhaps “as if”… [the real-ization of, the transport of the “as if” into the other world that is literature is the point] are also in that respect less “weighty”… and of course more graceful than… one quality that no Amurrican reviewer appear to have entirely missed is how graceful a writer Handke is, how graceful the forms of his works… and thought of their womanly neediness and materialism might just disappear! But I also realize that all of Handke’s beautiful things are acts of generosity that are offered, shown to us as gifts… performances… also to be admired, ask for a requisite response; and since he so closely identifies with them… within those transactions between author and audience, where the author might withdraw and sulk if he is not sufficiently appreciated…- However, an actress, unless doubling as a French saint while with Peter Handke, will be more demanding and needy than an “as if,” and so the reasons why he as a writer who works at such a high level of concentration is not to be recommended as a mate… are, let me put it matter-of-factly… over-determined. Handke’s second wife, Sophie Semin, was a model when he met her in Paris, who instantly wanted to become an actress and left him when he had foisted this French actress onto Peymann for his production of The Play about the Film about the War {24}, shades of Citizen Kane I suppose, or maybe she begged him, and maybe she’s even talented; and Peymann is not someone who can say no to Handke. Handke did not go into a major fugueing cataclysm as he had when his first wife split, as usual he was already having an affair, while the wife, Sophie – the so talkative Don Juan told me around 1993 that he was emotionally withdrawing – thought him cadaverously cold as Moravian Nights also tells us. Handke’s last publically known major relationship was with the highly intelligent German T.V. and film star Katja Flint. Handke said – it was a commuting relationship – that maybe not living together it might work. It did for a few years, and Ms. Flint, not having had to suffer living with our man, continues to express fondness for him. So presumably she was not beaten up as many other women were and did not suffer the misery of having to live as a cave dweller for any length in the aboriginal Forêt de Chaville outside Paris. As Handke has written many a time: “Stay in the picture.” The only bad news for a model is no photo-op. Handke invariably asked for trouble and got it, and the question is why someone who knows and writes in Moravian Nights {5} that women prove a danger, and has become seriously paranoid about them if only to his all important work, has then tangled with such a profusion of them? And lost male friends over tangling with their girlfriends. Gratuitously as it were. And been totally unaware. And then thought they were still his friend. Vim Wenders who knows Handke personally far better than I did mentioned to me here in Seattle that Handke invariably hurts those closest to him, I did not ask how Wenders had been. Being who I am [or used to be] I once made a joke to Handke about how he had hurt me: he could not handle it! As of the mid-seventies I sought to be alone as little as possible with Handke, he spooked me, and for good reason. He might do something dreadful, and appear to be entirely forgetful, have dissociated it the next week. His work is marked by numerous irruptions of violence into the lyrical epical flow of the texts. Suddenly a drunken chain-wielding Indian appears in Sorger’s Alaska idyll, suddenly an old Nazi is righteously killed in Across. Most famously, of course, in Goalie, construction worker ex-goalie Josef Bloch sees water bubbles on a hot plate as ants whereupon he throttles his pick-up, no wonder the moment is so authentic and expressed with a powerful metaphor, Handke had immediate access to those feelings.

In A Child’s Story we can read Handke confess that in a moment of extreme irritation [the basement of his bungalow in Kronenburg was flooding] he smacked the head of his two year old distraught crying daughter! It takes very little to breach his threshold and elicit violence!

Handke mentions in his great play The Art of Asking {25}, that he “writes out of his wound” – it is a love-child’s wound, the wound made him an exhibitionist, competitively so, to which drive we also owe the work, the unceasing work, but also instances such as his fessing up to ugly things he has done, the boundary between the private and the public is breached. The most unfortunate aspect of traumas, after all, is that you become the wound that wounds over and over again and knows not what it is doing while trying to heal [it was nice to notice a few instances of the concept “the unconscious” cropping up in his Del Gredos-{26} – until the compulsion ceases, the eternal return that needs to be acted out over and over again, as it were, the compulsion to heal! What a conundrum! Handke might have the courage to face his wound, he would no longer be at its mercy, but that would require the kind of self-understanding that he so lacks, beyond phenomenological observations.

Handke introduces his admission to having beaten a woman in Moravian Night’s tactical concession defense, as a belated response to former lover and Lebensgefährte, collaborator on a film, now Erinye Marie Colbin’s going public, during the Handke/ Yugoslavia publicity wars in the 90s, {27} with a description of how Handke had nearly killed her. „I can still feel my head bang on the stone floor. I can still feel the mountain hiker boots hit my stomach and your fist in my face… As long as there are men in the world – men like you – one-eyed, unyielding, power-hungry and egomaniacal – there will be weapons and therefore war… Who are you, to think of yourself as so important. You are neither great, nor noble nor modest nor honest. A vain writer is what you are, who suns himself in the role of the solitary prophet… In some way you will be thankful for this war [The Yugoslav wars of 1994] because it will satisfy your insatiable longing for public acclaim.” - I myself would have to say that while I have found Handke at other moments to be the most empathic, generous and sensitive friend… albeit at a remove, unless it become a matter of his precious self-image even if you were supporting his work, that ever so unfortunately I have to agree with each and every item that Ms. Colbin lists and was only surprised that it took so long for one of these women to speak up, in this instance an exquisite actress whom my man exploited in the film they made of a Margaret Duras book who, however, as the now Erinye who haunts Handke’s books as of the 1984 Across, and after the beating haunted him all over Salzburg so that he had to go to a pub at its edges with his friends, and who still haunts him Moravian Night, a Fury who evidently has little appreciation at the moment [the usual forgetfulness at moments of such irruptions] she made her statement that a certain kind of extreme narcissism - is required to do work at Handke’s genius – after all, he lacks the modesty of a Bruckner - level, and that his [in this instance insatiable compensatory need to exhibit his wound – and have a response, to make contact] is one of the major drives that produces the books. He describes his egomaniacal behavior toward the end of Moravian where we find the “ex-author” with his half-brother in Griffen, and the brother describes what a horror Handke had been already as an adolescent when he wrote, terrorizing the entire family. Moravian’s belated response to Ms. Colbin’s more than ten year old charge - and what a lucky man he is that the beaten black and blue did not go to the police with whom Handke has also tangled several times – admits that he actually had wanted to kill her, something Ms. Colbin of course could not know that his hatred went so deep, but then, as Handke must since his public image is at stake, he creates the excuse, the lie that Colbin would not leave him alone to do his writing any single moment of the day. Unfortunately Handke has already beaten many other women and used to say in the 70s how his once girlfriend Jeanne Moreau had been the toughest fighter – and it turns out that that tough broad actually may have beaten him up {23}, I wouldn’t put it past her, at any event she so acquired Handke’s respect to have an extra role written for her for the film he made of his film/novel The Absence! In Moravian, Handke has himself blanking out at the moment of the wish to kill [thus he might have actually killed, and not remembered] and that’s the moment of psychosis that still rips as the censors did in Tsarist times. Towards the end of Moravian, the protagonist narrator in an imaginary film sequence, knocks off the Erinye’s head, as she approaches him, and in innocence, which might mean that the injury she did to Handke’s self-image and in public is such that his hatred is as unbounded as is her lasting fury! Such are the wages of narcissistic injuries.

Handke, the writer, may be “the one,” but he himself makes it very clear in No-Man’s-Bay {28} that as a person he is anything but – not that that stops the confusions of idol worship based on what artistry can do.

Handke’s misogyny of course comes as a great surprise as it does from the writer of Sorrow Beyond Dream, it appears it is possible to writer and not learn from what one writes oneself!

However, it is Handke’s self-righteousness that I find his most unpleasant quality, e.g. Handke calling Günter Grass belated public admission [also to get in on that publicity storm!] to having let himself be drafted into the Waffen-SS at age 17 [a matter actually quite well known already during the 60s at least in Berlin] a vergüenza [Handke’s explosion – he also calls them his “sacred rage” - first appeared in Spanish] - in Moravian he has his woman call him a “hanging judge” [Dorf Richter] - calls it a profound shame, that everyone knew at age 17 what the SS did [if Americans could only become as ashamed of their Special Forces and CIA crimes and their major war criminals, who all ought to undergo a Nuremberg tribunal and then be hanged, if need be posthumously and be similarly iconized; which no doubt would require a conquest by the Martians!] it certainly is a far greater vergüenza for someone aged 30 to nearly kill his own two year old baby girl in a fit of irritation and to keep beating up wives and girlfriends just because you saw your hated stepfather do so, for an entire decade, with no end of hideous sequaelae. But at least the author of Moravian can now make fun of himself, though he might pin the great quote he uses at the beginning of his great play The Play About the Film About the War to his forehead, or maybe keep it in his pocket and at any upsurge of righteousness look at it: “Mistakes by others that highlight equivalent errors of our own precipitate a moral disappointment that permits us to assume the strict and noble stance of both judge and victim and gives rise to an inner state of moral euphoria. This euphoria distances us swiftly and surely from the process of personal moral perfection and makes of us terrible and merciless and even bloodthirsty judges. Ivo Andric, Signs by the Wayside

There also exist great analysts in Paris, and analysis, after all, painful as it may be at times, also affords no end of previously unknown totally unexpected riches for the effort involved by both parties in that adventure. And Handke would find out that though he thinks of the language in which the therapeutic is discussed to be “dog language” that that is not the case during its practice.

Handke did major psychic reorganizational and not just writer’s work in his 1986 The Repetition, {30} – where he has his surrogate Filip Kobal – the name of a 19^th century Slovene independence revolutionary - repeats Handke’s own post high school graduation trek to Slovenia, among the many other matters that it repeats and retrieves [going back to his first novel, Die Hornissen and fulfilling the promise of the last sentence of Sorrow Beyond Dreams that he would get back to all of that once more later], learned Slovenian, his grandfather’s language, and created his own Slovenian-German dictionary, and thus acquired a firm identity of his grandfather, who already in 1921 voted for the first Yugoslav confederation and was no longer Kafka’s eternal son and apprentice of Kafka’s Letter to My Father. Subsequently his writing changed dramatically and he ventured forth on another of the seven year phases with his Three Essays [1989,90,91-{7}] in which you can rough out the rake’s progress, and wrote most of his later great works, the play The Hour We Knew Nothing of Each Other [1992], My Year in the Nomans-Bay [1993], The Play About the Film About the War [1994]; the novels Crossing the Sierra Del Gredos; [2002], the 2007 Kali and the 2008 Moravian Night, to mention just the highpoints in a stupendous output of all kinds. We have a living classic amongst us! And I read recently that Mr. Handke and Ms. Semin have reconciled, after everyone had another bunch of affairs and that he has found in her someone whom he can regard as “ebenbürtig”, co-equal, a nice and rare state of being indeed. And if not exactly a pussy cat, Handke makes up to his second daughter what he deprived his first of. Of course he is still an inveterate lover of all things Yugoslav and continues to insist on the immense injustice perpetrated there, and in that respect I am all with him, and then some. So if all does not end well it does at least up to a point. If anyone deserves the Nobel Prize it is Handke, though not for any single book, but for the entire amazing oeuvre, his work does, to call world wide attention to how the logos has been renovated and enlarged, not he himself. But both he and his work are unlikely to receive the ultimate laurel because of the stand and how he took his stand in matters Serbian, where he led me, who found his self-exposure most suspect by then, to come to agreement with him, and then some, in matters of Western destabilization. I would put in special mention of the following works in the citation: The plays Public Insult, Kaspar, Ride Across Lake Constance, The Hour, The Art of Asking; The Play about the Film about the War; the prose works, Der Hausierer; Short Letter Long Farewell, Left-Handed Woman, No-Man’s-Bay, Essay on the Jukebox, Absence, Del Gredos, Don Juan, Kali and would cite Moravian for containing patches of some of his greatest writing from which no end of future writer can learn, take off… then I would let the Erinyes out of their cages! Just think of the media hullaballoo! “Nobel Prize winner devoured by tigresses!”

Footnotes:

1] Robert Tuch,

2] http://picasaweb.google.com/mikerol/HANDKE3ONLINE#

3] The Lesson of St. Victoire can be found as part of the recently re-issued A Slow Homecoming NYRB-Books]

4] Haslinger, Die Jugend eines Schrifstellers,

5] Moravian Night will not appear in English for some years, but I have written at length on it at

http://handke-watch.blogspot.com/ with ample links to other takes on the book.

6] Sorrow Beyond Dreams [Wunschloses Unglueck] also available from NYRB-Books. A close reading of S.B.D. and Myer’s et al’s work on the traumatic effect of continuous exposure to the primal scene, much less than what Handke was subjected to, serve as the background for my thoughts here. Otherwise check the online resources via http://soldzresearch.com/PsychoanalyticResourcesOnline.htmh

7] The Essay on Tiredness is one of Handke’s Three Essays [Farrar, Straus and Giroux]

8] Across [Chinese des Schmerzens], F.S.G.

9] In this I follow Heinz Kohut’s thinking.

10] See my analysis of one of the poem Singular and Plural from Handke’s Innerworld of the Outerworld of the Innerworld at http://www.handkelectures.freeservers.com for what I mean very specifically. Continuum Books. O.U.P.

11] Handke/ Gamper: Aber ich Lebe doch nur von den Zwischenraeumen, Suhrkamp Verlag.

12] in Kaspar and Other Plays Hill+Wang/F.S.G. and in The Compleat Plays of Peter Handke Volume I, Methuen.

13] Exquisite bus event descriptions can be found in Essay on the Juke Box, My Year in the No-Man’s-Bay, but especially in the second section of Moravian Nights which has an absolute tour de force one.

14] Die Hornissen [1966] Suhrkamp Verlag.

15] See Fabjan Hafner Peter Handke Unterwegs ins Neunte Land for a first rate placing of the Balkan background in his work

16] Walk About the Villages, Ariadne Press, 1995, also contains a description of translating under extremis in analyis.

17] Der Hausierer, Suhrkamp Verlag, also available in Romance language translations.

18] A Child’s Story [1981] was made part of the American edition of A Slow Homecoming, see fn. # 6 above.

19] see http://www.van.at/see/mike/index.htm

For a long amusing account of that visit.

20] Nonsense and Happiness, Urizen Books, 1976. Out of print. Just republished in German in Handke’s compleat poems, Das Leben Ohne Poesie, also available in a fine Spanish translation in its entirety.

21] A Moment of True Feeling, Farrar, Straus; Stunde der Wahren Empfindung, Suhrkamp Verlag [1974]

22] Weight of the World [1976], Farrar Straus. Das Gewicht der Welt, Suhrkamp, 1975

23] The correspondence of Nikolaus Born and Peter Handke.

24] Voyage by Dugout or The Play of the Film of the War translated by Scott Abbott [unpublished], Die Fahrt im Einbaum, das Stück zu Film über den Krieg, Suhrkamp Verlag. There exist translations into Greek and Serbian.

25] The Art of Asking & The Hour We Knew Nothing of Each Other are published in one volume by Yale University Press, Gitta Honegger, translator.

26] Crossing the Sierra del Gredos, translated by Krishna Winston, F.S.+G. 2008; I have written at great length about this novel at: http://handke-discussion.blogspot.com/

Which also has a long take on the Milosevic controversy.

27] her statement first in Der Falter, and was picked up

http://www.spiegel.de/kultur/literatur/0,1518,24228,00.html

28] My Year in the No-Man’s-Bay, translated by Krishna Winston, F.S.G. 1996.

29] The Repetition, translated by Ralph Mannheim, F.S.G. 1988.

I and many others have written extensively on the above and if you follow:

http://www.handke.scriptmania.com/favorite_links_1.html

though shalt find!

CONTRIBUTION TO AN IJPA DISCUSSION ON ANALYSTS ADMITTING ERRORS TO THEIR PATIENTS

2009-07-09T09:09:00.000-07:00

The underlying discussion between Jessica Benjamin and Vic
Sedlac can be found at this link:
http://www3.interscience.wiley.com/journal/118902549/home?CRETRY=1&SRETRY=0
Below my comment, the dream mention there is the previous entry in this blog. Michael Roloff

I wholeheartedly endorse Jessica Benjamin’s call for openness on the analyst’s part, especially at moments when the analyst has erred; and I have a priceless and ever so musical anecdote from my own analysis with a vibrantly attuned analyst as an emphatic exclamation point.
    Among the requests, conditions – experienced, a man, preferably of his [ my grandfather’s age! I subsequently realized] I made of the analysts who would find me my analyst was that that analyst also speak German: little as I knew then, I knew enough to know that there might be moments that my mother tongue would crop up. With all requests but that of the analyst’s age being fulfilled - and noticing during the interim prior to taking to the couch that my analyst was flinchingly hyper-sensitive, thus apparently, instinctively assured of empathy - he then claimed that he didn’t know German; and, quite characteristically, the thought shot through my head, ah well, can’t really make such a big difference, what a hassle it would be to find another after we’ve got this far, en face. Well into the analysis, at about the time of reliving of a crucial trauma of abandonment at age 9 months, burning, the brain seemingly wasting away,
this indeed hyper-vigilant analysand - highly musical, and having translated German prose and poetry at the highest level, and keenly made aware of accents since earliest days in the United States - had by that time noticed an accent in my man’s voice, amplified especially by the answering machine where he left the occasional message.
    Preceding the climactic dream, I had started to read, kept re-reading as a matter of fact, The Interpretation of Dreams, and even felt that maybe we could conduct the analysis - conducted already so frequently in metaphors - entirely in the form of dream analyses From this endeavor my man sought to dissuade me, pointing out - overall correctly, yet specifically incorrectly and far too "by the book" - that the whole spectrum of information of which I might deliver myself would be preferable, not counting on an utterly stubborn part of someone who can be equally obliging, which I was not consciously aware at that point might prove one of the most powerful resistances.
    Prior to the dream in question there had at least been one other “testing” dream, testing whether my so instantaneously responsive, “quick as lighting” as I thought of him, might know German. That dream features an oak maquis and a huge beech tree near my childhood home, and the German proverb: “Eiche weiche, Buche suche.” Avoid the oak tree, seek the beech – in a lightning storm. When delivery of this drew no response, I recall, with real amusement now at the devisements of my unconscious maneuvers [how could consciousness construct something along those lines!], saying quite disingenuously, wearing a fool’s cap for sure: “I wonder why I am dreaming that?” No reaction from my analyst, which part of me interpreted as: “He doesn’t know proverbial German.” 'Gotta try something else,' the unconscious seemed to have decided then, and thus devised that night the dream that is recounted in full at: http://analytic-comments.blogspot.com/
    The dream featured Schubert’s setting of the famous Goethe Der Erlkönig {Lord or King of the Reeds} ballad… Apparently I knew not only the poem, as I know/ knew quite a few Goethe poems by heart, but also the music. It veritably sang inside me that night. Ah what a dream offering I had for my man! Instant on settling on the couch and starting to recount the dream, the analyst was singing the Schubert setting of the Goethe poem. If proof ever there was of attunedness… this was it, no? Upon that “singing” [in each and every sense of the word, also colloquial in American punning] my instantaneity was: “I thought you didn’t know German.” [Thus the title of the dream: Trapping the Trapper]
    I of course cannot speak for what went on in my analysts at that moment, but prior to that he had even apologized for the slightest [from my point of view] mistakes, such as: “I owe you five minutes,” when he had been that amount late.{“I might have and ought to have I suppose - but I was utterly polite still - replied: Oh Jesus, you are beginning to sound just like my governess [!]} Or for calling me an “idealist” when saying that seemed to have put a bit of a dent in the transference, indeed I had the self-fantasy of being a “practical idealist.” Actually one reason I was on the couch was because I can’t say I was very good at the practical part of that. But I imagine that the reason for my man’s maneuver in claiming that he did not know German was that it would allow him [with the best of intentions of course!] to find whatever discrepancy might appear between my saying something in German and then, with a more conscious part of the mind, translating it into English: but best to my recollection that had never occurred, and it sure didn’t afterwards since ever afterwards when something German would crop up I would rub it in by saying: “You do know German, don’t you?” “Yes, I do.” Talking about role reversal! I now was Goethe, he wasn't! Not a nice part of me at all!
     However, my man for once neither apologized nor offered an explanation. An explanation which would have involved filling me in on how his analytic instrument worked, what he had been up to, would have been the best apology of course, and then this particular analytic diad could have worked in far less of a cat and mouse fashion, but better together. As it was, I had won, where I had not wanted to win, and winning for once seemed not to be part of the relationship, or so I had hoped, and was now running him, had toppled the Laius in the armchair, that perfect instrument that had become limited by its too literal adherence, among others, to too literal adherence to concepts of resistance,
instead of being held by him as the burning child - abandoned by its mother had apparently wanted to be held by its father - once upon a long ago but then right there again - and he kept making one mistake after the other, until I withdrew, thoroughly spooked; the attunedness had been destroyed; it had become discordant; and did not complete the analysis – in as much it can even be completed in such a case such as mine with its set of complicated traumas - until after several years of working on my own – on a profusion of thence ensuing dreams – and on the West coast, and in a most unorthodox and productive fashion: I’d either to go my new man’s office or he’d come out visit me in my chaparral haven, we’d walk, we’d lie down next to each other in the grass, sometimes one or the other would sit on a rock, time was irrelevant, the entire rigmarole of the setting could be thrown overboard, we worked either completely disciplined or free form fashion.

2] Which brings me to my second point. Jessica Benjamin presents the case of a woman who was seduced at age fourteen as then having “acted out sexually.” I am bothered by the manner of presentation, where I realize Ms. Benjamin needs to be condensed. But most fourteen year old girls are also sexually precocious if not seductive and the phrase “sexually acted out” strikes me as analytically dismissive, unpleasantly value laden of what occurred. I think Ms. Benjamin did entirely the appropriate thing in calling her patient’s attention to what in fact used to be called “other directed”… that part of the superego that is based on communal shame, and I am only surprised that it took her so long to free her patient of that. E.g. in a society where young girls are initiated into sex by older men [no doubt also for selfish male reasons] no shame would be attached, would it? In Mexico where I then lived for some years there is a feast called quinze años, their coming out, and by sixteen just about each and every one had a bêbe, and a bêbe shawer, as the American custom has been transliterated, and if they were lucky they got their bêbe from the favorite stud musician, basketball player, and now probably drug dealer! And there was no female shame, only pride! in being fertile and having a bêbe! Rarely have I seen Freud’s equation penis=bêbe so directly fulfilled; also the notion of castration anxiety where every child, both male and female, shield their genitals whenever frightened, and with total unselfconsciousness, and of course some grownups, too still.
    The most horrendous consequence that our shame+sin+guilt-based culture saw during the past half century was of course Lyndon Johnson’s fear of being known as being soft on communism! Alas, those who died for his sense of shame….
    This brief diversion and these examples bring me to make a suggestion to a practice to which I indeed owe an immense amount, if not very specifically except in a few instances, but very much in general. Analysis works, it works inside the heart of the world, so why does it not speak the world’s tongue? The language appears deficient however in having nothing better than the word “relationship” for what occurs specifically in the encounter of any two biological beings, [nor does German either with Verhältniss, although that word too, implies the possibility of an relationship also being sexual] a multiplicity of relations occur, and so we now also have the concept of an “analytic third” for what used to be simply called the analytic relationship, which indeed is very special in that it allows of special forms of closeness, of repair, and of distancing can be explored.
    It speaks simply in its practice, doesn’t it? It does between its members? Why cannot a conversation between capable analysts be conducted in something other than what to outsiders must seem like Latinate gibberish? Stop the mumbo jumbo, the pretense at science, at having a “scientific language.” Psychoanalyst have become the new priesthood and all the things to be said against priesthoods and factions and schismatics apply to it meanwhile as well, and it is a true shame, and it is all about power! And we know what power does, it corrodes.
    Be as straight as possible with patients at the inception of the procedure. E.g. “Think of me like Jacque Cousteau, I have taken many trips to the ocean trench, I had good teachers I think, we are going to take this trip together, I will be your guide, I have considerable confidence in myself, but we are going there the two of us, together, and the deeper we spiral the more closely we will be tied together in our verbal tangle, entwined, and as a twosome there will be times we enter unfamiliar territory, and where I will need your support and guidance, really, I may even become desperate for it,
this has happened with each of those I have guided there. All I can promise is an adventure…”   The analysand’s commitment to speak as truthfully needs to be matched by that of the analyst’s, and I think the profession as a whole would benefit.

As a matter of fact, I wrote up the entire analysis, then, as “A Patient’s Experience of his analysis,” to make sure, as best I could, so as not to miss anything pertaining to the dream.