Constructions of Melancholy in Contemporary German and Austrian Literature (Cultural History and Literary Imagination) [New ed.] 9783034307338, 9783035303940, 3034307330

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Melancholy has become a central theme of German literature since the fall of the Berlin Wall in 1989. The rapidly changing sociopolitical circumstances of the post-1989 period and the continued burden of the Nazi past have directly contributed to this upsurge in melancholy themes. This book traces the complex discourse of melancholy in contemporary literature in the work of Monika Maron, Christoph Hein, Arno Geiger and Alois Hotschnig. Focusing on key concepts of melancholy – time, transience, historical dislocation and posthistoire – the author’s readings reveal the close connection between the body and melancholy from ageing to our gendered relationships with history. This study also emphasizes the relevance of melancholy for current theoretical issues in German Studies, including Heimat discourse, genealogy and transgenerational memory, and postmemory.

Anna O’ Driscoll received her PhD in German from University College Dublin in 2010 and has published on the topic of melancholy and GDR writers and artists. She is currently working as a freelance translator.

ISBN 978-3-0343-0733-8

www.peterlang.com

Anna O’ Driscoll • Constructions of Melancholy in Contemporary German and Austrian Literature

CULTURAL HISTORY AND LITERARY IMAGINATION

Constructions of Melancholy in Contemporary German and Austrian Literature ANNA O’ DRISCOLL

Peter Lang

Melancholy has become a central theme of German literature since the fall of the Berlin Wall in 1989. The rapidly changing sociopolitical circumstances of the post-1989 period and the continued burden of the Nazi past have directly contributed to this upsurge in melancholy themes. This book traces the complex discourse of melancholy in contemporary literature in the work of Monika Maron, Christoph Hein, Arno Geiger and Alois Hotschnig. Focusing on key concepts of melancholy – time, transience, historical dislocation and posthistoire – the author’s readings reveal the close connection between the body and melancholy from ageing to our gendered relationships with history. This study also emphasizes the relevance of melancholy for current theoretical issues in German Studies, including Heimat discourse, genealogy and transgenerational memory, and postmemory.

Anna O’ Driscoll received her PhD in German from University College Dublin in 2010 and has published on the topic of melancholy and GDR writers and artists. She is currently working as a freelance translator.

 

www.peterlang.com

Anna O’ Driscoll • Constructions of Melancholy in Contemporary German and Austrian Literature

CULTURAL HISTORY AND LITERARY IMAGINATION

Constructions of Melancholy in Contemporary German and Austrian Literature ANNA O’ DRISCOLL

Peter Lang

Constructions of Melancholy in Contemporary German and Austrian Literature

CULTURAL HISTORY AND LITERARY IMAGINATION EDITED BY CHRISTIAN J. EMDEN & DAVID MIDGLEY VOL. 17

PETER LANG

Oxford • Bern • Berlin • Bruxelles • Frankfurt am Main • New York • Wien

Constructions of Melancholy in Contemporary German and Austrian Literature Anna O’ Driscoll

PETER LANG

Oxford • Bern • Berlin • Bruxelles • Frankfurt am Main • New York • Wien

Bibliographic information published by Die Deutsche Nationalbibliothek Die Deutsche Nationalbibliothek lists this publication in the Deutsche Nationalbiblio­ grafie; detailed bibliographic data is available on the Internet at http://dnb.d-nb.de. A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data: O’Driscoll, Anna. Constructions of melancholy in contemporary German and Austrian literature / Anna O’Driscoll. p. cm. Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 978-3-0343-0733-8 (alk. paper) 1. German literature--History and criticism. 2. Austrian literature--History and criticism. 3. Melancholy in literature. I. Title. PT137.M3O37 2012 830.9’353--dc23 2012036864 Cover image: Albrecht Dürer, Melencolia I, 1514. Copperplate engraving. Albertina, Vienna Inv. DG1930/1525 © Albertina, Vienna. Reproduced with permission. ISSN 1660-6205 ISBN 978-3-0343-0733-8 (print) ISBN 978-3-0353-0394-0 (eBook) © Peter Lang AG, International Academic Publishers, Bern 2013 Hochfeldstrasse 32, CH-3012 Bern, Switzerland [email protected], www.peterlang.com, www.peterlang.net All rights reserved. All parts of this publication are protected by copyright. Any utilisation outside the strict limits of the copyright law, without the permission of the publisher, is forbidden and liable to prosecution. This applies in particular to reproductions, translations, microfilming, and storage and processing in electronic retrieval systems. Printed in Germany

I dedicate this book to my parents, Nellie and Ted O’ Driscoll, in love and gratitude.

Contents

Acknowledgements ix Chapter 1

Introduction 1 Chapter 2

Melancholy Subjectivity in Monika Maron’s Endmoränen and Ach Glück 33 Chapter 3

Christoph Hein’s Frau Paula Trousseau: Art as Refuge in the GDR

77

Chapter 4

Arno Geiger’s Es geht uns gut: A Posthistoire Narrative?

143

Chapter 5

Alois Hotschnig’s Ludwigs Zimmer: Evidence of a Pre-Psychological Melancholy Paradigm

199

Conclusion 235 Bibliography 243 Index 251

Acknowledgements

I would like to thank the supervisor of my thesis, Professor Anne Fuchs, for her invaluable assistance and support. I would also like to gratefully acknowledge the funding I received during the course of my research: Humanities Institute of  Ireland scholarship (2005–2006); ÖAD (Austrian Exchange Service) one-semester scholarship (2006–2007); Irish Research Council for the Humanities and Social Sciences postgraduate scholarship (2007–2009); as well as a share of  the funds from the Helga and Hugh Staunton scholarship (German Section, School of  Languages and Literatures, University College Dublin). All translations are my own, apart from: page 51: Sigmund Freud, Mourning and Melancholia. The Standard Edition of  the Complete Psycho­ logical Works of  Sigmund Freud, Vol. XIV (1914–1916): On the History of  the Psycho-Analytic Movement, Papers on Metapsychology and Other Works (London: The Hogarth Press and the Institute of  Psycho-analysis, 1957), pp. 237–258 (p. 248); pages 54 and 55: Charles Baudelaire, The Flowers of  Evil, trans. by James McGowan (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1998), pages 83, 117, 161 and 163; page 183: John Osborne, The Origin of  German Tragic Drama (London: NLB, 1977), p. 66.

Chapter 1

Introduction

This book explores how melancholy, both as a pathological phenomenon and a cultural construct, is expressed in the novels of a selection of German and Austrian writers. The burden of  the past and sense of  loss in the present are the main drivers of melancholy sentiments in these texts. A number of motifs are used in this context, the struggle with a dif ficult legacy being an obvious evocation of  these conditions. While both historical and familial legacies lurk in the background of all of  the narratives analysed, they are most directly addressed in Arno Geiger’s Es geht uns gut as well as Christoph Hein’s Frau Paula Trousseau, the title of which specifically highlights the protagonist’s inability to escape the legacy of  her unhappy marriage to Hans Trousseau, along with other legacies that shape her life. The intrusion of  the past into the empty present, whether welcome or not, is also depicted through the long-standing association of melancholy with the spectral, a communication with ghosts being particularly evident in the novels of  Monika Maron and Arno Geiger. The feeling of  being stranded in the present, of  being left behind while others race into the future, is also an abiding motif. It is most powerfully expressed in the image of  ‘terminal moraines’, which is the title of  the first novel to be analysed here: Endmoränen. In analysing the aforementioned narratives one must focus not only on the sociopolitical conditions that may give rise to melancholy but also on the authors’ conscious interpretation of  the concept of melancholy and their desire to contribute to the dialogue on melancholy that has been enacted over many centuries. Recent years have indeed seen a boom in melancholy discourse. It is evident not only in the literary and philosophical analyses that form the background to this study but also in the wider cultural sphere. The most obvious example of  this was the large-scale art exhibition entitled

2

Chapter 1

‘Melancholy – Genius and Madness in the West’, which opened in Paris in 2005 and in Berlin in 2006.1 This exhibition demonstrated that melancholy has been an enduring motif  throughout the history of art and continues to be so up to the present. In his introduction to the volume Melancholie, published in Leipzig in 1999, Lutz Walther ref lects on the preoccupation with melancholy, which has been particularly evident in the Germanspeaking area. He wonders whether it has to do with the desire to rescue this concept from being reduced to a feeling of sentimental nostalgia, or instead indicates that behind the busy façade of our modern information and entertainment society there exists a burgeoning melancholic unease with the present conditions.2 The sense that the constant bustle of contemporary society is giving rise to melancholy sentiments recalls Wolf  Lepenies’s assertion that melancholy becomes a dominant topos when the vita activa dominates in any particular period over the vita contemplativa and that this has very much been the case since the success of capitalism. He considers the modern European era to have begun with the rational but optimistic Cartesian outlook on the world and ended with a melancholy turning away from the world, albeit only in the sphere of intellectuals.3 In order to understand the origins of contemporary melancholy sentiments, and to situate the above narratives within the melancholy tradition, it is necessary to trace the tradition of melancholy theory and discourse back to antiquity. The following is an overview of  how melancholy has been interpreted since its conceptual beginnings in ancient Greece, focusing on the moments in its history which are of particular significance for the interpretation of  the contemporary novels analysed here. 1

2 3

This exhibition was staged in the Galeries Nationales du Grand Palais, Paris from October 2005 to January 2006 and in the Neue Nationalgalerie, Berlin between February and May 2006. A similar exhibition, entitled ‘Saturn, Melancholie, Genie’, had already been staged at the Hamburger Kunsthalle from 31 March to 31 May 1992. Melancholie, ed. by Lutz Walther (Leipzig: Reclam, 1999), p. 11. Wolf  Lepenies, Melancholie und Gesellschaft, Mit einer neuen Einleitung: Das Ende der Utopie und die Wiederkehr der Melancholie (Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp Taschenbuch Verlag, 1998; originally published 1969), p. xix.

Introduction

3

Antiquity The theory of  the four humours, or quattuor humores, was first developed in The Nature of  Man, written by Hippocrates or his son-in-law Polybos in the fifth century BC.4 The system originated out of  the desire of  the Greeks to discover the primordial elements and qualities which could definitely be said to form the structure of  the microcosm of  the human body as well as the macrocosm of  the universe.5 Firstly, the four elements of  fire, air, water and earth were derived from the four basic entities of  the sun, sky, sea and earth. While this system worked at a macrocosmic level it needed to be adapted in order to be applied anthropologically. This was done by attributing a quality to each of  the elements: therefore to fire belonged heat; to the air, coldness; to water, dampness; and to earth, dryness.6 The next step was to align the four humours with the four elements. Hence, the blood was said to be like the air; yellow bile ref lected the qualities of  fire; black bile resembled earth; and phlegm the qualities of water.7 The four seasons were already linked to the four ages of man, probably by the Pythagoreans, and these were divided either into childhood, adolescence, adulthood and old age, or else youth was calculated to the age of  twenty, adulthood to the age of  forty, declining adulthood to about age sixty and after that old age.8 The inclusion of  blood in this classification was problematic in that it was conducive only to good health, and hence could not be considered as a cause of illness, even in excessive amounts. The opposite was true for black 4

5 6 7 8

This text first appeared around the year 400 BC. The first English translation was published in 1599 under the title ‘Discourse of  Human Nature Written by Hippocrates’ in The Key to Unknowne Knowledge. Or, a Shop of  Five Windowes from the French translation by Jean de Bourges (London: Edward White, 1599). Raymond Klibansky, Erwin Panofsky and Fritz Saxl, ‘Die Lehre von den “quattuor humores”’, in Melancholie, ed. by Lutz Walther, pp. 30–31. Klibansky et al., ‘Die Lehre von den “quattuor humores”’, pp. 33–36. Klibansky et al., ‘Die Lehre von den “quattuor humores”’, p. 30. Klibansky et al., ‘Die Lehre von den “quattuor humores”’, pp. 39–41.

4

Chapter 1

bile, as it was already believed to result from a degeneration of either yellow bile or blood, and thus was more likely than any of  the other humours to lead to ill health. It was also the only humour which was linked to only one specific disease, i.e. melancholy, albeit with many varying symptoms. Another major contrast between melancholy and the illnesses resulting from the other humours was that the majority of  the symptoms of melancholy were due to psychic dysfunction – ranging from fear, sadness, dejection, lassitude, a desire to isolate oneself  from society, etc. to actual madness. Since not everyone considered to have an excess of  black bile could be called psychically abnormal, it was believed that a slight overabundance of  the humour would produce a melancholy temperament or disposition, whereas a considerable excess would lead to a mental disorder.9 Aristotle subscribed to this view and provided the first positive interpretation of melancholy in the Problemata Physica (written either by Aristotle or perhaps by one of  his followers, Theophrastus), in which the famous question appears: ‘Why is it that all men who have become outstanding in philosophy, statesmanship, poetry or the arts are melancholic?’. Thus the link was formed between melancholy and genius, a connection which has abided throughout the history of  the concept. The negative aspects of a melancholy temperament are not downplayed however. According to Aristotelian theory the black bile can become too hot as well as too cold and the melancholiac’s brilliance can only be maintained if  the temperature of  his bile is regulated. If it becomes too hot it will lead to madness or epilepsy; if it becomes too cold it will cause depression. Maintaining a balance is dif ficult; therefore the melancholy type is always prone to falling ill.10

9 10

Klibansky et al., ‘Die Lehre von den “quattuor humores”’, pp. 44–48. The Nature of  Melancholy: From Aristotle to Kristeva, ed. by Jennifer Radden (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000), p. 56.

Introduction

5

The Middle Ages The early Middle Ages saw the reintroduction of  the ancient Greek teachings on melancholy. The genius dimension of melancholy disappeared and psychic and physical suf fering became the focal point. In the Early Middle Ages Arabian astrologers were the first to connect the four temperaments to the planets, linking melancholy to the planet Saturn. The coldness, dryness and darkness already connected to the melancholy disposition were also believed to be the distinguishing features of  this planet. However, the association which is of most interest for this study is that between Saturn and Chronos, and therefore between melancholy and transience: Schon in der Spätantike verschmolz der alte römische Flur- und Saatengott Saturnus mit der mythologischen Gestalt des Titanengottes Kronos, des Herrschers des Goldenen Zeitalters […] Zudem kommt durch den Gleichklang von Kronos und Chronos, dem antiken Gott der Zeit, der Aspekt der Zeitlichkeit und Vergänglichkeit zum Melancholiegott Saturn und dem Melancholiediskurs hinzu.11 [In late antiquity Saturn, the old Roman god of sowing and harvesting, had already been conf lated with the mythological figure of  Kronos, the Titan god and ruler of  the Golden Age. Moreover, through the consonance of  Kronos and Chronos, the ancient god of  time, the element of  temporality and transience came to be associated with the melancholy god Saturn and incorporated into melancholy discourse.]

In the later Middle Ages melancholy was associated with the theological concept of acedia, which characterized the lethargy and despondency of  those who were unable to devote themselves joyfully to God. Thus melancholy was turned around from being a medical condition or temperamental disposition to being something which the individual was responsible for.12 This link between what we might call the medical and theological aspects of melancholy was made by Hildegard von Bingen in the twelfth century and Thomas Aquinas in the thirteenth century. Apart from her work on 11 Walther, Melancholie, p. 17. 12 Walther, Melancholie, p. 17.

6

Chapter 1

acedia, Hildegard von Bingen was the first and indeed only theorist to establish a clearly genderized classification of melancholy; therefore her work is essential for an analysis of contemporary melancholy discourse.13 Her assessment of melancholy symptoms is entirely negative, in the case of men as well as women, in contrast to the Aristotelian observation, cited above, and the later Renaissance conception of  the connection between melancholy and male genius. In fact, as Schiesari points out, Hildegard’s ‘conceptual rigor firmly eschew(s) any privileging of some psychological apotheosis over physiological baseness.’14 In her classification women and men are subjected to dif ferent but equally pernicious symptoms. Of particular interest are the social consequences that these ef fects entail for melancholy women: Aufgrund einer schwachen und gebrechlichen Gebärmutter sind [Melancholikerinnen] in der Regel unfruchtbar und werden von Männern gemieden. Es ist ihrer Gesundheit förderlich, wenn sie ihr Leben ohne einen Ehegatten verbringen. Die melancholische Frau steht demnach entschieden im Gegensatz zu ihrer Rolle als Ehefrau und Mutter, die ihr von der religiös-patriarchalischen Gesellschaft auferlegt wird.15 [Owing to a weak and fragile womb, melancholic women are barren, as a rule, and shunned by men. It is beneficial to their health if  they spend their lives without a husband. The melancholic woman is thus decidedly in conf lict with her role as wife and mother, which is imposed on her by the religious-patriarchal society.]

The consequences for women of a patriarchal society, as well as for men who seek to break away from stereotypical roles, is a main concern for Christoph Hein and will be discussed with reference to his latest novel in Chapter 3.

Juliana Schiesari, The Gendering of  Melancholia: Feminism, Psychoanalysis, and the Symbolics of  Loss in Renaissance Literature (Ithaca/London: Cornell University Press, 1992), p. 141. 14 Schiesari, The Gendering of  Melancholia, p. 142. 15 Walther, Melancholie, p. 18. 13

Introduction

7

The Renaissance The Renaissance saw the revival of the classical writings on melancholy and the creative aspects of melancholy were brought to the fore again, particularly through the link with Saturn. The Italian humanist Marsilio Ficino believed that all scholars are under the inf luence of  Mercury, but that those who contemplate more deeply are all children of  Saturn. Just as the earth’s centre of gravity is in the middle, so they are drawn into their own soul and into the heart of  things.16 The Aristotelian idea that all great men were melancholiacs turned into the claim that all melancholiacs were great men. Nevertheless, Ficino did not discount the negative ef fects of melancholy, the third volume of his De vita triplici consisting of a comprehensive therapeutic approach to accentuating the positive ef fects of a melancholy temperament while ensuring that one did not fall prey to its negative aspects. The humanists dif ferentiated between male and female melancholiacs. Unlike Hildegard von Bingen, who had assessed both sexes equally, the glorification of melancholy meant that the humanists considered only men capable of creativity and genius, whereas women were always associated with the negative, pathological side of melancholy. This gender alignment continued to inf luence conceptions of melancholy into the twentieth century, as will be seen below, and is thematized by contemporary authors such as Monika Maron and Christoph Hein.

Albrecht Dürer No study of melancholy can ignore the significance of  Albrecht Dürer’s Melencolia I, produced in 1514. It is a seminal work, not just from an iconographical perceptive, but because of its inf luence on artists of all media. 16 Wagner-Egelhaaf, Die Melancholie der Literatur, p. 49.

8

Chapter 1

The engraving has thus informed all subsequent writings on melancholy and inspired an amazing number of interpretations, continuing to do so up to the present day. As Hartmut Böhme illustrates in his analysis of  the piece, it is impossible to formulate a complete and total interpretation of  the engraving, as attempts to do so have led to one-sided and false perceptions.17 Even deciphering what exactly the various images in the engraving are has proved to be dif ficult, as it is not clear whether the figure sitting in the forefront is a woman, a man, an angel or a genius. Apart from the central figure itself, the important motifs for the present context include the image of  the head resting on the hand, the dog, and also the various instruments that surround the personification of melancholy. Firstly, as it is a fist on which the head is resting, one could refer to the emblematic connection between the fist and the miserly nature associated with melancholiacs, but because the fist is supporting the head, the centre of  thought and imagination, this motif  takes on a completely dif ferent meaning, and emphasizes rather the thoughtful nature of melancholy.18 Secondly, the dog is the animal classically depicted as the companion of melancholiacs and also of  learned men. His sleepiness represents perhaps the sleepiness attributed to the melancholic person but he may also represent a contrast to ref lective melancholy. Thirdly, the various instruments represent geometry, which is linked to Saturn. The hourglass measures not only the passage of  time, but also defines a moment in time of melancholy ref lection balanced between the past and the future. The Jupiter tablet was meant to counterbalance the negative inf luence of  Saturn, the god of melancholy and it also portrays the height of mathematical competence.19 Böhme does not perceive the inactivity of melancholy, surrounded by so many objects of geometry and measurement, as negative, since in his writings Dürer emphasizes the importance of ref lection on the use and meaning of such instruments as well as on one’s own limits and abilities.20 Hartmut Böhme, Albrecht Dürer Melencolia I: Im Labyrinth der Deutung (Frankfurt am Main: Fischer Taschenbuch Verlag, 1989), pp. 5–6. 18 Panofsky, ‘Die Kulmination’, p. 89. 19 Böhme, Albrecht Dürer Melencolia I, p. 28. 20 Böhme, Albrecht Dürer Melencolia I, pp. 51–52. 17

Introduction

9

More important than an interpretation of each of  the elements singularly is an understanding of  their combined ef fect. Of particular significance is the combining of melancholy and geometry, both of which had a specific iconographic usage until then but had never been brought together before. It resulted in the intellectualization of melancholy, on the one hand, and the humanization of geometry on the other hand. Melancholiacs had earlier been seen as unhappy misers and idlers, despised for their unsociability and general incompetency. Geometrists were previously regarded as abstract personifications of a noble science, who were incapable of  human emotion or suf fering. By combining the attributes of  both, Dürer was able to portray a ‘melancholia artificialis’, or in other words, an artist’s melancholy.21 The complex conceptualization of melancholy in Dürer’s image has inspired numerous artists and writers in the intervening centuries, not only through the rich associations of  the piece itself  but also in its elevation of  the artist. Those writers in the German-speaking world who have closely engaged with the work include Walter Benjamin, as will be seen below, and Günter Grass,22 while other prominent authors, such as Heinrich Böll and Wolfgang Hildesheimer, have engaged with various aspects of  the melancholy tradition.23 Of  the writers I have chosen to focus on in the following chapters, Monika Maron, Arno Geiger and Christoph Hein all allude to aspects of  the engraving, or, in the case of  Hein, to the paradigm of  the melancholy artist.

21 Panofsky, ‘Die Kulmination’, pp. 87–88. 22 Günter Grass, ‘Vom Stillstand im Fortschritt: Variationen zu Albrecht Dürers Kupferstich “Melencolia I”’, in Aus der Tagebuch einer Schnecke (Darmstadt: Luchterhand, 1972), pp. 544–567. 23 See for instance Günter Blamberger, Versuch über den deutschen Gegenwartsroman: Krisenbewußtsein und Neubegründung im Zeichen der Melancholie (Stuttgart: Metzler, 1985).

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Chapter 1

Baroque Period In the Baroque period the major contribution towards furthering the concept of melancholy was Robert Burton’s The Anatomy of  Melancholy, first published in 1621, but followed by many subsequent extended editions. Burton leans heavily on classical ideas of melancholy, in particular on humoral theory. He emphasizes the physiological aspects of  the disease and the therapeutic means of dealing with the many and varying symptoms of such a phenomenon: ‘The Tower of  Babel never yielded such confusion of  tongues as this Chaos of  Melancholy doth variety of symptoms.’24 In this respect he is following the template of writers who came before him, such as Ficino. Burton’s work also has a dominant sociological aspect, however. Wolf  Lepenies’ Melancholie und Gesellschaft focuses in particular on the relationship between melancholy and utopia and refers to the preface of  The Anatomy of  Melancholy, entitled ‘Democritus Junior to the Reader’, as being the first original utopia portrayed in English.25 Burton took the idea of melancholy as a phenomenon only applicable to the individual, whether in a positive or a negative way, and turned it into something which referred to the society or state as a whole. He achieved this universalization by suggesting not only that no person is free from melancholy, but also that it af fects plants, animals and even minerals. Since melancholy had so pervaded society, in his opinion, Burton developed a highly detailed and ordered utopia where there would be no cause for melancholy.26 Indeed, through the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries interpretations of melancholy were so diverse that all the symptoms associated with it could hardly be brought together to describe just one particular concept or condition. The symptoms of other illnesses such as hypochondria and hysteria were considered so similar to melancholy that it was dif ficult to distinguish them

24 Radden, The Nature of  Melancholy, p. 5. 25 Lepenies, Melancholie und Gesellschaft, p. 22. 26 Lepenies, Melancholie und Gesellschaft, pp. 25–28.

Introduction

11

from one another. It was only in the nineteenth century that advancements in medicine enabled the various conditions to be classified.27 Religious uncertainty following the Reformation was a major catalyst for feelings of  fear and melancholy during the Baroque period, ‘Angesichts der verheerenden politischen und religiösen Auseinandersetzungen der Barockzeit und dem sie begleitenden Vertrauensverlust in die göttliche Heilsgewißheit wird die Melancholie zum Signum einer ganzen Epoche’ [In the face of  the devastating political and religious conf licts of  the Baroque era, and the loss of  faith in divine salvation that accompanied these conf licts, melancholy became the hallmark of a whole epoch].28 The characteristics of  Baroque melancholy in the German context are the subject of  Walter Benjamin’s Ursprung des deutschen Trauerspiels. During the Counter-Reformation Catholicism had won back its control over secular life, which Lutheranism lost by renouncing the power of  human acts of goodness: ‘Jeder Wert war den menschlichen Handlungen genommen. Etwas Neues entstand: eine leere Welt’ [Human actions had been robbed of any value. Something new had emerged: an empty world].29 Benjamin’s analysis of  the sense of emptiness and meaninglessness engendered by a loss of  faith in the Baroque period can also be related to postmodern sentiments, as will be shown later. The preoccupation with mortality was especially prevalent, as seen in vanitas art, which emphasized the transience and futility of  life in its depictions of  hourglasses, which had already appeared in Dürer’s image, skulls, withering f lowers, rotten fruit, as well as musical instruments and disintegrating sheaves of paper, which symbolized the futility of our ef forts and pleasures in life. The notion of  transience is very prominent in contemporary perceptions of melancholy, as already mentioned, although without the religious connotations of  the Baroque. Nevertheless the loss of  faith in the contemporary context is shown to manifest itself in the

27 Walther, Melancholie, pp. 20–21. 28 Walther, Melancholie, p. 21. 29 Walter Benjamin, Ursprung des deutschen Trauerspiels (Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, 1978; originally published 1928), p. 119.

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Chapter 1

search for some alternative connection to the spiritual realm, as can be seen in Chapter 2. Concepts of utopia and of  the failure of utopian ideals also resurface in current representations of melancholy. Furthermore, the concept of melancholy as a group phenomenon also reappears, as will be seen in Chapter 5.

The Enlightenment Religious uncertainty turned into religious fanaticism during the Enlightenment, as outlined by Hans-Jürgen Schings in Melancholie und Aufklärung. Such religious fanatics and others who did not fit in with the secular, rational ideas of  the Enlightenment, or who denounced them publicly were branded as melancholiacs: ‘Die Melancholie wird zum ideenpolitischen Instrument, um jeden ideologischen Kontrahenten zu dif famieren und die eigene Position zu stärken’ [Melancholy becomes an instrument of political ideology in order to defame every ideological adversary and strengthen one’s own position].30 In fact Schings regards the Enlightenment to be paradoxically dominated by melancholy, in all of its various guises, just as the Baroque had been.31 The rational philosophy of  the Enlightenment entailed much contemplation on the nature of man, which itself often led to melancholy gloom. A widespread tendency toward inwardness and melancholy developed throughout society, af fecting not only the aristocrats, as it had in the seventeenth century, but also the middle class, according to Lepenies, who had achieved economic success and now were also striving for political power. As melancholy had become such a societal phenomenon, this led to it being positively valued;

30 Walther, Melancholie, p. 23. 31 Hans-Jürgen Schings, Melancholie und Aufklärung: Melancholiker und ihre Kritiker in Erfahrungsseelenkunde und Literatur des 18. Jahrhunderts (Stuttgart: Metzler, 1977), p. 3.

Introduction

13

one could reinterpret melancholy as a sentimental pleasure in one’s own despondency. Nature was viewed as the ideal topos in which to indulge in such emotions since reclusion, as the outward expression of inwardness, can only be realized in nature.32 Wolfram Mauser emphasizes that the high level of self-expression evident throughout the eighteenth century was not just the result of  the bourgeoisie or middle classes being excluded from all power relations, which is Lepenies’ thesis, but was due to their desire for not only political autonomy but for emotional freedom, and above all happiness – this being seen as the ultimate goal of society. The justification for this particular goal lay in the conviction that happiness was the correlate of nature and reason.33 Lepenies himself seems later to concede that melancholy could, in fact, have had no exogenous causes but come merely from the will of  the individual to experience such emotions, and thereby prove his autonomy to himself. The sentimentality of  the Enlightenment and Romantic periods seems to have known no bounds, as is evidenced in the literature of  the time. Goethe’s Die Leiden des jungen Werthers was, of course, a catalyst for this in the German context. Weeping, according to Lepenies, was very popular, being the most ‘active’ way of expressing emotion. Of course it was also a way of releasing feelings of melancholy and powerlessness. The cult of  letterwriting of  that period was not used primarily as a means of making contact with others but rather a way of doubling the output of emotions. The other person was regarded merely as a ref lection of oneself.34 Mauser’s understanding of  the causes of  bourgeois melancholy is more dif ferentiated in that he believes not only melancholy but other depressive disorders, such as hypochondria, to be the result of complex social factors, whereby the individual is, on the one hand, actually expected to be, and desires to be autonomous; but, on the other hand, is tied to traditional norms and responsibilities, not only through external pressures,

32 Lepenies, Melancholie und Gesellschaft, p. 97. 33 Wolfram Mauser, ‘Melancholieforschung des 18. Jahrhunderts’, in Melancholie, pp. 129–142 (pp. 136–137). 34 Lepenies, Melancholie und Gesellschaft, p. 100.

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Chapter 1

but through internalization of societal and religious expectations.35 The inclusion of  hypochondria here is interesting, in that it was conceived in the eighteenth century as a disorder bearing the symptoms associated with melancholy, but which emphasized the somatic aspects of melancholy, which had been downgraded since the Renaissance in favour of its psychic characteristics.36 It is not clear whether Mauser is using hypochondria here as it was originally understood, or in its present form, both of which would, in any case, imply that the suf fering endured was imaginary, or at least selfcreated. The connections between autonomy and authenticity that arise in this context are particularly fruitful for the analysis of contemporary melancholy sentiments.

Romanticism A reevaluation of  the melancholy phenomenon began to appear during the transition to Romanticism, as Schings outlines: Wenn im folgenden Metamorphosen der Melancholie besprochen werden sollen, so ist damit vor allem die sich neu ausbildende Melancholie der literarischen Intelligenz (oder doch gewisser Teile dieser Intelligenz) gemeint […] Die Melancholie der Genies steht, so unsere These, in einem deutlichen Ablöseverhältnis zur Melancholie der Schwärmer. Sie erbt deren Außenseiterrolle, erbt aber auch die Möglichkeit zur Neubewertung, zu neuer Dignität. Es zeichnet sich eine Konstellation ab, die der Melancholie-Theorie von Aristoteles/Theophrast neue Resonanz verschaf ft.37 [If, in the following, metamorphoses of melancholy should be discussed, it is the newly emerging melancholy of  the literary intelligentsia that I have in mind (or at least certain elements of  this intelligentsia). […] The melancholy of  the genius stands, according to our thesis, in a definite relationship of succession to the melancholy of 

35 Mauser, ‘Melancholieforschung des 18. Jahrhunderts’, p. 139. 36 Wagner-Egelhaaf, Die Melancholie der Literatur, p. 145. 37 Schings, Melancholie und Aufklärung, p. 225.

Introduction

15

the sentimentalists. It inherits their outsider role, inherits also, however, the possibility of a new evaluation, of new dignity. A constellation is emerging, which of fers new resonance to the melancholy theory of  Aristotle/Theophrastus.]

Thus we move from a type of melancholy with which mainly unbridled religious fanatics are af f licted to an elevated melancholy sensibility associated with poets and intellectuals. In reference to the metamorphoses in the concept of melancholy at the end of  the eighteenth century, as described by Schings, Franz Loquai posits the melancholy of the Romantic era as an instrument of opposition to rationalism, in contrast to the use of melancholy to brand those with anti-rationalist tendencies during the Enlightenment.38 The positive estimation of melancholy and of melancholic self-ex­ pression throughout Romanticism led to a revival of its connection with brilliance, and in fact to a cult of genius, building on the revitalization of  these concepts in the Renaissance.39 Nevertheless, the Romantic genius is an entirely lonely figure, since he is unable to reconcile his subjective desire for freedom with the constraints of objective social norms. He finds this freedom to an extent in nature, but the freedom af forded by the open expanses of nature also serves to heighten his loneliness as well as demonstrate his insignificance against the unending vastness of  the natural world. This is epitomized in the paintings of  Caspar David Friedrich.40 The relationship to nature in the Romantic era was markedly dif ferent from that of  the eighteenth century. Nature is not just conceived of as a backdrop to one’s own emotions but is appreciated in its power and majesty. This conception of nature is ref lected in the work of  Hotschnig and Maron. In the depiction of a protagonist with anti-rationalistic tendencies, Maron’s narratives also attempt to counteract the rationalism that dominates in contemporary society. The association of melancholy with creativity, which was revitalized during Romanticism, is also important for current representations, as will be seen in the last chapter. Franz Loquai, Künstler und Melancholie in der Romantik (Frankfurt am Main: Lang, 1984), p. 1. 39 See for instance Radden, The Nature of  Melancholy, p. 15. 40 Földényi, Melancholie, p. 231. 38

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Chapter 1

As previously mentioned, it was only in the late nineteenth century that a clear psychopathological understanding and classification of disease was developed. Wilhelm Griesinger was the first to ascertain that melancholia was characterized not just by depression, but by alternating manic and depressive phases.41 As Radden explains, for Griesinger the illness has subjective aspects: confounding by the patient of  the subjective change of exterior things, and then objective change, is the commencement of  that dreamy state, in which, when it has attained to a tolerably high degree, it appears to the patient as if  the real world had actually and completely vanished, – that it has sunk, disappeared, or is dead, and all that now remains to him is an imaginary world, in the midst of which he is perpetually tormented by finding that he has still to live.42

It is interesting to note that, even in psychiatric texts, this link between melancholy and the imagination has been retained. There is further evidence of  this in the work of  Emil Kraepelin, widely acknowledged as the most inf luential psychiatrist of  the late nineteenth and early twentieth century, in which he characterizes ‘depersonalization’ as one of  the symptoms of  the most benign type of melancholia. He writes: The impressions of  the external world appear strange, as though from a great distance, awake no response in them; their own body feels as if not belonging to them; their features stare quite changed from the mirror; their voice sounds leaden. Thinking and acting go on without the cooperation of  the patient; he appears to himself  to be an automatic machine.43

These experiences are remarkably similar to those described by Goethe in Werther, as Radden illustrates.44 These symptoms also correlate with the experiences of a disturbed relationship to space and time, which are described below.

41 Radden, The Nature of  Melancholy, p. 224. 42 Radden, The Nature of  Melancholy, pp. 227–228. 43 Radden, The Nature of  Melancholy, p. 261. 44 Radden, The Nature of  Melancholy, p. 261.

Introduction

17

Freud’s Inf luence The comprehension of melancholy in the twentieth century has been shaped by Freud’s essay of 1917, entitled ‘Trauer und Melancholie’.45 His contribution to the concept of melancholy followed the long tradition of characterizing the ambiguities of its symptoms, which include both somatic and psychogenic af fections, and the dif ficulty of defining it as a single entity.46 Freud sees both grief and melancholy as distinguished by loss; in both cases the loss is related to a certain object, which may be represented by a loved one, but also by an abstract ideal, such as the fatherland or freedom. The distinguishing features of  both grief and melancholy are: ‘eine tiefe schmerzliche Verstimmung, eine Aufhebung des Interesses für die Außenwelt, durch den Verlust der Liebesfähigkeit [und] durch die Hemmung jeder Leistung’ [a deeply distressing depressive mood and an abrogation of interest in the outside world caused by the loss of  the ability to love [and] through the repression of all activity].47 However, melancholy is also characterized by very low self-esteem, to the extent of self-reproach and self-loathing.48 Freud points out that it does not occur to us to consider the state of mourning pathological since it is a process that can be easily explained: the ego, having accepted that the love object no longer exists, begins to gradually break of f all libido connections with the lost love object and once the work of mourning has been completed will again be free and uninhibited. In the case of melancholy the nature of  the inhibition is far more dif ficult to determine. In some cases the analyst cannot clearly recognize what has been lost, and thus must conclude that the melancholy person is likewise not able to comprehend what he/she has 45 Sigmund Freud, ‘Trauer und Melancholie’, in Psychologie des Unbewußten. Studienausgabe, Bd. III, ed. by Alexander Mitscherlich, Angela Richards and James Strachey (Frankfurt am Main: Fischer, 1989), pp. 193–212. This essay was written in 1915. 46 Freud, ‘Trauer und Melancholie’, p. 197. 47 Freud, ‘Trauer und Melancholie’, p. 198. 48 Freud, ‘Trauer und Melancholie’, p. 198.

18

Chapter 1

lost. This, indeed, might be so even when the patient was aware of  the loss giving rise to the melancholia, that is, when he knows whom he has lost but not what it is he has lost in them. This would suggest that melancholia is in some way related to an unconscious loss of a love-object, in contradistinction to mourning, in which there is nothing unconscious about the loss.49 Freud has found there to be no correlation between the degree of self-loathing and the patient’s actual characteristics and behaviour.50 In fact it seemed that the attributes the patient denounces, or finds lacking, in him/herself are actually present in the lost love object. Thus Freud concludes that the melancholiac’s extremely low self-esteem is due in fact to the transference of  feelings from a loved object on to the patient’s own ego; the object is actually incorporated by the self.51 In referring to a observation of  Otto Rank, Freud shows this regression of  the libido into the ego to be a characteristic mechanism of narcissism: ‘die Objektwahl [sei] auf narzißtischer Grundlage erfolgt […], so daß die Objektbesetzung, wenn sich Schwierigkeiten gegen sie erheben, auf den Narzißmus regredieren kann’ [object selection is carried out on a narcissistic basis, in order that the object cathexis can regress to narcissism if dif ficulties arise].52 Through his analysis Freud has furthered the interpretation of melancholy to include the themes of narcissistic loss and self-loathing, as Jennifer Radden has noted. Melancholic states emphasize loss and themes of self-loathing only after Freud’s essay on mourning and melancholy. Melancholy subjectivity is no longer defined only by fear and sadness without cause but also by feelings of  loss and self-loathing.53 A Freudian reading of melancholy informs most contemporary depictions; for instance, his concept of  loss provides an interpretation of  the protagonist’s melancholy in Maron’s novels. Conversely, Hotschnig of fers a pre-psychological conception of melancholy in the narrative Ludwigs Zimmer. 49 Freud, ‘Trauer und Melancholie’, p. 199. See also Radden’s synopsis in The Nature of  Melancholy, pp. 284–285. 50 Freud, ‘Trauer und Melancholie’, p. 201. 51 Freud, ‘Trauer und Melancholie’, p. 203. 52 Freud, ‘Trauer und Melancholie’, p. 203. 53 Radden, The Nature of  Melancholy, pp. 282–283.

Introduction

19

Melancholy Motifs The aim of  the present study is to highlight how contemporary German and Austrian authors have engaged with the history of melancholy and to show how melancholy is ref lected in their depiction of social and political conditions, in which the vita activa continues to f lourish. I will focus on Monika Maron’s novel Endmoränen and its sequel Ach Glück, Christoph Hein’s Frau Paula Trousseau, Arno Geiger’s Es geht uns gut, and finally Alois Hotschnig’s Ludwigs Zimmer.54 While these narratives evoke prominent melancholy sentiments, they each deal individually with a dif ferent aspect of  the melancholy tradition. The selection is also guided by a reasonable gender and geographical balance, since conceptions of melancholy have always entailed a gendered perspective and are usually closely connected to the sociopolitical conditions within which they are expressed. Hence two of  the aforementioned authors come from Austria: Arno Geiger and Alois Hotschnig; and two are from the former East Germany: Monika Maron and Christoph Hein. The Austrian authors of fer completely divergent constructions of melancholy, although each engages to some degree with the historical background of  the Holocaust. Geiger’s novel provides a melancholy reading of post-war Austrian history through the lens of  three generations of  the same family, while Hotschnig’s narrative contributes rather to a geographical and biological interpretation of melancholy. The authors from the former East Germany have each portrayed very similar characters: the two main protagonists of  the aforementioned novels are middle-aged women who have been deeply af fected by the social and political circumstances of  both the GDR era and reunified Germany. Neither of  them is capable of  finding a way out of  the impasse to which their lives have come.

54 Monika Maron, Endmoränen (Frankfurt am Main: Fischer, 2002) and Ach Glück (Frankfurt am Main: Fischer, 2007); Christoph Hein, Frau Paula Trousseau (Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, 2007); Arno Geiger, Es geht uns gut (Vienna: Hanser, 2005); Alois Hotschnig, Ludwigs Zimmer (Cologne: Kiepenheuer & Witsch, 2000).

20

Chapter 1

It will be shown in my analysis that classic theories about melancholy continue to be ref lected in contemporary texts. The use of motifs such as blackness and darkness; dryness and coldness, as well as the motifs of earth and of autumn, immediately evoke an association with the theory of  the four humours. The association between melancholy and time or transience is also central to my analysis of contemporary narratives. Melancholy manifests itself not only in a subjective, physically experienced relationship to time but also in the relationship of  the individual to the more abstract notion of  history and of  historical progress. A melancholy sense of  time passing is expressed in the characters’ relationship to space and place. The relationship to objects and to the body also ref lects a sense of  transience. Both inanimate objects and the body, perceived as an animate object, hold the traces of  the past. The idea of vanitas reappears in some of  the texts in the motif of  the ageing body, and through a pronounced preoccupation with mortality. Alois Hotschnig’s work is particularly obsessed with death and burial, but the idea of  transience is also strongly expressed in depictions of  the ageing body in Monika Maron’s Endmoränen. However, this motif  functions very dif ferently in each of  the narratives analysed. While melancholy is portrayed as a medical condition in the associations made with psychopathological symptoms, it also functions as a condition of  the body at a more complex level. I argue that while melancholy continues to be expressed as a condition of  the body in contemporary narratives, it does not function solely as an anthropological characteristic. Neither is melancholy utilized merely to create a certain mood or sentiment. Rather the authors under discussion here demonstrate a knowing, self-ref lexive, and at times ironic engagement with melancholy as a cultural template, which facilitates the articulation of experiences of  historical dislocation. The sense of detachment from the process of  history has a gender- or age-related focus in a number of  the texts. However, this detachment is caused not only, or primarily, by the social prejudices experienced by women or the aged, which excludes them from meaningful involvement in the political process, but also by historical events and troubling legacies. The most obvious and immediate of  these is the historical caesura of 1989, but the enduring ef fects of  both

Introduction

21

Nazi collaboration (on the second and third generations) and GDR totalitarianism also play their part. The individual sense of  historical dislocation can be read within the wider concept of  historical loss, which gained currency in the aftermath of  the fall of  the Berlin Wall. The complexity of  this concept is not exhausted in the loss of ideology, but is in fact ref lected in a number of competing ‘End of  History’ or posthistoire theories.55 These theories were established prior to the fall of  the Wall but can facilitate an examination of  the reaction to the loss of communism and the ef fects of globalization. In conjunction with the concept of melancholy, the notion of posthistory presents a useful analytical construct for the interpretation of contemporary literature that deals with the post-1989 period; thus it forms a substantial aspect of my analysis in Chapter 4. In order to contextualize this analysis, it will be necessary to include a separate exposition of  the concept here.

Melancholy, the ‘End of  History’ and Posthistoire In his seminal work The Politics of  Cultural Despair Fritz Stern charts the progress of  the conservative revolution, which he denotes as ‘the ideological attack on modernity, on the complex of ideas and institutions that characterize our liberal, secular, and industrial civilization’.56 Nietzsche and Dostoevsky may be regarded as leading figures of this movement, according to Stern: ‘In their attacks on contemporary culture they pierced to the heart of  liberalism and denied its philosophical premises. Man is not primarily rational but volitional […]; positivistic science and rationalism are divorced from reality and at best only partly valid; the idea of  historical progress

55

The authors most commonly associated with these theories are Francis Fukuyama and Arnold Gehlen. 56 Fritz Stern, The Politics of  Cultural Despair: A Study in the Rise of  the Germanic Ideology (Berkeley: University of  California Press, 1961), p. xvi.

22

Chapter 1

is false’.57 A revolt against the dominance of rationalism and materialism is again evident in contemporary discourse. Likewise, the notion that there is no historical progression is ref lected in the late twentieth-century engagement with historical and ideological loss. A clear example of  this preoccupation can be seen in the collection of essays Entzauberte Zeit: Der melancholische Geist der Moderne,58 all of which deal with contemporary philosophical pessimism and the lack of any positive teleological beliefs. Indeed, as the editor Ludger Heidbrink emphasizes, the dominant teleology has been a negative one – the ‘End of  History’ thesis. While posthistory has emerged as a dominant topos in the post-Second World War period, the idea that history may be coming to an end appears to have originated in the mid-nineteenth century. As Alexander Demandt has shown, the ‘End of  History’ thesis, as propagated by Francis Fukuyama, is not a new concept, having been first expressed by Hegel. He saw the Protestant Prussian state as epitomizing the last stage in history [das letzte Stadium der Geschichte].59 Following his analysis of world history, Hegel concludes that the Christian world represents the fulfilment of  the principle of  freedom, freedom of mind and of spirit.60 It is the Protestant state in particular that allows freedom, and thus reason, to f lourish, since only through it can the principles of church and state be reconciled. Only in the Lutheran Church is the af firmation of  the individual and of  his subjectivity just as essential as the objectivity of  truth, whereas the Catholic Church remains indif ferent to the individual and detached from the world.61 For Hegel, European history represents the development of each of  the principles of church and state in isolation, and then

57 Stern, The Politics of  Cultural Despair, p. xviii. 58 Entzauberte Zeit: Der melancholische Geist der Moderne, ed. by Ludger Heidbrink (Munich: Hanser, 1997). 59 Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel, Vorlesungen über die Philosophie der Geschichte, ed. by F. Brunstäd (Leipzig: Reclam, 1907 [1837]), p. 547. 60 Hegel, Vorlesungen über die Philosophie der Geschichte, p. 436. 61 Hegel, Vorlesungen über die Philosophie der Geschichte, see pp. 439, 519, 525.

Introduction

23

the overcoming of contradiction within each entity, until finally church and state could themselves be reconciled.62 Antoine-Augustin Cournot used the term ‘posthistoire’ in 1861 to describe this last stage in history, believing it to be dominated by economic rather than political or religious forces; such changes would bring stability and statistical predictability and would result in a lack of any further historical progression.63 In the 1930s Alexandre Kojève, a Marxist, adopted the theory of posthistoire to describe the aftermath of  the French Revolution. For Kojève the Revolution represented the end of  history, and he interpreted all events subsequent to it as steps on the way to an ‘état homogène et universel ’.64 Several theorists have interpreted the French Revolution as a significant historical turning point, but its aftermath has generally been viewed much more pessimistically than by Kojève. The melancholy of  the modern age following the Revolution is considered the result of  the emptiness engendered by a lack of control over historical time, as analysed by Ludger Heidbrink.65 Peter Fritzsche presents a similar view of  historical loss in the aftermath of  the French Revolution in Stranded in the Present. Fritzsche relates a sketch by Eichendorf f  from the early nineteenth century, set in a train compartment occupied by modern characters who are caught up in the present; indeed ‘the present day of  timetables and fashions has rendered the past anachronistic’.66 Whereas the main protagonist of  Eichendorf f ’s story is interested in the ruined castle they pass by while on the train, none of  the other passengers has any interest in it. As Fritzsche writes, ‘it is not the march of  time that has produced ruins in this story or stranded people in the present, but the specific course of recent history, and more specifically 62 Hegel, Vorlesungen über die Philosophie der Geschichte, p. 437. 63 Alexander Demandt, ‘Abschied von der Geschichte?’, in Entzauberte Zeit, pp. 144– 160 (p. 145). 64 Demandt, ‘Abschied von der Geschichte?’, p. 145. 65 Ludger Heidbrink, Melancholie und Moderne: Zur Kritik der historischen Verzweif lung (Munich: Wilhelm Fink, 1994), p. 22. 66 Peter Fritzsche, Stranded in the Present: Modern Time and the Melancholy of  History (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2004), p. 2.

24

Chapter 1

its apprehension as non-repeatable, irretrievable time’.67 Fritzsche’s thesis is that the French Revolution marked a complete break from the past: something quite new develops around 1800, in the decades around the French Revolution: the perception of  the restless iteration of  the new so that the past no longer served as a faithful guide to the future, as it had in the exemplary rendering of events and characters since the Renaissance. As past and present f loated free from each other, contemporaries reimagined their relations with the past in increasingly f lamboyant ways. The past was conceived more and more as something bygone and lost, and also strange and mysterious, and although partially accessible, always remote. The disconnection from the past was a source of melancholy.68

A break with the past is again evident in the post-1945 period, and is commented on by several prominent intellectuals of  the time, including Oswald Spengler, Max Weber, Gottfried Benn and Ernst Jünger, who all believed that a transition was taking place from an era marked by culture to one formed by civilization. Civilization in this context is exemplified by the ‘mechanization’ of  the conditions of  life due to the dominance of  technology and the stagnation resulting from a lack of political progress.69 For Weber this would lead to a dominance of capitalism and a ‘mechanisierte Versteinerung’ [mechanized petrification];70 Gottfried Benn feared the ‘Zukunftslosigkeit eines ganzen Schöpfungswurfes’ […] Zu erwarten sei noch eine Restgeschichte, ein ‘Aprèslude’ des ‘synthetischen Lebens’ in einem ‘Lotosland, in dem nichts geschieht und alles stillsteht’.71 [‘Loss of  the future for a whole cast of creation’ […] a remainder of  history is still to be expected, an ‘aprèslude’ of  ‘synthetic life’ in a ‘lotus land in which nothing happens and everything is stagnant’.]

67 Fritzsche, Stranded in the Present, p. 3. 68 Fritzsche, Stranded in the Present, p. 5. 69 Demandt, Endzeit?, p. 42. 70 Quoted in Alexander Demandt, Endzeit?, p. 42. 71 Quoted in Alexander Demandt, Endzeit?, p. 43.

Introduction

25

Arnold Gehlen was one of  the most inf luential theorists of posthistoire, as Niethammer outlines. Niethammer interprets Gehlen’s use of  the term ‘crystallization’ as referring to a concept he developed from Freud’s view of  life as a detour towards death, as a return from an organic to an inorganic form.72 However, Gehlen has adapted the term ‘cultural crystallization’ from an Italian sociologist – Vilfredo Pareto – and admits that the term may be misconstrued as referring to inorganic forms. In fact, it signifies the increasing specialization of all fields of enquiry in both capitalist and communist culture, and the inability of even a specialist within any particular field to gain an overview over the various branches of  his subject area, not to speak of extending his knowledge to other sciences. Thus, the various specialisms have become detached from one another, and while progress will continue within these fields, according to the demands of industry and society, new concepts can only emerge within these clearly defined and delimited areas.73 The history of ideas is at an end since the alternatives are known, and are in all cases final: Ich exponiere mich also mit der Voraussage, daß die Ideengeschichte abgeschlossen ist, und daß wir im Posthistoire angekommen sind […] Die Alternativen sind bekannt, so wie auch auf dem Felde Religion, und sind in allen Fällen endgültig.74 [I will thus go out on a limb with the prediction that the history of ideas is at an end and that we have arrived in the posthistorical era […] The alternatives are known, as they are in the domain of religion, and are in all cases final].

Niethammer sees the negativity of  the posthistory theorists as emanating from the powerlessness and depression which was widely felt following the Second World War. This was due to a belief in the omnipotence of what Hans Freyer called ‘secondary systems’; processes that these writers

See Lutz Niethammer, Posthistoire: Ist die Geschichte zu Ende? (Reinbek bei Hamburg: Rowohlt, 1989), p. 55. 73 Arnold Gehlen, ‘Über kulturelle Kristallisation’, in Studien zur Anthropologie und Soziologie, ed. by Heinz Maus and Friedrich Fürstenberg (Neuwied-Berlin: Luchterhand, 1963), p. 321. 74 Gehlen, ‘Über kulturelle Kristallisation’, p. 323. 72

26

Chapter 1

considered had become independent of  human control. Niethammer also interprets the melancholy of intellectuals in the post-war era as being an overt manifestation of  the melancholy that is an underlying symptom of  bourgeois society, as described by Wolf  Lepenies in Melancholie und Gesellschaft. For Lepenies the origins of  bourgeois melancholy lie in the exclusion of  the middle classes from the realm of real political power, this still being the preserve of  the aristocracy. This led to hypertrophy in the sphere of ref lection and the inability to act. In fact, Lepenies sees the fatal relationship between political conduct and a melancholy disposition as a defining characteristic of  German history: from the melancholy of  the German bourgeoisie of  the eighteenth century, who achieved economic, but not the political emancipation they desired, to the ‘Unfähigkeit zu trauern’ [inability to mourn] of  the post-war period, which meant that an adequate response to the political and moral collapse was not possible.75 This suggests that there is continuity between the bourgeois melancholy of  the eighteenth century, as described by Lepenies, and the post-Second World War period. However, I would argue that melancholy should be regarded primarily as an aesthetic framework within which sentiments such as powerlessness and depression may be expressed and elevated. A similar moment of  historical disillusionment in our own times can be observed where postmodern art has abandoned political engagement in favour of a self-ref lexivity that could be interpreted as neo-romantic: die postmoderne Kunst, von Ausnahmen abgesehen, ist weniger durch Zuversicht gekennzeichnet als durch politische Orientierungslosigkeit, Flucht in die Innerlichkeit und die Erneuerung romantisch-religiöser Mythologeme.76 [postmodern art, allowing for exceptions, is characterized less by confidence than by a lack of political orientation, f light into inwardness and the renewal of romanticreligious mythologemes.]

According to Ludger Heidbrink, since the fall of communism the inability to find any future direction has become increasingly pronounced. He 75 Lepenies, Melancholie und Gesellschaft, pp. 83–84. 76 Heidbrink, Melancholie und Moderne, p. 16.

Introduction

27

considers western capitalist society to have become ever more complex but also more meaningless and monotonous, due to the loss of  fundamental sociopolitical progression. The belief in the possibility of a political utopia has been destroyed and this has led to melancholy becoming the dominant tone in social discourse, as well as representing an individual approach to the present situation.77 Thus Heidbrink prof fers an entirely dif ferent interpretation of  the origins of melancholy from Fritzsche. For Fritzsche it is the loss of  the connection with the past that engenders historical melancholy, particularly since it no longer serves as a guide to the future. In sharp contrast Heidbrink suggests that it is the lack of  the new, and therefore the loss of  the future which causes melancholy. The break with the past at the turn of  the nineteenth century may have been experienced as more profound and more disturbing than the caesura represented by the fall of  the Berlin Wall. However, the sense of  being trapped in an endlessly repetitive present, without the prospect of  future progress has reignited melancholy sentiments well into the new millennium. As Ludger Heidbrink argues, das Bewußtsein, ‘nach’ der Geschichte zu leben, ist identisch mit dem Glauben, die Kontrolle über die Geschichte verloren zu haben und in das chiliastische Millenarium einer fortwährenden Beweglichkeit auf stationärer Basis eingetreten zu sein.78 [The realization that one is living ‘after’ history is identical with the belief  that one has lost control over history and has entered the chiliastic millennium of continuous movement on a stationary basis].

According to Alexander Demandt the posthistoire age will have been reached when suf fering has been eliminated. However, the loss of  historical activity will result in suf fering being replaced by boredom, which is being kept at bay during the historical era: ‘Wie die Geschichte, so trägt die Geschichtslosigkeit einen Januskopf. Sie verkörpert einerseits das Ende der durch Geschichte bedingten Leiden und andererseits den Anfang der durch Geschichte verhinderten Langeweile’ [Like history itself, the absence 77 Heidbrink, Melancholie und Moderne, pp. 18–19. 78 Heidbrink, Melancholie und Moderne, p. 17.

28

Chapter 1

of  history also bears a Janus head. It incorporates, on the one hand, the end of  the suf fering caused by history and, on the other, the beginning of  the boredom that history had prevented].79 The concept of posthistoire is quite clearly connected to the philosophical tradition of melancholy. As Niethammer writes, for the posthistory theorists the end of  history is primarily a philosophical crisis; they fear the prospect of a life without seriousness or struggle, reduced to the regulated boredom of a perpetual reproduction of  the modern on a global scale. For Niethammer, the posthistoire diagnosis does not problematize the end of  the world, but rather the end of meaning.80 Similarly, Lutz Walther has emphasized that in the early twentieth century new ways of dealing with melancholy were inf luenced by existentialism and entailed an acceptance of  the meaninglessness of  being, and consequently of melancholic suf fering, rather than trying to overcome it; indeed, the acceptance of  the irrationality of  the world leads to the melancholy caused by the meaninglessness of  life being itself recognized as meaningless.81 These accounts of  the experience of meaninglessness may be compared with Ludger Heidbrink’s analysis of  the origins of modern melancholy in which he argues that the rate of progress and technological rationalization has led to traditional society being broken down into autonomous areas of activity. Each of  these areas has a distinct dynamic that is perceived as fatal, because the world is now completely consigned to the critique of  the intellect and condemned to the boundless monotony of an endless and predictable advancement, which no longer guarantees any ‘real’ change.82

79 Demandt, ‘Abschied von der Geschichte?’, pp. 159–160. 80 Niethammer, Posthistoire: Ist die Geschichte zu Ende?, p. 9. 81 Walther, Melancholie, pp. 24–25. 82 Heidbrink, Melancholie und Moderne, pp. 213–214: ‘Der beschleunigte Fortschritt und die technisch-instrumentelle Rationalität haben die traditionale Gesellschaft in autonome Handlungsbereiche zerlegt, deren Eigendynamik als Verhängnis empfunden wird, weil die Welt nun ohne jedes Geheimnis der Kritik des Intellekts ausgeliefert und zur grenzenlosen Monotonie einer unendlichen und überraschungslosen Weiterentwicklung verdammt ist, die keine “eigentliche” Abwechslung mehr verspricht’.

Introduction

29

Outlook The following chapters will analyse selected contemporary texts in the light of  the long history and development of melancholy discourse, and will attempt to situate them in the dialogue with the past, of which every writer on melancholy has been a part. As Jennifer Radden writes: The history of melancholy and melancholia told through the texts from Aristotle to Freud is particularly evocative and intriguing. Reading these sources we discover a kind of conversation, or dialogue, conducted across centuries – and continents – as their authors interpret and respond to the classical, Arabic, and Renaissance sources on melancholy.83

I will show that fictional and theoretical texts with a dominant melancholy theme or preoccupation are cognisant of  historical manifestations of melancholy, and therefore contribute to the continuing dialogue with the past. The various topoi to which melancholy has been linked include: the condition of  the body (in particular humoral theory); the social or political context and theories in relation to this; nature and space; narcissism, inwardness and subjectivity, and the manifestation of melancholy as a group phenomenon. As well as revitalizing philosophical concepts of melancholy, contemporary authors also tap into melancholy’s rich literary and artistic tradition. The seminal motif within this tradition is Albrecht Dürer’s engraving Melencolia I, which transformed the comprehension and portrayal of  the melancholy stance. The overriding questions I will address in the following chapters are: How is melancholy constructed in the named texts? Which aspects of  the melancholy tradition are employed in this construction? How do these contemporary texts respond to the sociopolitical conditions of  the post1989 period? Finally, do any of  these narratives of fer an original interpretation of, or contribution to, the melancholy tradition? With regard to the individual chapters the question arises as to whether the authors and/or 83 Radden, The Nature of  Melancholy, pp. viii–ix.

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Chapter 1

protagonists of  the selected narratives deplore the loss of  the past or the loss of  the future. The experience of  transience can thus be interpreted dif ferently in regard to each of  the narratives in question. Apart from the Maron novels, which focus on the characters’ disorientation following the loss of  the GDR, all of  the texts in the following chapters deal with the inability to escape the past. They are caught in a stagnant present due to the lack of  the new, as in Heidbrink’s analysis, but also due to the personal ties that bind them to the past. The subjective experience of  the passage of  time connects furthermore to the protagonists’ relationship with external events – that is, with history and with historical progress, a relationship which manifests itself in diverse ways in each of  the narratives. The individual’s sense of being stranded outside history arises within this context, the causes of which will be analysed and related to the discussion of posthistoire. In Chapter 2 I analyse Maron’s novel Endmoränen from a number of perspectives. The narrative is contextualized within the sociopolitical background of  the post-Wende East, the protagonist’s negative attachment to the former GDR regime being viewed from a Freudian standpoint. Key melancholy motifs will be identified and analysed in regard to their function in this narrative: these include inertia, inwardness, nature, time, insomnia and boredom. An analysis of  the overall atmosphere of melancholy prepares the ground for an interpretation of  the novel as a neo-Romantic representation of melancholy. With regard to the novel Ach Glück, I of fer a brief analysis of  this sequel to Endmoränen, concentrating on the following melancholy motifs: the dog, nature, alienation and loss, as well as the concepts of destiny, spirituality and longing. Chapter 3 considers the source of  the protagonist’s melancholy in Hein’s Frau Paula Trousseau since it is not clear whether it stems from an innate inclination or whether it has sociopolitical causes. The narrative emphasizes the division that patriarchy has created between the male and female spheres, which includes divergent conceptions of male and female melancholy. The alienation that patriarchal domination causes at the societal level is matched at the individual level by the split between the rational and the emotional self. This chapter therefore examines the protagonist’s position as a female artist, within the established paradigm of  the melancholy artist as well as within the context of  GDR and also post-Wende society.

Introduction

31

Chapter 4 poses the question as to whether Geiger’s Es geht uns gut may be read as a posthistoire narrative, given that the protagonist appears to be trapped in a stagnant present, with no real connection to the past and little hope of a progression toward the future. This chapter also demonstrates how the novel provides a transgenerational perspective on melancholy loss, while contributing to Heimat discourse and maintaining a melancholy discourse with the past through various motifs. The most significant of  these is the motif of  the spectral, which is connected to the protagonist’s relationship to the family history. Furthermore, the protagonist’s writing of  fantastical stories is interpreted as a means of evading his real family history. A section on the narrative structure shows how it reinforces the perception of  time as cyclical. Chapter 5 deals with the manifestation of classical humoral theories in Hotschnig’s Ludwigs Zimmer, while also examining the narrative’s evocation of a Baroque sensibility. This sensibility is expressed in the awareness of  the hopelessness and meaninglessness of  life in the face of  the universality of death. The chapter also addresses the function of melancholy motifs in the narrative and their association with images of death and burial. In the context of  the historical background of  the novel, the question is posed as to whether historical events are employed merely to heighten the gothic ef fects already sustained through the motif of  the secret room, or rather constitute an engagement with the lasting consequences of  Austria’s involvement in the Second World War. Melancholy is furthermore portrayed as a genealogical legacy, bound up with a pathological relationship with place and Heimat. Finally, the notion of writing as a ‘cure’ for or a means of counteracting the melancholy condition is also thematized in this chapter. While the overriding focus of my analysis ref lects the dominance of a melancholy relationship with history in contemporary German and Austrian literature, it will be seen in the following chapters that varying aspects of  the melancholy tradition find expression in these texts. For example, Monika Maron’s novels, as well as Christoph Hein’s Frau Paula Trousseau, portray a communion with nature and a desire to overcome the continuing dominance of rationalism and materialism in contemporary western society. Furthermore, the protagonist’s sense of  loss in Maron’s novels is interpreted through recourse to Freud’s theory of melancholy,

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Chapter 1

while the paradigm of  the melancholy artist of fers a framework within which the situation of  Hein’s protagonist may be illuminated. Issues of  transgenerational memory and family history, as well as the connection to place, are also examined in order to elucidate the ways in which melancholy is expressed in each of  the narratives. The melancholy relationship with Heimat, as particularly evidenced in the Austrian narratives, illustrates the transhistorical nature of such sentiments, while the preoccupation with the family past, which is apparent in most of  the narratives analysed, relates specifically to the historical caesura of 1945 and the involvement of  the so-called first generation in the crimes of  the Holocaust.

Chapter 2

Melancholy Subjectivity in Monika Maron’s Endmoränen and Ach Glück

Introduction This chapter will examine the works of  Monika Maron, focusing on her last novel, Endmoränen (End Moraines), which was published in 2002. Monika Maron spent most of  her life in the former East Berlin: she lived there until 1988, at which time she moved to the Federal Republic; she has relocated to an area in the west of  the city since unification. All of  her work has been formed by her experiences in the GDR. Each of  her novels is a prime example of a melancholy sensibility, in particular Endmoränen. While Flugasche (Flight of  Ashes), Die Überläuferin (The Defector) and Stille Zeile Sechs (Silent Close No. 6) are set in the GDR, her last three novels, Animal triste, Endmoränen and Ach Glück (Oh, Happiness), were written after reunification. The dif ficulty of  life under the GDR regime forms the backdrop to her earlier narratives and motivates the melancholy of  the main protagonists; the latter novels, however, are even more melancholic, especially Endmoränen, in which an atmosphere of melancholy pervades the whole narrative. Endmoränen is related from the point of view of  the main protagonist, as are most of  Maron’s novels, with the exception of  Flugasche, in which the second half of  the novel is related by a third-person narrator. The novel is set in Basekow, a village in the former East, not far from Berlin. The moraines of  the title refer to the hilly landscape surrounding this village, which was formed from the boulders and debris left behind by glaciers. As the novel begins Johanna, the main protagonist, is ref lecting on the ageing process. She expresses her relief at the onset of autumn, which for

34

Chapter 2

her means that she no longer has to display her ageing body. She had come to her country residence two weeks before, primarily to write a biography on Wilhelmine Enke, the mistress of  Friedrich Wilhelm II, but finds that she can no longer muster enthusiasm for her subject. Johanna hopes that the quietness of  the countryside will help her to find inspiration. However, it leads her rather into a state of  lethargy and inertia from which she finds it increasingly dif ficult to escape. Her life is structured by the repetitive nature of  life in a rural environment, a life to which she does not belong. An examination of  Maron’s previous work and of  the critical response to it, both before and after the fall of  the Wall, forms a background to the present discussion. This examination will be followed by an analysis of  the nature of  the post-unification melancholy apparent in Endmoränen. This section examines the protagonist’s melancholy as it relates to historical experience and historical loss. My interpretation of  the novel places special emphasis on the occupation of  the main protagonist. Her work as a biographer is very significant in the post-unification context due to the dramatic dif ference between the (perceived) importance of  her role prior to the end of  the GDR and subsequently. An explication of  the melancholy motifs evident in the narrative is also an essential part of my interpretation. As demonstrated in Chapter 1, concepts of melancholy have been developing since antiquity, so much so that one can speak of a melancholy discourse conducted through the ages by a continual reference to earlier concepts and traditions. Such an engagement with the past is evident in Endmoränen, and contributes to an understanding of  the manifestations of melancholy in the novel. The key melancholy motifs that I will analyse include inertia, inwardness, nature, time, insomnia and boredom. The section dealing with the motif of nature will include an examination of  the opposition between nature and civilization, between the creaturely self and the cultured self in Maron’s concept of identity and individuation. The title of  the novel itself is a significant melancholy metaphor, as will be demonstrated. The following sub-chapter adopts a psychoanalytical perspective. In order to gain a deeper insight into the melancholy subjectivity of  the main protagonist in Endmoränen I will draw on Freud’s analysis of melancholy as pathological. An evaluation of  the conclusions drawn in the previous sections and of  the overall atmosphere of melancholy in the text will lead to an interpretation of 

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35

the novel as a neo-Romantic representation of melancholy. A brief analysis of  the novel Ach Glück focuses on the dog as an emblem of melancholy, as well as on the motifs of nature, alienation and loss, and the concepts of destiny, spirituality and longing. As regards Maron’s previous prose work, her first three novels are set in the GDR, in which her protagonists (always female) live their lives in opposition to the regime and constantly seek ways in which to ef fect change. Maron’s protagonists attempt to escape the control of  the regime psychologically. Their strong negative attachment to the sociopolitical conditions engenders in them a decisive lack of desire to participate in society and leads to a state of inertia.1 In Die Überläuferin, the second novel, Rosalind Polkowski manages to convince herself  that her legs are paralysed and thereby frees herself  from having to go to work. From then on she remains motionless and lives only in her mind. An earlier conversation with her friend (or perhaps alter ego) Martha demonstrates a passive acceptance of  her condition: Ich weiß nicht, was eine Tat ist, sagte ich, ich weiß auch nicht, was eine Untat ist. Ich kann nicht mehr sagen: ich tue etwas, weil … Ich kann nur noch sagen: ich lasse etwas, weil ich nicht weiß, warum ich es tun sollte.2 [I don’t know what a deed is, I said, I don’t know what a misdeed is either. I can no longer say: I am doing something because … I can only say: I am leaving something because I don’t know why I should do it.]

Stille Zeile Sechs 3 is a sequel to Die Überläuferin where we again meet Rosalind, who, although she has resigned from her job, now takes up employment with a former leading GDR figure, Herbert Beerenbaum. This demonstrates her inability to escape the grip of  the prevailing hierarchy. Rosalind realizes that her life will remain stagnant until she can free

The exception is Josefa in Maron’s Die Überläuferin (Frankfurt am Main: Fischer, 1986). 2 Maron, Die Überläuferin, p. 47. 3 Monika Maron, Stille Zeile Sechs (Frankfurt am Main: Fischer, 1991). 1

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Chapter 2

herself  from the inf luence of  the GDR dictatorship, as represented by the character of  Beerenbaum: In dieser Minute begrif f ich, daß alles von Beerenbaums Tod abhing, von seinem und dem seiner Generation. Erst wenn ihr Werk niemandem mehr heilig war, wenn nur noch seine Brauchbarkeit entscheiden würde über seinen Bestand oder Untergang, würde ich herausfinden, was ich im Leben gern getan hätte. Und dann würde es zu spät sein.4 [At that moment I understood that everything hinged on Beerenbaum’s death, his own and that of  his generation. Only when their works were no longer sacred to anybody, when their usefulness alone would decide their continuance or demise, only then would I find out what I would like to have done in life. And then it would be too late.]

While the desired political change has been enacted in Endmoränen, for the protagonist it has come too late, as we will see later. The two novels written after reunification, Animal triste and Endmoränen still thematize the protagonists’ negative attachment to the GDR, although the regime no longer exists. Maron appears to have been unable to free herself  from the shadow of  the GDR, as it has continued to form the subject matter of  her work. While the inertia evident in earlier novels may be seen as a reaction against the control of  the GDR regime, the sense of stagnation in Animal triste and Endmoränen no longer has a direct political cause, seeming to be based on the characters’ lack of orientation. Through their inability or lack of desire to engage with the present society, the characters express discontent with the reality of  the capitalist democracy they had previously so wished for. Animal triste 5 is, at face value, a love story. It is, however, completely unreliable, as the protagonist herself concedes: ‘den Abend vor vierzig oder fünfzig Jahren, an dem mein Geliebter […] in meinem Bett saß, erfinde ich, seit er vergangen ist, wie alle anderen Abende mit meinem Geliebten auch’ [Since he is gone, I invent the evening forty or fifty years ago, on which

4 Maron, Stille Zeile Sechs, pp. 154–155. 5 Monika Maron, Animal triste (Frankfurt am Main: Fischer, 1996).

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37

my lover sat on my bed, just like all the other evenings with my lover].6 Whereas the story of  her lover, Franz, may or may not be true, the protagonist definitively establishes the time of  their first meeting as just after the fall of  the Wall. One could therefore interpret her tragic love af fair as a representation of  her relationship to the changed society she finds herself in – at the beginning she was full of  hope for the future (her future with Franz representing her future in the new democratic society), but her expectations were not fulfilled; therefore she gave up on this relationship and retreated from the world completely. Andrea Geier has argued that her romantic attachment was used to fill the vacuum left after the end of  the GDR dictatorship, which, at least ex negativo, had provided the conditions for the protagonist’s way of  life.7 This unnamed character remains motionless throughout the novel, and in this respect resembles Rosalind from Die Überläuferin. Although thematically Maron has moved on, from a sociohistorical standpoint the political conditions of  the former GDR society nevertheless continue to inf luence the narrator who prefers to live alone with her thoughts and avoid all human contact. Like Johanna in Endmoränen she appears not to know what to do with the freedom gained by the fall of  the old regime. The dif ficulty for both characters is that they are deeply rooted in the past and unable to escape its hold. They cannot understand why they have not taken advantage of  the opportunities freedom has af forded them. While the narrator of  Animal triste has always planned to visit the United States, once she is given the freedom to do so she does not avail herself of it. She herself does not understand why this is, why she is still sitting at the same place she has always sat, under the glass roof of  the museum.8 We will later see similar examples of  Johanna’s incomprehension at her own lack of motivation. The overriding themes throughout Maron’s fiction are memory and identity as most critics of  her work have recognized. In her essay dealing

6 Maron, Animal triste, p. 18. 7 Geier, ‘Paradoxien des Erinnerns’, pp. 97–98. 8 Maron, Animal triste, p. 131.

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with Flugasche and Pawels Briefe, Sylvia Klötzer traces the protagonist’s identification with her grandparents in both novels.9 Klötzer reads Flugasche as ‘a fictional project on the “death” of subjectivity’,10 since the protagonist’s loss of identity under the totalitarian regime of the GDR is associated with the deaths of  her grandparents as well as the loss of  their identities under a previous totalitarian regime. Conversely, in Pawels Briefe Maron is able to reconstruct the lives of  her grandparents through her grandfather’s letters, which were discovered only in the mid-1990s, and comprehend the relevance of  their lives and experiences for the present time. In her analysis of  Pawels Briefe Friederike Eigler emphasizes the contingent nature of memory and the resulting dif ficulty in reconstructing the past.11 Katharina Boll’s monograph deals explicitly with the role of memory and the repression of memory in the formation of identity for Maron’s characters.12 She argues that they reach a retrospective understanding of  their experiences through the process of remembering and ref lecting on the past, including the parts of  their lives which have been repressed. Boll sees both Animal triste and Pawels Briefe as marked by a self-ref lexivity not evident in the previous novels. Through the narrative structure of  these later novels the process of remembering is itself made the object of ref lection. If  the above analyses are applied to Endmoränen it can be seen that the protagonist’s standpoint is quite dif ferent to these earlier novels. A rupture has occurred in her life due to the fall of the Berlin Wall, which has af fected her ability to see her life as grounded within an historical context. She could previously relate her experiences to those of  her biographical subjects and

9

10 11 12

Sylvia Klötzer, ‘“Wir haben immer so nach vorne gelebt”: Erinnerung und Identität. Flugasche und Pawels Briefe von Monika Maron’ in Monika Maron in Perspective: ‘Dialogische’ Einblicke in zeitgeschichtliche und rezeptionsbezogene Aspekte ihres Werkes, ed. by Elke Gilson, German Monitor No. 55 (Amsterdam: Rodopi, 2002), pp. 35–56. Klötzer, ‘“Wir haben immer so nach vorne gelebt”’, p. 35. Friederike Eigler, ‘Nostalgisches und kritisches Erinnern am Beispiel von Martin Walsers Ein springender Brunnen und Monika Marons Pawels Briefe’, in Monika Maron in Perspective, pp. 157–180. Katharina Boll, Erinnerung und Ref lexion: Retrospektive Lebenskonstruktionen im Prosawerk Monika Marons (Würzburg: Königshausen und Neumann, 2002).

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39

her contemporaries but now finds herself stranded, particularly since her occupation as a biographer has lost its significance in the new society. She had previously used her work to surreptitiously communicate her opposition to the regime, but such acts are now redundant. While in Pawels Briefe it was her grandparents’ experiences that she wanted to understand and relate to her own life, in Endmoränen the protagonist wants to understand her own experiences and be able to connect them to the past. The subject of melancholy in Maron’s prose work is addressed in Andrea Geier’s article on Animal triste, where the author interprets the protagonist’s melancholy in the light of  Freud’s essay ‘Mourning and Melancholy’, the loss of  the love object leading the protagonist to adopt a self-accusatory stance.13 The article also analyses the structures of and motives for remembering in this novel as well as the narrative style, which Geier describes as both ironic and melancholic. Its irony is due to the fact that the protagonist’s memories, on which the narrative is structured, may or may not be fictional, while the self-referential and ambiguous mode of narration can be interpreted as melancholic, according to Geier.14 Elke Gilson focuses on the genetically determined lack of  free will in controlling our own actions and decisions,15 a theme which arises throughout Maron’s writing, and which she herself makes direct reference to in ‘Lebensentwürfe und Zeitenbrüche’.16 The belief in fate and the concomitant bond with spiritual forces will be a significant aspect of my analysis of  both Endmoränen and Ach Glück. Gilson also highlights Maron’s preoccupation with the divide between nature and civilization in western society. She analyses the duality of  these two worlds from a number of perspectives,

13 14 15

16

Andrea Geier, ‘Paradoxien des Erinnerns. Biographisches Erzählen in Animal triste’, in Monika Maron in Perspective, pp. 93–122. Geier, ‘Paradoxien des Erinnerns’, pp. 106–108. Elke Gilson, ‘Illusionen über die Kraft unseres Wollens: Zu Monika Marons Erkundungen der Determiniertheit’, in ‘Doch das Paradies ist verriegelt …’: Zum Werk von Monika Maron, ed. by Elke Gilson (Frankfurt am Main: Fischer, 2006), pp. 87–108. Monika Maron, ‘Lebensentwürfe, Zeitenbrüche’, first published in Süddeutsche Zeitung, 13. September 2002; reprinted in ‘Doch das Paradies ist verriegelt …’, pp. 31–40.

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including the longing evident in Maron’s prose for a life lived in harmony with nature, her longing for the lost world of childhood, the desire for freedom from the constraints of civilization, and the fear of monotony.17 The romantic longing for an ‘authentic’, pre-rational life is also examined by Henk Harbers in its connection to modernity and postmodernity.18 From a modernist point of view, this idealistic predisposition is interpreted by Harbers as both tragic and ironic, since it is destined to annihilate itself, whereas the postmodernist perspective emphasizes a more light-hearted approach to the themes of modernity, for instance through intertextual and metafictional means. Using the example of  Animal triste, Harbers shows how love is portrayed as ‘der letzte Rest Natur’ [the last remains of nature] in us and thus provides a refuge from our rationalistic society.19 However, this love also has an atavistic element to it, its f lipside being not just death but murder. From a postmodernist point of view the real scene of  the action is at a literary meta-level, where the narrator’s entire story is revealed to be a fictional construction.20 This is made apparent through her reiteration of  the fact that she is not at all sure of  the details of  her story anymore; in fact she cannot even remember her lover’s name. Harbers argues that all of  Maron’s novels may be read as both modernist and postmodernist. While he does not deal with Endmoränen, I believe this assessment to be true also in the case of  this text. A modernist reading emphasizes the preoccupation with the divide between nature and civilization and the desire for a closer relationship with nature, as will be discussed in detail below. A postmodernist take reveals that the conscious use of melancholy motifs plays out not just on the fictional level of  the text but also at a meta-fictional level. It is clear that the author wishes to contribute to melancholy discourse 17

Gilson further ref lects on the conf lict between body and mind, action and contemplation, in Maron’s protagonists, a conf lict which is never resolved. See Elke Gilson, Wie Literatur hilft, ‘übers Leben nachzudenken’ (Gent: Studia Germania Gandensia, 1999). 18 Henk Harbers, ‘Gefährliche Freiheit: Zu einem Motivkomplex im Werk von Monika Maron’, in Monika Maron in Perspective, pp. 123–137. 19 Harbers, ‘Gefährliche Freiheit’, pp. 133–134. 20 Harbers, ‘Gefährliche Freiheit’, p. 135.

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in a serious way, but also in a knowing, self-conscious way. This is made apparent through the explicit and quite prolonged engagement with various motifs of  transience as well as through the motif of  the dog, which turns up at the end of  the novel. Just as Harbers argues that the ending of  Animal triste (in which the protagonist’s untameable love leads her to kill her lover) is constructed to fit the ideal of romantic longing, the ending of  Endmoränen is arguably constructed to self-consciously align the protagonist within the melancholy tradition.

An Analysis of  Endmoränen within the Sociopolitical Context As demonstrated in the previous chapter, the postmodern and, in particular, the post-unification period has been marked by a melancholy relationship with the past and a dominant preoccupation with the loss of  historical progress. These sentiments are echoed in Monika Maron’s critical writings, in which she details the ef fects of  the loss of  the GDR on its citizens. In her ‘Vortrag in Japan’, published in quer über die Gleise, Maron expressed the view that, while the GDR no longer exists as a political entity, it still lives on in the psyche of  the former East Germans. Only five years after unification could its psychological ef fect come to light: Seit 1989 liegt auch hinter uns, was in einem Teil Deutschlands seit 1945 im Namen der Zukunft angerichtet wurde: die zweite deutsche Diktatur, die vierzig Jahre lang zwischen Vergangenheit und Zukunft regierte, und zuweilen scheint es, als hätte erst jetzt, da sie zerbrochen ist […] ihre geistige Gegenwart begonnen. […] Und so haben wir in Deutschland fünf  Jahre nach der Vereinigung und fünf  Jahre nachdem wir endlich in einer Gegenwart angekommen waren, manchmal das Gefühl, unter dem Regime der Vergangenheit zu leben.21

21

Monika Maron, quer über die Gleise (Frankfurt am Main: Fischer, 2000), p. 45.

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Chapter 2 [That which was perpetrated in one part of  Germany from 1945 on in the name of  the future is, since 1989, behind us: the second German dictatorship, which reigned for forty years between past and future; and it seems at times as if it is only now, since it has broken up, that its spiritual present has begun. And so we have sometimes the feeling in Germany, five years after reunification and five years after we had finally arrived in a present, that we are living under the regime of  the past.]

Although the GDR is gone, its reach extends into the present. For Maron the GDR represents the past identity of each of its citizens, regardless of whether they ever identified themselves with the East German state or not.22 These observations shed light on Johanna’s emotional state. She cannot orientate herself in the present since she is still tied to the past; or rather she is f loating between the past and the future without being able to anchor herself in the present. The GDR declared itself an anti-fascist socialist state, which had overcome the previous fascist dictatorship by establishing a socialist democracy. The dream of a socialist utopia was carried by many people throughout the forty years of its existence, including Maron’s mother. While the new democracy following the fall of  the Wall introduced many rapid changes in the former GDR, according to Maron the necessary psychological adjustment could not be achieved so quickly. The protagonist of Endmoränen has, too, been unable or unwilling to alter anything about her life since the fall of  the Wall, despite the fact that she had long wished for such a transformation in her circumstances. She was a biographer during the GDR years, writing accompanying forewords and epilogues. Since reunification she has continued to work in this field, but the changed political circumstances have had a decisive ef fect on the nature of  her work. When Johanna was working under the repressive control of  the censor, she inserted secret subtexts into her work, hoping for what could only be considered a miracle. Since this miracle actually came to pass, and a new democracy was founded, such secretive activity has become completely unnecessary.23 She realizes that she 22 Maron, quer über die Gleise, p. 49. 23 Monika Maron, Endmoränen (Frankfurt am Main: Fischer, 2005; first published 2002), pp. 40–41. The novel will hereafter be referenced as follows: (EM, page number).

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should have stopped writing biographies and taken up a new occupation following reunification: ‘Damals hätte ich mit dem Biographienschreiben aufhören sollen. Aber es muß mir wohl gleichgültig gewesen sein, was ich in dieser unverhof ften Zukunft tun würde’ [I should have stopped writing biographies then. But I mustn’t have cared what I would do in this unexpected future] (EM, 43). This future, for which she had longed for so many years, had become the present but Johanna did not change the direction of  her life as she had planned to do, having never been able to imagine that such a change could be brought about. Ironically, her interest in her present biographical subject, Wilhelmine Enke, is based mainly on the latter’s steely determination to take full advantage of all opportunities of fered to her (EM, 215). In the light of  Maron’s observations on the delayed psychological ef fects of  the GDR dictatorship (quoted above) one could read Johanna’s passivity as being a belated consequence of  the oppressive conditions under the GDR regime, which has stunted her ability to take proactive decisions. While this might explain her initial lack of spontaneity, her subsequent persistence in her chosen career signifies its importance for an understanding of  her emotional state. Before reunification her work provided her with a sense of importance and a feeling of excitement since she could secretly express that which was forbidden, and in this way connect with other like-minded individuals (EM, 45). Although she realizes that it was ‘eine ganz idiotische Wichtigkeit’ [a completely idiotic importance] (EM, 57), many writers in the GDR were held in high regard by the general public. Maron previously wrote about the status of  the writer in her essay ‘Das neue Elend der Intellektuellen’ (1990): Die Schriftsteller in der DDR waren eine besonders verwöhnte Gruppe ihres Berufsstandes. Damit meine ich weniger die von der Obrigkeit gewährten Privilegien als eine allgemeine Verehrung, die ihnen zuteil wurde, selbst von Menschen, zu deren Lebensgewohnheiten das Lesen von Büchern nicht gehörte. Es brauchte nicht viel Mut, besonders nicht für die durch die Öf fentlichkeit geschützten Autoren, um den Schein des Heldentums um sich zu entfachen. Und oft genügte eine halbe Wahrheit, um ihrem Verkünder in einer Umgebung dummer und dreister Verlogenheit den Ruf des Propheten zu verleihen. Selbst wer der Zensur anheimfiel, wußte sich im anderen

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Chapter 2 Deutschland um so aufmerksamer gelesen und auch im eigenen Land genossen als die verbotene Frucht.24 [Writers in the GDR were a particularly spoilt group within the artistic profession. By that I don’t mean primarily the privileges bestowed by the authorities but rather a general adoration, which even came from people who were not in the habit of reading books. It did not require much courage, especially not for those authors who were of ficially protected, to ignite the glow of  heroism around them. And often, within an environment of asinine and audacious mendacity, a half-truth was enough to lend its enunciator the reputation of a prophet. Even those who fell foul of  the censor knew that they were read all the more attentively in the other Germany, and were also enjoyed in their own country as forbidden fruit.]

The protagonist of  Endmoränen realizes that her authorship of  biographies is now less potent without the personalizing addition of secret subtexts; in fact she ref lects that they could well have been written, and perhaps even better, by somebody else (EM, 45). Besides granting her a sense of importance in a repressed society, the writing of  biographies previously served another purpose for Johanna: in researching the lives of others, she found historical precedents for her own experiences and could see her life grounded within a logical continuation of  historical time. She can no longer find these connections to others or to the past, however, and therefore cannot muster suf ficient interest in the life of  Wilhelmine Enke (EM, 151–152). The lack of  historical continuity in her own life may be compared with the deficit in historical progression in the post-unification period. An individual loss of  future orientation is engendered by a sociopolitical lack of direction and of any meaningful alternatives to the present system. Johanna’s disillusionment with society is highlighted by her choice of career. The writing of  biography in general may be regarded as a vicarious occupation, and in the protagonist’s case, the inability to relate to either the communist regime or to the present sociopolitical situation has led to the delegation of  historical experience to her biographical subjects. She had adopted a detached position of secret opposition during the communist 24 Monika Maron, Nach Maßgabe meiner Begreifungskraft (Frankfurt am Main: Fischer, 1993), pp. 84–85.

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era, but her continuing lack of active involvement in society signals a melancholic perspective on historical loss as it has manifested itself since unification. Her focus on personalities from the Romantic era emphasizes her af finity with this historical period as well as the nature of  her melancholy sensibility, as will be expanded upon later. The reasons why she is unable to reconcile herself  to the present are compounded by the ageing process and the lack of provision for older citizens in capitalist society. She sees her future clearly on the horizon, a depressing outlook on the life of an old person in this society: Und jetzt, ein paar Jahre später [after reunification], hat mich die Ahnung, eher die Furcht befallen, es könnte schon wieder vorbei sein mit dem eigentlichen Leben, weil es zu spät angefangen hat, weil wir gar nicht mehr dran sind mit dem richtigen Leben, sondern daß für uns bald diese öde lange Restzeit beginnt, zwanzig oder dreißig Jahre Restzeit, in der wir nur noch als Zielgruppe von Verkäufern aller Branchen und als katastrophaler Kostenfaktor für die Krankenkassen wichtig sind und sonst von skandalöser Unwichtigkeit. (EM, 55–56) [And now, a few years later [after reunification], I am struck by the notion, or rather the fear, that real life could already be over, because it began too late, because our turn at a proper life has passed; instead, this long, barren, residual time will soon be starting for us, twenty or thirty years of residual time, during which we will only have importance as a target group for salespeople of all sectors and as a catastrophic cost factor for the health insurance companies, and otherwise will be scandalously unimportant.]

As seen in the ‘Introduction’, Antoine-Augustin Cournot believed that the last stage of  history would be dominated by economic rather than political or religious forces, and that these changes would bring stability and statistical predictability and would result in a lack of any further historical progression. This assessment relates to the latter half of  the nineteenth century; however, it has more direct relevance for the present political circumstances, as economic strength will increasingly take precedence over political power in the globalized world. While Maron’s embrace of democracy is ref lected in her protagonist’s euphoric welcoming of  the Wende [the changeover to democracy] as a ‘Wunder’, the author’s disenchantment with contemporary capitalist society is likewise ref lected in the novel.

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Tracing Melancholy Topoi through the Novel The novel provides a rich topography of melancholy motifs, including nature, time, inertia, inwardness, insomnia and boredom. The significance of  these motifs is illuminated through an understanding of  their historical contexts. Just as Johanna sought to tie the various strands of  her life together by determining the relevance of past events for the present, Maron has situated her protagonist’s melancholy within a long tradition. Nature may be seen as the leitmotif of  the novel. The power of nature is represented in contrast to the power of government; in this way it is linked to the sociopolitical situation. Nature is also portrayed in its relation to the body, particularly in the relationship between autumn and the ageing process. Through the Hippocratic theory of  the four humours melancholy came to be associated with the properties of coldness and dryness as well as with autumn. The seasons were also connected with four distinct life stages, autumn being representative of  late middle age. This physiological theory emphasizes the inf luence of  the cosmos on the functioning of  the body. Such was its popularity that belief in this system persisted until the modern discovery of  blood circulation. From the Romantic period onwards melancholy began to be associated with the more abstract Romantic concept of nature as an alternative to the civilized world. It was perceived as a place in which to make contact with one’s inner self and also with the eternal world beyond. In Endmoränen the connection between the seasonal decline towards death in nature and Johanna’s own decline is made very early on. While the onset of autumn previously depressed her, she now expresses relief at its arrival (EM, 5). This sense of relief is connected with her negative perception of  her ageing body and the desire to shield the ‘Gravur der Greisenhaftigkeit’ [etchings of old age] from view (EM, 26). Her aversion to her body is particularly strongly expressed in her problematic comparison of  her body with that of  her disabled friend Irene, who is no longer alive; she believes that her situation is similar to that experienced by Irene, since the old and the crippled must have similarly restricted expectations of  life

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(EM, 35). This is a naïve and simplistic assessment of  two very dif ferent conditions: one a normal condition that af fects every individual in later years and the other a congenital physical deformity (in the case of  Irene), which the individual has to endure for a lifetime. Johanna’s self-centred view of  herself and of  this physical change creeping up on her slowly engenders, above all, a feeling of melancholy. Her attitude towards the outside world, to the changing of  the seasons, has altered as has her perception of  her body. Both are in slow decline and there is a dejected acceptance of  her ageing body and a relief at the coming of autumn rather than a painful feeling of  loss. Her relationship to nature, on the whole, has been reinforced since her first summer in the country. Johanna’s direct contact with nature gave her a fresh perspective, reassuring her that there was something she could connect with outside of  herself which was more powerful than other inf luences on her life: Selbst als ich in Basekow den Gewittern zusah oder dem Sturm, der in gewaltigen Wellen das Korn peitschte, empfand ich vor allem eine tiefe Genugtuung, weil diese Macht keine Menschenmacht war, weil sie keinem Gesetz gehorchte und keiner Regierung, weil sie die Garantie war für einen größeren, der Lächerlichkeit unseres eigenen Lebens entzogenen Zusammenhang. Der Gedanke, eine Kreatur dieser undurchschaubaren, endlosen Welt zu sein, stattete mich gegenüber der Tatsache, daß ich den idiotischen Gesetzen einer ebenso idiotischen Menschenmacht unterlag, mit unbestreitbaren Rechten aus. (EM, 24) [Even when I looked at the storms in Basekow, or the gales that whipped the corn into mighty waves, I felt above all a deep sense of satisfaction, because this power was not a human power, because it didn’t obey any law or any government, because it was the guarantee of a wider context, removed from the ridiculousness of our own lives. The thought that I was a creature of  this endless, inscrutable world endowed me with incontestable rights, in contrast to my subjugation to the idiotic laws of an equally idiotic human power.]

As she had spent her first summer in Basekow thirteen years before, the ‘idiotische Menschenmacht’ she refers to is the GDR government. She sees the power of nature as being perhaps the only thing outside and beyond its control. Her house in the countryside was a kind of refuge from the direct inf luence of  this regime, a place where one could connect with a primal

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force, something which had existed long before the present historical period and something which would exist long after it. The village of  Basekow appears to be somehow unreal, existing outside of  time. There is the sense that it has been left behind by the world, just like the end moraines that spread out into gently rolling hills and surround the place (EM, 20–21). This sense of unreality is what lends the natural world its melancholy atmosphere but it is, at the same time, that which allows us to connect with it. While the historical world advances at an ever faster pace, the natural world seems to move at a pace which matches our faculty for contemplation and introspection. The moraines are a symbol of  this very condition and of  Johanna’s detachment from society and from the civilized world; as such, the moraines encapsulate Johanna’s emotional state. The ever-increasing disharmony between the natural world and the world which we have created is one of  Maron’s central concerns. As Maron explains in an interview with Ursula Escherig, the physical and emotional needs of  human beings are being neglected because of our obsession with progress and ef ficiency.25 This conf lict between nature and civilization and the desire to escape to another world, which would be more in tune with the pre-rational creature within us, is a primary theme of all of  Maron’s previous works, as Elke Gilson has shown.26 In the case of  Endmoränen, we see Johanna retreat into nature, where she feels in touch with her creaturely self and where she can avoid the constraints and pressures of  the civilized world. One of  the greatest of  these pressures for Johanna is the confrontation with one’s ageing self. Maron has written elsewhere that the hardest part of growing old is the realization of  how others must see you, and having to accept one’s resemblance to other ageing people.27 Johanna has f led the gaze of others and her closeness to nature leads her to live in a more primitive way. Although she does not go into complete hibernation, like the protagonist of  Animal triste, she does spend most of  her time in a semi-vegetative state, staring out at the world

25 Gilson, Wie Literatur hilft, p. 42. 26 Gilson, Wie Literatur hilft, pp. 42–43. 27 Maron, quer über die Gleize, p. 155.

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around her. The more time she spends in the country, the more contented she becomes with this existence, while at the same time realizing that her ‘haustierähnlichen Zustand’ [pet-like state] should not be sustained (EM, 83). However, her communion with nature eventually begins to dissolve. She no longer has the sense that the landscape is of fering her companionship and comfort; the evenings now feel long and she has begun to yearn for the city (EM, 151–152). The comparison of  her melancholy state with the condition of a pet rather than an animal as such indicates that it is the result of  the boredom of inactivity rather than existential anguish, and thus inauthentic. This correlates with Heidbrink’s belief  that real, deeply felt melancholy cannot be sustained in postmodern society.28 Nevertheless, Johanna’s ‘pet-like state’ heightens her awareness of  her increasing dislocation from the life she knows she should be leading in the city. She is eventually prepared to return to the city, after having satisfied her last primitive urge by sleeping with Igor, a younger man whom she hardly knows. She has nonetheless learnt that, in order to recover her identity, she henceforth needs to find a balance in her life. On her return to the city she brings an element of nature back with her, in the shape of a dog she finds on the motorway. Her encounter with this particular animal is very significant, as the dog is a saturnine symbol which in Dürer’s Melencolia I is shown to share the psychic disposition of  the main figure to some extent.29 The miserable state of  the dog that Johanna brings home likewise ref lects her own melancholy condition, despite her determination to make a fresh start. Another dominant melancholy topos in the novel is that of  time or transience. We have already seen that Johanna has fallen out of  time, so to speak. Her interests and abilities have become anachronistic, as have those of  her friend Christian. She admits to him that she already has the feeling that she cannot do anything that is of any use to the world, and the work that she was able to do, namely inserting secret messages in her

28 Heidbrink, Entzauberte Zeit, p. 11. 29 Erwin Panofsky and Fritz Saxl, Dürers ‘Melencolia I’: eine quellen- und typen­geschicht­ liche Untersuchung (Leipzig: Teubner, 1923), pp. 69–70.

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biographies, has become an entirely superf luous ability overnight (EM, 56). Meanwhile, Christian’s publishing company has lost interest in the traditional humanities that once formed the core of  their programme, and the department, which, apart from him, consists of only one secretary, has been banished to the margins (EM, 96). As outlined previously, the link between the concepts of  time and melancholy, more specifically between transience and melancholy, goes back to late antiquity. The inf luence of astrological teachings led to the melancholy type being associated with Saturn, who in turn was connected with Chronos, the god of  time. Consequently, the awareness of  the transience of our life on earth was considered a common cause of melancholy. In the sixteenth century time again appears as a significant motif in Albrecht Dürer’s Melencolia I. It is represented by the hourglass in the background, which not only measures the passage of  time but also captures a moment in time, caught between the past and the future. The scenario encapsulated in Melencolia I thus corresponds to Johanna’s situation. She is similarly positioned in an ambivalent relationship to the past as well as to the future. She sees herself already on the downward slope towards death, although she is only in her mid-fifties. Her mortality troubles her, as she feels that she will leave nothing of value behind except her daughter, in comparison to her friend Karoline, who she believes will live on through her paintings. Karoline treasures her personal possessions over her creative work and, as she has no children, sees them as her legacy. Personal objects have long been conceptualized as immortal vessels, which hold the memory of  their former owners. They are thus laden with ambivalent emotions; while objects provide a link to eternity, they also continually confront us with our mortality. She therefore fears that they may not be cared for after she is gone: ‘Alle diese Dinge sind doch nicht irgendetwas, nichts Zufälliges, sondern absichtsvoll um mich versammelt. Sie sind mein materialisiertes Leben. Wenn ich weg bin, sind sie noch da, und damit bin ich auch noch da’ [All these things are not just any old random stuf f ; I intentionally gathered them around me. They are my materialized life. When I am gone they will still be there, and that means I will also be there] (EM, 181–182). For Johanna, her ageing body is a constant reminder of  her mortality. Nevertheless, she is uncertain whether she would choose to extend her life

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expectancy if given the chance. She feels as if  the ‘ideelle[r] Vorrat’ [ideal provisions] for her life have already been used up and that she is condemned to trying to kill the time she has left (EM, 138). There is the abiding sense that a forlorn future is approaching but Johanna maintains a connection to the past through her (albeit waning) interest in long deceased personalities and her communication with ghosts. Since she does not believe in God she asks the ghosts or spirits for guidance and protection. They are constantly trying to give her signs and it is up to her to understand them correctly (EM, 111–112). Ghosts thus unite us with the past, but also with the future, since we must be mindful not only of  those who are gone but also of  those who are to come, as Derrida stresses. He speaks of  the justice owed to all those who are not part of  the living present: It is necessary to speak of  the ghost, indeed to the ghost and with it, from the moment that no ethics, no politics, whether revolutionary or not, seems possible and thinkable and just that does not recognize in its principle the respect for those others who are not yet there, presently living, whether they are already dead or not yet born.30

Johanna’s communication with ghosts emphasizes her own detachment from the present: this act demonstrates that she is drawn to people from the past who can guide her towards the future. Her feeling of  being cut of f  from the world is also associated with her self-enforced confinement to the house. The sensation of  being cut adrift is especially pronounced at night, when she cannot make contact with anyone: Nur nachts, wenn ich nicht schlafen konnte, weil die Fliederäste gegen die Dachrinne schlugen oder der Marder im Dach tobte und ich im oberen Stockwerk des Hauses saß wie auf einem Schif f mitten im dunklen Meer, abgeschnitten von den anderen Menschen und allem, was hätte Halt bieten können, wenn die ächzenden Bäume und der stoßweise atmende Wind mich fürchten ließen, daß ich ihresgleichen war, und ich, weil alle Welt schlief, auch niemanden anrufen konnte, setzte ich mich an meinen Schreibtisch und blätterte in meinem Adreßbuch, bis ich eine Person fand, mit der ich mich aus meiner spukhaften Einsamkeit in Verbindung setzen wollte, und schrieb an sie einen Brief. (EM, 49) 30 Jacques Derrida, Specters of  Marx (London; New York: Routledge, 1994), p. xix.

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Chapter 2 [Only at night, when I couldn’t sleep because the lilac branches were beating against the gutter or the marten was making a racket under the roof and I was sitting on the top f loor of  the house like on a ship in the middle of a dark sea, cut of f  from other people and from everything that could have provided a foothold; when the groaning trees and the intermittently breathing wind made me fear that I was one of  them, and I couldn’t call anyone because all the world was asleep, I sat down at my desk and leafed through my address book until I found a person that I wanted to contact and so escape my spooky isolation, and wrote them a letter.]

The image of  the ship on the dark sea is a compelling metaphor, which is used three times throughout the novel. It expresses a fearful and disjointed relation to space and time, a point that will be expanded on later from a psychopathological standpoint, and in connection with the Romantic relationship to interior space. Melancholy has been linked with both sleepiness and sleeplessness since the Middle Ages, due to the fact that so many varying symptoms came to be bound up with the concept of melancholy.31 Johanna’s insomnia appears to be brought about by a fearful state of mind. The fear of  being cut of f  from the world, but also that the world outside is a frightening place reminds us of  Albrecht Dürer’s engraving Melencolia I, which depicts a contemplative figure separated from the external world, in which apocalyptic scenes are displayed. And like those who shared sensitive emotions by means of  letters during the Enlightenment and Romantic periods, the protagonist writes letters to escape the sense of  loneliness she feels when the rest of  the world is asleep, an anachronistic pastime that contributes to her sense of  being left behind by time.32 Through writing to her old friend Christian, Johanna’s motivation is rather to find a way of understanding her melancholic state. While writing she listens to the music of  John Dowland, a sixteenth-century composer, whose work embodied the popular melancholy sentiment of  his time.33

31 32 33

Heinrich Schipperges, ‘Melencolia als mittelalterlicher Sammelbegrif f  für Wahn­ vorstellungen’, in Melancholie, pp. 49–76 (p. 59). Cf. Lepenies, Melancholie und Gesellschaft, p. 100. See Robin Headlam Wells, ‘John Dowland and Elizabethan Melancholy’, Early Music, Vol. 13, November 1985, 514–528.

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The motif of inwardness is also significant in the novel, particularly in relation to the protagonist’s communion with ghosts. Since antiquity those of a melancholy nature are also contemplative and introverted types, as portrayed by Albrecht Dürer in Melencolia I. However, it was only in the eighteenth century that a deliberate turning away from the world and turning in on oneself were widely regarded as essential for a deeper understanding of self and other.34 A fascination, not to say an obsession, with ghosts also defined the subjectivity of  the eighteenth century.35 This connection is highlighted in Maron’s novel through a depiction of Friedrich Wilhelm’s fanatic and gullible nature. His willingness to believe in apparitions was abused by those wishing to gain power and inf luence over him, e.g. the Rosicrucians, members of a secret society of mystics who claimed to have a unique insight into the spiritual realm. They strove to persuade him to join their order and by this means further their resistance to the Enlightenment. Wilhelmine Enke herself supposedly convinced him that their dead son had appeared to her, in an attempt to turn the King away from those who would corrupt him, but also to maintain her own inf luence over him. It is through Johanna’s recourse to an interaction with ghosts that we can comprehend her melancholy. When she wants to draw the spirits of  the dead to her she must think about them intensely, so that they know that she needs them (EM, 216). This exchange with the ghosts of  those she has known during their lives, including her aunt Ida and her husband Achim’s father, leads Johanna to a better understanding of herself. It is a metaphor for a communication with her inner self, which replaces the need for therapy: ‘Plötzlich habe ich einen Satz im Kopf, der vorher nicht darin war […] Ja, Christian, so beten die armen Gottlosen, andere gehen zum Therapeuten 34

35

According to Wolf  Lepenies, these actions in fact constituted a self-conscious means of overcoming feelings of powerlessness and of proving one’s autonomy to oneself: ‘Bürgerlicher Melancholie und Empfindsamkeit dürften keine auslösenden Ursachen zugeschrieben werden. Vielmehr beharrt der Empfindsame darauf, “aus sich” heraus die Af fekte zu schaf fen, sein Leid selbst zu konstruieren. Nur so rettet er das Prinzip der Autonomie: für den freien Entschluß, sich selbst etwas anzutun’, Lepenies, Melancholie und Gesellschaft, p. 104. Hans-Jürgen Schings, Melancholie und Aufklärung, pp. 144–146.

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oder in die Selbsthilfegruppe’ [Suddenly I have a phrase in my head that wasn’t there before. Yes, Christian, this is how poor godless people pray; others go to a therapist or to a self-help group] (EM, 216). It is obviously also a spiritual experience for Johanna, an alternative to religious belief, as it was in the Enlightenment period. The subjective appropriation of religious or spiritual beliefs is a mark of  the postmodern period (see Introduction, p. 21). In this narrative, as well as in Ach Glück, the appropriation of such beliefs can be regarded as a facet of a melancholy subjectivity. Johanna’s inertia is engendered by her retreat into a life in tune with nature, as well as by her stagnating relationship to the outside world. She has fallen out of a normal psychological af finity to space as well as to time, as demonstrated above. She is, to an extent, content in her lethargic state and wonders if she could be satisfied with a life dissociated from all of  her cultural interests. At the same time she knows that her life would be a failure, were she to remain in the village (EM, 65–66). The protagonist’s inertia can be analysed in connection with her relationship to time and space; while inertia is commonly understood as an inability or lack of desire to move from a certain place, its spatial dimension is closely linked to a personal relationship to time. This, too, has been interpreted as a melancholy symptom. Johann Glatzel, for instance, explains how the melancholy person’s relationship to time does not correspond to the chronological passing of  time. While time has stood still for the melancholiac, the world outside seems to be moving ever faster. The longer one remains in this state, the harder it will be to find one’s place in the world again, and the more the feeling of  being unable to move forward will take over.36 Furthermore, Glatzel expresses the connections between melancholy, repetition and boredom, which were first illuminated by Kierkegaard in Repetition.37 The following depiction of existential boredom, brought about 36 Glatzel, Melancholie und Wahnsinn, p. 95. 37 Søren Kierkegaard, Repetition: An Essay in Experimental Psychology, trans. by Walter Lowrie (London: Oxford University Press, 1942). It is important to note that repetition is nevertheless considered by Kierkegaard as essential to the human psyche: ‘Wiederholung ist ein unerläßliches Element der Geschichte des Individuums, dessen Fortentwicklung und Ausdif ferenzierung nicht denkbar sind ohne beständige

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by the sense of endless monotony, is in turn directly related to the ancient concept of  taedium vitae:38 Der Stillstand der erlebnisimmanenten Zeit und das zwanghafte Auf-der-StelleTreten, das Nicht-abschließen-Können des Zwangskranken, begegnen als lähmende Wiederholung, als Wiederkehr des ewig Gleichen in der Verfassung der Langeweile. Kierkegaard hat deswegen überzeugend den Begrif f der Melancholie mit seiner Kategorie der Wiederholung, und damit eben der Langeweile, in enge Verbindung gebracht. […] Langeweile und Melancholie beruhen darauf, daß einzelne Zeitabschnitte subjektiv gewertet, einzelne Räume privativ beansprucht werden.39 [The stagnation of experience-immanent time and the compulsive movement-onthe-spot, as well as the inability-to-bring-to-a-close of  the obsessive-compulsive, present as paralysing repetition, as the eternal recurrence of  the same in the form of  boredom. Kierkegaard has therefore convincingly brought the concept of melancholy and his category of repetition, and consequently also that of  boredom, into close connection. Boredom and melancholy are based on individual periods of time being subjectively evaluated, individual spaces being privatively claimed.]

We have clearly seen that Johanna’s life has come to a standstill. Even the sense of continuous repetition is evident, as demonstrated when she tells us that she already knows the memoirs of Wilhelmine Enke almost by heart (EM, 243–244). The association between repetition and boredom is also obvious in Johanna’s life, as is her inability to find a way out of  her inertia: during the long evenings in the country she longs for the city; however, she never manages to follow through on her vows to leave (EM, 151–152). The notion of designating a space for oneself is also relevant to an understanding of Johanna’s melancholy. While it was determined as a pathological symptom of melancholy by late nineteenth-century psychiatrists, Rekapitulation individualspezifischer Bestände’ (quoted in Glatzel, Melancholie und Wahnsinn, p. 145). In fact Kierkegaard emphasizes that, while the experience of repetition may result in melancholy boredom, the consequence of negating repetition will be melancholy despair: ‘Aus der Negation der Wiederholung, heißt es bei Kierkegaard, wachsen Verzweif lung und Melancholie’ (Glatzel, p. 145). 38 Ludwig Völker, Langeweile: Untersuchungen zur Vorgeschichte eines literarischen Motivs (Munich: Fink, 1975), pp. 133–135. 39 Glatzel, Melancholie und Wahnsinn, p. 96.

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it previously characterized the relationship of  the Romantics to interior space.40 It was a place in which to retreat into their inner selves, a place of contemplation, and therefore similar to their concept of nature. Interior space is taken over by the imagination and its physical properties become of secondary importance to the imaginary world with which it has been imbued. While occupying the top f loor of  her house at night, Johanna imagines herself on a ship stranded on a dark sea, cut of f  from other people. This image is illuminated in Horst Fritz’s analysis of  the nineteenth-century relationship to the interior. He highlights the Romantic fascination with the interior as a place which facilitated inwardness. He also points to the escalation of  this fascination into an obsession with ever more restricted spaces, to interiors within interiors; the narrower the space, the greater the potential for the imagination to be set free.41 The metaphor of  the ship in Endmoränen may be considered to portray an interior within an interior and can be compared to Fritz’s assessment of interior space in the novel A Rebours by Joris K. Huysmans, published in 1884: ‘In einer Art doppelter Enklave ist der Rückzug aufs eigene Ich ins Extrem getrieben: Ein Zimmer im Zimmer, einer Schif fskabine ähnlich, dient als bevorzugter Aufenthaltsort’ [In a kind of double enclave, the retreat into the self is driven to extremes: A room within a room, similar to a ship’s cabin, serves as the preferred abode].42 The room that Johanna occupies is the place where she is able to conjure ghosts from her past, which highlights the increased potential of more enclosed spaces to excite the imagination. Of course her ties to the past are political as well as personal; the next section, therefore, attempts to explain why Johanna is still attached to the political regime that she so despised.

40 Horst Fritz, ‘Innerlichkeit und Selbstreferenz: Anmerkungen zum literarischen Interieur des 19. Jahrhunderts’, in Melancholie in Literatur und Kunst, ed. by Dietrich von Engelhardt and others (Hürtgenwald: Pressler, 1990), pp. 89–110. 41 Fritz, ‘Innerlichkeit und Selbstreferenz’, p. 94. 42 Fritz, ‘Innerlichkeit und Selbstreferenz’, p. 96.

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A Psychoanalytical Interpretation A closer analysis of  Johanna’s melancholy attachment to the past provides a clearer understanding of  her character and of  her relationship to the GDR. The totalitarian regime had a negative inf luence on her life and she is still unable to escape its grip; she can find no anchor in the present while at the same time the future is pulling her ever closer. From this point of view, her melancholy can be seen to have no clearly definable cause, and can only be fully comprehended in conjunction with the unconscious. A scientific analysis of the unconscious was first expounded by Sigmund Freud in ‘A Note on the Concept of  the Unconscious in Psychoanalysis’, which was published in 1912. His exploration of  the unconscious led him to formulate his theory of narcissism,43 on which, as we will see, his understanding of melancholy is based. In ‘Mourning and Melancholy’ Freud analyses mourning as a normal reaction to loss, whether of a loved one or an abstraction that has taken his/her place, such as the fatherland, freedom, an ideal, etc., while melancholy is a pathological response.44 Most of  the manifestations of melancholy in the individual are already familiar to us: a deeply depressive mood, a loss of interest in the outside world, loss of  the ability to love, suppression of physical activity, and the degradation of one’s self-esteem, which is expressed in self-criticism and selfrecriminations.45 We can see such a degradation of self-esteem in Johanna, who believes herself  to be ‘armselig und provisorisch, ein mißlungener Prototyp vom Menschen’ [pathetic and provisional, a failed prototype 43 Sigmund Freud, ‘Zur Einführung des Narzissmus’, in Psychologie des Unbewußten. Studienausgabe, Bd. III, ed. by Alexander Mitscherlich, Angela Richards and James Strachey (Frankfurt am Main: Fischer, 1989), pp. 37–68. This essay was written in 1914. 44 Sigmund Freud, ‘Trauer und Melancholie’, in Psychologie des Unbewußten. Studienausgabe, Bd. III, ed. by Alexander Mitscherlich, Angela Richards and James Strachey (Frankfurt am Main: Fischer, 1989), pp. 193–212 (p. 197). This essay was written in 1915. 45 Freud, ‘Trauer und Melancholie’, p. 198.

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of a person] (EM, 71). For Freud it is this depreciation of one’s own value that separates the mourner from the melancholiac: in mourning it is the world that has become poor and empty, in melancholy it is the ego itself.46 Through his clinical work with patients, Freud realized that the failings the patients lamented were rarely evident in their own characters, but in fact were apparent in the person whom they had lost. He concluded that they had turned their hatred of  the person in question against themselves, which is where the link with narcissism can be established: Es muß einerseits eine starke Fixierung an das Liebesobjekt vorhanden sein, anderseits aber im Widerspruch dazu eine geringe Resistenz der Objektbesetzung. Dieser Widerspruch scheint […] zu fordern, daß die Objektwahl auf narzißtischer Grundlage erfolgt sei, so daß die Objektbesetzung, wenn sich Schwierigkeiten gegen sie erheben, auf den Narzißmus regredieren kann.47 [On the one hand, a strong fixation to the loved object must have been present; on the other hand, in contradiction to this, the object-cathexis must have had little power of resistance. As Otto Rank has aptly remarked, this contradiction seems to imply that the object-choice has been ef fected on a narcissistic basis, so that the object-cathexis, when obstacles come in its way, can regress to narcissism.]

Of course we cannot apply Freud’s theory wholesale to the present analysis, since his focus is on the pathological attachment of one person to another. However, he does concede that an abstract ideal may take the place of a person, and, given the ambivalent nature of  this attachment, it is reasonable to assume that the relationship to the object could as well be built on a negative basis as on a positive one.

46 ‘Der Melancholiker zeigt uns noch eines, was bei der Trauer entfällt, eine außerordentliche Herabsetzung seines Ichgefühls, eine großartige Ichverarmung. Bei der Trauer ist die Welt arm und leer geworden, bei der Melancholie ist es das Ich selbst’, Freud, ‘Trauer und Melancholie’, p. 200. 47 Freud, ‘Trauer und Melancholie’, p. 195. Translation from: Sigmund Freud, ‘Mourning and Melancholia’, The Standard Edition of the Complete Psychological Works of Sigmund Freud, Vol. XIV (1914–1916): On the History of  the Psycho-Analytic Movement, Papers on Metapsychology and Other Works, 237–258 (p. 248).

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This assessment would explain the melancholy subjectivity of our main protagonist in Endmoränen. Her whole life’s energy and purpose had always been bound up in her defensive antagonism towards the state, as she herself realizes: ‘Vielleicht habe ich in meinem Leben zuviel Kraft darauf verwendet, etwas nicht zu tun, und Achim hat recht mit seiner Behauptung, ich sei geistig deformiert infolge erzwungener defensiver Denkgewohnheiten’ [Perhaps I have spent too much energy in my life on not doing something, and Achim is right with his assertion that I am mentally deformed as a result of enforced, defensive thought patterns] (EM, 56). Later she admits that something has been lost to her but is not sure what it is. She admires her neighbour Friedel Wolgast’s belief  that there is a definite order to the world that must be maintained and wishes that she could likewise defend herself and reinstate order in her own world. The problem is that, unlike Friedel, who is defending herself against the encroachment of  her neighbour onto her land, Johanna does not know what she has to defend as she does not know what she has lost (EM, 109). Furthermore, even if she were to become conscious of what it is she has lost, her disillusionment with the present sociopolitical circumstances means that they cannot serve as a substitute for the loss of  the previous political regime. Her melancholic state has thus been induced by the lack of a replacement object for her former negative attachment.

Endmoränen as a Representation of  Neo-Romantic Melancholy Each of  the melancholy motifs analysed above has recurred throughout the long tradition of  this concept. There are, however, particular reasons for reading this text as a neo-romantic version of melancholy in the postunification age. The protagonist’s relationship to nature and time, and the conf lict between nature and civilization are the dominant manifestations of melancholy in the novel. This view has been reinforced through an

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examination of  the main themes in Maron’s other work, as outlined above. With regard to the connection with nature, the melancholy longing for a lost world was a preoccupation of  the Romantic period. According to several critics, this sense of disillusionment and alienation is an ever-present characteristic of  literary modernity, which began with Rousseau in the middle of  the eighteenth century.48 For Rousseau man’s earliest advances away from a ‘state of nature’ have produced the divide between nature and culture which has become ever greater. The longing to return to a natural life is also evident in Maron’s work. In her reception speech for the Kleist Award Maron refers to the Romantic conf lict between nature and civilization, as witnessed in Kleist’s own life and in his play Penthesilea (which was the inspiration for Animal triste).49 In the present narrative we witness Johanna’s attempts to find an underlying pattern connecting her life with the past. She also seeks a link to another time and place through her communication with ghosts. Such were the sentiments of  the Romantics – their common aim was to find a way of  truly integrating the internal and external worlds, and our temporal existence in the here and now with the eternal life beyond. Amala Hanke has analysed this preoccupation of  the Romantics with the human relationship to space and time as follows: ‘Romanticism is intimately related to philosophical Idealism, with which it shares the attempt to reconcile the dichotomies of spirit and nature, the finite and infinite, and the temporal and eternal by seeing the one as the extension of  the other, whereby their metaphysical synthesis may be achieved.’50 An interesting parallel may also be drawn between the Enlightenment and early Romantic periods and the present in regard to our relationship to religion. While mystical religious tendencies were considered the enemy of  Enlightenment ideals, Johanna speculates that the lack of  faith in organized religion in today’s western society is a cause of a widespread sense of

48 Maurice Cranston, The Romantic Movement (Oxford: Blackwell, 1994). 49 Maron, Nach Maßgabe meiner Begreifungskraft, p. 111. 50 Amala M. Hanke, Spatiotemporal Consciousness in English and German Romanticism (Bern: Peter Lang, 1981), p. 5.

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emptiness and lack of orientation. She comments on this phenomenon in the context of  the recent communist past: ‘Wahrscheinlich war es doch ein Fehler, Gott einfach abzuschaf fen. Nun hat das Volk kein Opium mehr, aber süchtig ist es noch. Und wie haben wir alle das Wort glauben verhöhnt und den Zweifel gefeiert (oder an ihn geglaubt)’ [It was probably a mistake to simply get rid of  God. Now the people have no opium left but are still addicted. And how we all scorned the word believe and acclaimed doubt (or believed in it)] (EM, 112). The longing for an alternative to a life of alienation, which preoccupies all of  Maron’s characters, has been the predominant theme of  the modern age, and a motif, therefore, which connects her work directly to that of  the Romantics, as commented on by Henk Harbers.51 However, while there is no shortage of narrowly defined views on the literary or aesthetic changes which Romanticism brought about, the sociohistorical background to these changes is seldom examined in detail, as Robert Sayre and Michael Löwy argue in their article entitled ‘Romanticism and Capitalism’. They have thus sought to redress the balance with a Marxist reading of  the modern era: Romanticism as a worldview constitutes a specific form of criticism of  ‘modernity’, which we would define as the encompassing, multifaceted civilization that develops in conjunction with capitalism. The specificity of  the Romantic critique resides in its being made in the name of values and ideals drawn from the precapitalist, premodern past, whereas other critiques can be made in the name of  ‘progress’, considering that modernity has not gone far enough in directions already initiated. The Romantic sensibility is bound up with an experience of  loss, the painful conviction that in modern capitalist reality something precious has been lost, at the level of  both individuals and humanity at large. Certain essential human values have been alienated – qualitative values as opposed to the purely quantitative exchange value that predominates in modernity.52

51 52

Harbers, ‘Gefährliche Freiheit. Zu einem Motivkomplex im Werk von Monika Maron’, p. 130. Robert Sayre and Michael Löwy, ‘Romanticism and Capitalism’, in A Companion to European Romanticism, ed. by Michael Ferber (Oxford: Blackwell, 2005), pp. 433– 449 (pp. 434–435).

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The capitalist ethos is tellingly criticized by Johanna, when she ref lects that she will soon only have relevance in society from a financial point of view, ‘als Zielgruppe von Verkäufern aller Branchen und als katastrophaler Kostenfaktor für die Krankenkassen’ [as the target group of salespeople of all sectors and as a catastrophic cost factor for the health insurance companies] (EM, 55–56). In the work of  the Romantic poet Charles Baudelaire we find sentiments which provide a direct link to the melancholy of  Endmoränen. The most significant poems in this regard are ‘Semper Eadem’, ‘Chant d’Automne’, ‘Spleen’ and ‘L’Horloge’. Baudelaire expresses sentiments similar to Johanna’s in ‘Semper Eadem’: ‘D’où vous vient, disiez-vous, cette tristesse étrange, Montant comme la mer sur le roc noir et nu?’ – Quand notre coeur a fait une fois sa vendange, Vivre est un mal […] Plus encore que la Vie, La Mort nous tient souvent par des liens subtils.53 [You said, there grows within you some strange gloom, A sea rising on rock, why is it so? – When once your heart has brought its harvest home Life is an evil […] More, still, than Life Death holds us often in the subtlest ways.]54

Here we find a parallel to Johanna’s fear that ‘der ideelle Vorrat für mein Leben sei aufgebraucht’ (EM, 138) and that there are years ahead of simply waiting for death. The sense of  time slowly ticking by is very distinctly expressed by Baudelaire, e.g. in Chant d’Automne:

53 54

Charles Baudelaire, Les Fleurs du Mal (Paris: Gallimard, 1975), p. 41. Charles Baudelaire, The Flowers of  Evil, trans. by James McGowan (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1998), p. 83.

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Bientôt nous plongerons dans les froides ténèbres; Adieu, vive clarté de nos étés trop courts! J’entends déjà tomber avec des chocs funèbres Le bois retentissant sur le pavé des cours.55 [Now will we plunge into the frigid dark, The living light of summer gone too soon! Already I can hear a dismal sound, The thump of  logs on courtyard paving stones.]56

And in L’Horloge he writes of  the necessity of making the most of every minute, something which Johanna regrets not having done: Chaque instant te dévore un morceau du délice À chaque homme accordé pour toute sa saison […] Les minutes, mortel folâtre, sont des gangues Qu’il ne faut pas lâcher sans en extraire l’or!57 [Each instant eats a piece of  the delight A man is granted for his earthly season. […] Don’t let the minutes, prodigal, be wasted – They are the ore you must refine for gold!]58

The protagonist realizes that, following the fall of  the Wall, she should have seized the opportunity to start a new life, as so many others did. Now, thirteen years after reunification, she is too old to make any such drastic changes (EM, 43–44, 55). Her sense of  loss and regret is deeply bound up with the motif of autumn and its associations with ageing. This motif is also central to an understanding of  Baudelaire’s work, although his conception of autumn is in some ways quite dif ferent. According to Benjamin, ‘Die Heimat des schöpferischen Ingeniums ist nach Baudelaires Erfahrung der Herbst. Der große Dichter ist gleichsam das Herbstgeschöpf ’ [The home of  the creative genius is, according to Baudelaire’s experience, 55 Baudelaire, Les Fleurs du Mal, p. 56. 56 Baudelaire, The Flowers of  Evil, p. 117. 57 Baudelaire, Les Fleurs du Mal, p. 81. 58 Baudelaire, The Flowers of  Evil, pp. 161 and 163.

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autumn. The great poet is, so to speak, the autumn creature].59 Judging by the above extracts alone, the poet’s subjectivity appears delineated by such an ‘autumnal’ disposition; it is not, however, characterized by the typically Romantic sentiment that this expression conventionally evokes. Autumn does not conjure a dif fuse sentimentality but rather denotes a state of  being for Baudelaire, characterized by the realization that the lyrical ‘I’ has harvested what he can from life and that from now on death’s gravitational force will be pulling him ever closer to it. This state of  being can also be represented as a continuum in which one is constantly journeying between life and death (a conclusion that the title Semper Eadem [Ever the Same] substantiates). This resembles somewhat the limbo state in which the protagonist finds herself. Life for her is ef fectively over, but she must endure a long autumn before winter finally comes. However, autumn does not have entirely negative connotations for the narrator. While earlier in her life she had always dreaded the onset of autumn, now that she is getting older she finds that she welcomes the cooler weather. This echoes the alignment of autumn with late middle age, which dates back to antiquity. It also evokes a sweet melancholy, which does not denote true suf fering but rather a knowing allusion to the melancholy tradition.

Ach Glück – A New Beginning? Endmoränen ends with the prospect of  ‘ein wunderlicher Anfang’ for Johanna. When Monika Maron had finished the novel she stated that nothing interested her more than exploring how Johanna would deal with this new beginning and find a way out of  her lethargy. Hence she wrote a sequel to Endmoränen. The progress of  this work was partly revealed in

59 Walter Benjamin, Illuminationen: Ausgewählte Schriften, ed. by Siegfried Unseld (Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, 1969), p. 267.

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Wie ich ein Buch nicht schreiben kann und es trotzdem versuche,60 a lecture series on Maron’s approach to writing. These lectures were composed within a year and present four attempts to formulate a new life for Johanna, along with comments from the author and contemplations on the dif ficulties encountered, both structural and otherwise. The most significant challenge posed is finding a convincing means of redressing the lack of  balance in Johanna’s life: Anders als in der Welt der Gegenstände genügt der menschlichen Psyche oft eine Täuschung, um die Balance zu halten, wenigstens für einige Zeit. Das Ende der Täuschung bedeutet für Johanna vor allem Erschrecken über die Leere, die sie hinterläßt, und die Ahnung, daß diese Leere die Wahrheit ist und jeder Versuch, sie aufzufüllen, die nächste Täuschung werden könnte und daß sie lernen muß, ohne einen durch andere gestifteten Sinn auszukommen. (WI, 90) [Unlike in the world of objects, a delusion is often suf ficient for the human psyche to maintain its balance, at least for a time. For Johanna, the end of  the delusion causes most of all alarm at the emptiness that it leaves behind, and the sense that this emptiness is the truth, and that every attempt to fill it could become the next delusion and that she must learn to do without a meaning that is created by others.]

For Maron a balance can only be achieved through a successful interrelation between the creaturely and the civilized self and the realization that a meaningful life cannot be sustained by an emphasis on one aspect alone. She surmises that Johanna may be more content if  the writing of  biographies did not have to provide the sole meaning in her life, but was rather seen as a part of it, which made possible the existence of other parts (WI, 87–88). Maron sees the dog as vital to unlocking hidden meaning in Johanna’s life and lifting her out of  her melancholy. Whereas in Endmoränen she felt guilty about her ‘pet-like and entirely worthless condition’ (EM, 83), Maron hopes that with the help of  her dog Johanna will see her life in a new light and rejoice in her very existence (WI, 34–35). The author’s fourth

60 Monika Maron, Wie ich ein Buch nicht schreiben kann und es trotzdem versuche (Frankfurt am Main: Fischer, 2006; first published 2005). The text will hereafter be referenced as follows: (WI, page number).

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attempt, in which she gives the role of narrator over to Johanna’s husband Achim, seems to outline a way forward for her protagonist, which has only been made possible by the presence of  the dog. Achim notices how, since the arrival of  the dog, Johanna’s discontentment and bad humour have gradually dissipated, and that she often laughs in the abrupt and carefree way that she used to do (WI, 103). As we will see in the next section, this fourth attempt forms the final version. Ach Glück, the sequel to Endmoränen, relates the experiences and viewpoints of  both Johanna and her husband Achim. It is set on the day when Johanna leaves for Mexico and Achim is left alone to wander the city and wonder when or if she will come back. Much of  the narrative is taken up with their retrospective musings on the changes which have occurred in their lives in the last four months since the fateful appearance of  Bredow, the dog that Johanna found at the side of  the motorway at the end of  the previous novel. Up until this time their lives had followed a monotonous routine, the months and years fading in to one another.61 Now the protagonist believes that the dog was left for her as a sign that she needed to make changes in her life, and that it has been the primary catalyst of change in her life. She feels that the dog communicates to her the simplicity of achieving happiness, of rejoicing in the very fact of one’s existence (AG, 62). The dog is the traditional companion of  the melancholic type, due to the belief  that the dog is also intelligent but similarly controlled by the spleen, and thus easily overcome by madness, depression and fantasy.62 Thus, the dog would seem not only to cast a shadow over the protagonist’s hopes for the future but even to parody them. However, it is above all the paradigm of male melancholy genius that Maron intends to parody in her depiction of  the dog, since it has traditionally been associated with the melancholy scholar, who was exclusively male.63 The dog was

Monika Maron, Ach Glück (Frankfurt am Main: Fischer, 2007), pp. 8–9. The novel will hereafter be referenced as follows: (AG, page number). 62 Böhme, Albrecht Dürer Melencolia I: Im Labyrinth der Deutung, p. 16. 63 The issue of  the genderization of melancholy will be taken up in Chapter 3. 61

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considered more intelligent than other animals and capable of ref lecting the melancholic state of its companion, as depicted in Albrecht Dürer’s Melencolia I. Its apparent function in this narrative is not to empathize with the protagonist in this way but in fact to introduce a stance in opposition to melancholy. The dog projects a primitive contentment with its life, something which the melancholiac, who cannot desist from ontological contemplation, could never, and indeed would never, wish to reach. This animal is thus not aligned with the realm of male reason, of which the melancholy genius is an archetype, but with the opposing female sphere of irrational emotionality. This ef fect is heightened by the fact that Johanna’s husband Achim, the sober academic, cannot relate to the dog, since it acts like a real dog, not an emblematic one. Accordingly, the melancholiac must be able to relate not only to the cerebral realm traditionally associated with the melancholiac but also to the creaturely realm. Johanna’s af finity with the dog can thus be comprehended not just as a means of connecting with her creaturely self  but also as a way of gaining a deeper understanding of  this part of  herself, the part that genetically connects her to Bredow. The relationship has further positive consequences beyond this association since it has rekindled the protagonist’s belief in destiny as well as her communion with nature and with the spiritual realm. However, it also facilitates a continuing withdrawal from objective reality and increased alienation from her husband Achim, as we shall see below. Johanna regards the dog as a sign but also sees him as much more than merely a messenger. Apart from enabling her to relate with her more primitive, instinctive self, Bredow’s love has opened her eyes to what has been missing from her life (AG, 106). Achim, the person seemingly unable to provide the love his wife needs, reads Johanna’s relationship to the dog as marking the beginning of  her withdrawal from him. He believes that she relates to Bredow not merely as an animal but as a higher being, endowed with divine capabilities (AG, 30). It is only in retrospect, after Johanna has left for Mexico, that Achim realizes that it was her spiritual bond with the dog that had set his wife on a new course. He remembers the strange stories she used to recount about her nightly excursions with Bredow, and how they led to the reawakening of a further link to the spiritual realm,

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embodied in her communication with trees. This had begun when Johanna was a young girl but she had renounced this activity due to Achim’s ridicule. Her communion with ghosts was already depicted in Endmoränen and is pursued on another plane here. While this is for her a positive experience and can be read as an antidote to contemporary materialism, it also signifies her reluctance to rationally come to terms with the conditions of  her life in post-unification Germany. The sense of purpose, which her covert opposition to the totalitarian regime of  the GDR provided, has been lost with nothing to replace it but ‘öde, steppenähnliche Zeit’ [barren, steppelike time] (AG, 106). Johanna’s position in the GDR had given her a sense of destiny, which has been lost with the fall of  the communist regime. She now thinks that perhaps she missed out on her true destiny because she was not bold or brave enough to seek it out, or because she simply chose the wrong path in life (AG, 110). Johanna later realizes that fate does not provide one with options, and therefore she never really had the possibility of choosing her own path. In conversation with Hannes, the man who will look after Bredow while she is in Mexico, she reveals her doubt that she has any destiny at all, apart from the task of assisting others in fulfilling theirs: ‘Vielleicht haben manche Menschen gar kein Schicksal, sagte sie, die einen haben ein Schicksal, und die anderen sind nur den Schicksalsträgern dienende Füllmasse. In diesem Fall gehöre ich zur Füllmasse’ [Maybe some people have no destiny at all, she said; there are those who have a destiny, and those who serve only as fillers for the destiny-bearers. In this case I belong to the fillers] (AG, 155). An atmosphere of nostalgic longing is evoked in her ref lection on the destiny she had earlier believed in: Damals habe ich geglaubt, meine Aufgabe im Leben sei es, geheime Botschaften zu versenden und so den freien Geist gegen die Diktatur zu verteidigen. Aber seit die Diktatur verschwunden ist, braucht niemand mehr meine geheimen Botschaften, und vielleicht hat sie überhaupt nie jemand gebraucht, jedenfalls ist die Diktatur nicht an ihnen zugrunde gegangen. Hannes schwieg eine Weile. Eine verhangene Sonne tauchte das Zimmer in ein gelbliches Licht wie auf alten Fotografien, feinste Staubpartikel f lirrten geisterhaft durch die Luft. (AG, 156–157)

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[At that time I believed that it was my duty in life to transmit secret messages, and in this way to defend the spirit of  freedom against the dictatorship. But since the dictatorship has disappeared, nobody needs my secret messages anymore, and maybe nobody ever needed them; in any case the dictatorship didn’t collapse because of them. Hannes was quiet for a while. A dull sun bathed the room in a yellowish light, like in old photographs; the finest dust particles shimmered spectrally through the air.]

In fact an atmosphere of  longing and loss suf fuses the text as a whole. These sentiments are associated with Johanna’s inability to relate to the present and the search for a future direction; they also characterize Achim’s responses to the world around him and his ref lections on his own circumstances. In her lecture series, which described the process of writing this novel, Maron talks about the dif ficulty of grasping the concept of  longing: ‘Sehnsucht ist ein Wort wie Liebe oder Ewigkeit oder Tod, deren Geheimnissen die Wissenschaft um so weniger beikommt, je exakter sie das Phänomen beschreibt’ [Longing is a word like love or eternity or death, the secrets of which science is less able to explain the more exactly it describes the phenomenon] (WI, 61). She demonstrates that longing is a constant search for fulfillment, the attempt to fill a void that can never be filled. As soon as one longing is satisfied, another takes its place; we long for intimacy, for example, but as soon as we have it we long for its opposite. Even if contradictory yearnings can somehow be simultaneously fulfilled, there is a yearning that belongs to another dimension, that is unconscious of its object and seeks a home that can never be found (WI, 63). This longing is the essence of  Johanna’s emotional state. The nature of  Johanna’s melancholy state was illuminated from a Freudian perspective in the section dealing with Endmoränen (pp. 39–41). It is encapsulated in her realization that she does not know what to fight for, as she doesn’t know what it is she has lost (EM, 109). This predicament is perpetuated in the present narrative, although Johanna has attempted to make positive changes to her life: firstly by adopting the dog; then by trying to emulate Bredow’s unquestioning contentment by taking a job in her friend Igor’s gallery and passively waiting for the sign that will determine her next move. This waiting for fate to take over is symptomatic of  the superstitious beliefs that are shown to pervade her life; in fact she even believes that her emotions are being controlled by an external force:

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Such reliance on superstition obviously leads to profound pessimism, since happiness is granted only as a prelude to misery, the great experimenter wallowing in human desperation. Fortunately a sign does come, in the form of a letter from an acquaintance of  Igor’s, which Johanna answers in his absence. Thus a friendship strikes up between Johanna and Natalia Timofejewna; they exchange letters and emails for a number of months, until Johanna decides to escape the prospect of  the endless, empty years ahead of  her by following Natalia to Mexico City. Natalia is there in search of  her old friend Leonora Carrington, with whom she spent her youth. The protagonist has been inspired by the indomitable spirit of  both of  these elderly women, transmitted to her through Natalia’s stories and Leonora’s surrealist art. Johanna believes that the joie de vivre of  these women and the innate vivacity of  the Mexican people may be conveyed to her. The novel ends with her arrival in Mexico; thus we never learn whether this trip will really change her life. It seems that Maron is unable to realize the ‘wunderlicher Anfang’ that was anticipated at the end of  Endmoränen. The protagonist spends the duration of  the novel in the plane on her way to Mexico, which she refers to as a ‘monströsen Blechbehälter’ [monstrous metal container]: ‘Es war der unwirklichste Zustand, den sie sich denken konnte: zwischen den Zeiten, zwischen den Orten, zwischen den Sprachen; nur die Wolkendecke unter ihnen erlaubte die Illusion von Erdnähe, unter Schnee begraben’ [It was the most unreal condition that she could think of: between times, between places, between languages; only the cloud cover under them permitted the illusion of proximity to the earth, buried under snow] (AG, 86).

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This unrealistic state further emphasizes the detachment from historical experience seen in the previous novel. In fact the author seems to have abandoned her attempts to create a new life for Johanna, as the title of  the novel itself disparages any possibility of  true happiness. Although the novel purports to portray the hopefulness of a new beginning to come, it is almost as melancholy as the previous one. This is emphasized by the protagonist’s own acknowledgement of  the futility of  her temporary escape from her old life. While she carried through on her plan to go to Mexico, she had brief ly thought of  turning back, as she knew that her escape was childish. It would not change anything about the fact that she and Achim were getting old, that the course of  their lives could not now be changed, and that their desires were no longer the same (AG, 186). She and Achim have followed the same daily routine for the twenty years that they have been married. Since not even the fall of communism had much of an impact on it, it is foolish to imagine that it might change now. Johanna describes the changeover to the new republic after unification as that of adopting a new language, but using it to say the same phrases as before: ‘Sie tranken anderen Kaf fee, lasen andere Zeitungen, aber wenn sie beim Frühstück einander gegenüber saßen, war es wie in all den Jahren davor, als hätten sie ihr Leben in eine andere Sprache übersetzt, in der sie nun die alten Sätze sagten’ [They drank dif ferent cof fee, read dif ferent newspapers, but when they sat opposite each other at breakfast it was like all the years before, as if  they had translated their lives into a new language, in which they now said the old phrases] (AG, 9). While Achim is comfortable with their old routine, Johanna can no longer bear it. She suddenly accuses Achim of  turning his back to the world; she criticizes his physical posture at his desk and his immersion in his work as such behaviour is symptomatic of  his detachment from the world and of  his indif ference to her. Previously, under the GDR regime, she regarded his focus on his academic work as an admirable form of passive resistance. Now that this regime is no longer in place Achim’s stance can no longer be romanticized (AG, 95). Meanwhile Achim has not taken his wife’s criticisms seriously. He underestimated the impact of  the dog on her life and her relationship with Igor, the Russian gallery owner. He also misunderstood the nature of  her emotions in both cases. While he believes that she sees the dog as some kind

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of  higher being, it is the dog’s animality that interests her. Furthermore, he doesn’t realize that it was Igor who had encouraged Johanna to change her life (EM, 240). Above all, Achim does not believe that his wife seriously intends to leave; it is only after he has waved goodbye to her that he wonders if  Johanna has left him for good. This day reminds him of  the day his mother died, almost thirty years before, and how he resisted the finality of it, just as he is struggling with what seems to him to be Johanna’s final departure. The only dif ference is that Johanna is still alive (AG, 205–206). The evocation of  finality and the resigned tone in which it is expressed suggest that Achim is willing to reconcile himself with the loss of  his wife. This sense of  finality is heightened in Achim’s ref lections on their shared past, which are triggered by a sign that he comes across while wandering through the city: ‘Asbestsanierung im ehemaligen Palast der Republik’ [Removal of asbestos from the former Palace of  the Republic] (AG, 88). His subsequent ref lections on ‘Ehemaligkeit’ imply the loss of authenticity in the new Berlin Republic: Ehemaliger Palast, dachte Achim, was für ein Unfug. Ein Palast ist ein Palast, der zwar ein zerstörter, verfallener, demontierter oder ausgebrannter Palast sein kann, aber kein ehemaliger. Dieses Ding war zwar nie ein Palast, sondern nur der Palast der Republik, aber das ist er immer noch, nur in einem anderen Zustand. […] Je länger er über das Wort ehemalig nachdachte, umso heftiger empörte ihn dessen öf fentliche, gewiss genehmigungspf lichtige und damit quasi amtliche Verwendung auf dem blauen Bauzaun. (AG, 88) [Former palace, thought Achim, what kind of nonsense is that. A palace is a palace, which can indeed be a damaged, ruined, dismantled or burnt-out palace, but not a former one. This thing was never a palace of course, only the Palace of  the Republic, but it is still that, just in a dif ferent state. The longer he thought about the word ‘former’, the more vehement was his outrage at its public use on the blue fence of  the building site, although it was certainly subject to authorization and therefore quasi-of ficial.]

Allusions to his age and to a happy experience from his youth suggest that this loss of authenticity carries over into his own life. While walking across the Lustgarten he observes the young people lying around on the grass and has a sudden urge to join them, but quickly realizes how out of place he would look: like an old man or, even worse, a voyeur (AG, 88). In contrast to

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this a joyous image from Achim’s youth is recounted, when he and Johanna witnessed the GDR elite being dwarfed by their own megalomania. For the opening of  the ‘Palast der Republik’ the government and party leaders appeared on the balcony to address the people. However, they were so swamped by the size of  their new, highly symbolic building that the people could hardly recognize them. Achim remembers how Johanna jumped for joy beside him and shouted: they will never do this again (AG, 90–91). The greatest cause for joy for both of  them has been the toppling of  this regime; in fact Johanna considers this to have been the last great emotion that they have shared together (see AG, 95). Nevertheless it is the experience of participating in history as a young man that engenders in Achim a sense of  longing, a longing for his youth, when the prospect of change could have a real impact on his life. Now that he is in middle age and has already been relegated to the margins of society, he no longer has the feeling that historical events will have a significant bearing on his life. However, it is not only his age that has caused him to be pushed aside but also his place of origin. Since reunification West Germans have been given the best positions in the East, as Achim points out in relation to his own boss. He resents the fact that he has been overlooked for promotion and obliged to work under a mediocre academic, who would never have secured his position as head of a renowned institute were he not from the former West Germany (AG, 166–167). Thus an element of ironic nostalgia is contained in Achim’s ref lections on his and Johanna’s former lives: ‘Unsere ehemalige Jugend, dachte er, unsere ehemalige Jugend in diesem ehemaligen Staat’ [Our former youth, he thought, our former youth in this former state] (AG, 91). Nevertheless, Achim’s life has not really changed considerably since unification – he and Johanna quickly settle back into their accustomed routine after reunification and he continues with his research on Heinrich von Kleist. He feels safe and secure surrounded by his books; yet he sometimes imagines himself  buried along with Kleist (AG, 68). The belief  that he will also share in Kleist’s immortality alludes to the Christian concept of  being buried with Christ through baptism in order to later share in his resurrection, although this is not explicitly referred to in the text. However, it reveals the very quasi-religious inclination for which Achim

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ridiculed Johanna (AG, 73). His remark on the ‘half-religious character’ of  her discussions relates in particular to Johanna’s thoughts on longing and to her desire that her emotions be taken seriously: ‘Johanna sagte, […] schließlich könnten wir, nur weil vor uns schon Milliarden von Menschen gelebt hätten, die ähnlich gefühlt hätten wie wir und gestorben seien, wie wir auch sterben würden, uns nicht nur als deren postmoderner Abklatsch verstehen’ [ Johanna said, after all, just because billions of people had lived before us, who had felt what we feel and who had died just as we will die, we cannot regard ourselves solely as poor, postmodern copies of  them] (AG, 72). Achim’s disparagement rests on the belief  that one’s longings cannot be fulfilled and are thus not deserving of respect. Yet he admits to succumbing to an obscure longing himself, which is conjured by a painting at the Nationalgalerie that suddenly captures his attention. It depicts an empty room opening onto a balcony with the sun shining through and a breeze billowing through the white curtains. There is a mysterious patch on the wall, as if a closet had at some time filled the space, and a chair stands near the open balcony doors. The picture conveys a sense of emptiness or abandonment, since no human subject is depicted. The painting is question is by Adolf von Menzel, most likely ‘The French Window’ (1845). Achim feels that the sense of  longing it evokes in him must come from something that cannot be seen, but which has left its traces in the picture (AG, 70–71). A similar atmosphere serves as a conduit for messages from the past, in particular thoughts of  Maren, a younger woman with whom Achim had had an af fair some years previously: Wenn er in den letzten Jahren überhaupt je an Maren gedacht hatte, dann nur, weil […] ein bestimmtes Abendlicht und ein bestimmtes Wehen des Windes gleichzeitig durch sein of fenes Fenster drangen und ungebetene Boten kreuz und quer durch sein Gehirn schickten, um alte Botschaften zu überbringen. (AG, 150) [If  he thought of  Maren at all in recent years, then only because a particular kind of evening light and a particular kind of  breeze simultaneously entered through his open window, and sent unbidden envoys criss-crossing through his brain to deliver old messages.]

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The melancholy atmosphere of  this scene is very similar to the one experienced by Johanna in Hannes’s house, in which a spectral atmosphere is evoked by dust particles f loating through the soft yellow light. The couple thus shares a common sense of melancholy longing, despite all that divides them. Achim, however, is not willing to reveal his feelings to Johanna and she therefore remains unaware of his internal experiences, which his rational self is determined to hide. Achim’s male melancholy can thus be regarded not as the inevitable counterpoint to academic brilliance, but rather as the result, along with a sense of  loss and redundancy, of  his inability to acknowledge his feminine, emotional side. The gap that exists between them, and consequently the monotony of  their lives, seems destined to persist.

Conclusion In this chapter I have considered the melancholy subjectivity of  the protagonist from a number of dif ferent perspectives. Firstly I analysed the ef fect of sociopolitical conditions on the protagonist’s life and her ambivalent feelings to the fall of  the Berlin Wall. The impression of emptiness and meaninglessness in the present is closely connected to the sense that she no longer has a meaningful role in society, her occupation having lost the significance it once had, at least from Johanna’s perspective. The protagonist’s detachment from the present is also emphasized by her communication with ghosts. This is shown to be characteristic of  the subjective attachment to religious or spiritual beliefs that has surfaced in the postmodern period. The preoccupation with ghosts is further shown to be connected to Romantic inwardness and the relationship to interior space. Secondly I examined the relationship of  the melancholic to space and time from a psychological perspective, which demonstrates how inertia, boredom and repetition are interconnected symptoms of a pathological melancholic state. Furthermore, Freud’s concept of melancholy was helpful here in interpreting the protagonist’s negative attachment to the GDR regime and revealed

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that her melancholic state has been induced by her inability to relate to present political circumstances and by the consequent lack of a replacement object for her former attachment. The many links to Romanticism in Endmoränen, above all through the motifs of nature and autumn, are also explored in this chapter. Maron’s most recent novel Ach Glück is characterized predominantly by an obscure longing which sets the tone of  the narrative. This longing is shared by both protagonists of  the novel. Both feel that their true lives have been relegated to the past and that they now live at the margins of society because of  their age and their lack of  the competitive skills associated with capitalist society. Johanna attempts to overcome her melancholy state in this novel through her relationship with the dog Bredow and through communion with the spiritual realm. However, these attempts are shown to be ultimately futile; while the dog remains a significant emblem of melancholy, her escape to a transcendent sphere emphasizes her irrational withdrawal from objective reality and alienation from Achim. Again the idealistic attempt to find a balance between nature and culture, between rationality and spirituality, is shown to be unrealizable in the context of contemporary capitalist society, which promotes rationalism to the detriment of an engagement with the emotional self. From a historical perspective, the sense of  being stranded in the present, of  being able to find no meaningful connections to the past or hope for the future, highlights Maron’s continuing disillusionment with contemporary capitalist society.

Chapter 3

Christoph Hein’s Frau Paula Trousseau: Art as Refuge in the GDR

Introduction Christoph Hein’s novel Frau Paula Trousseau is of  key significance within the context of  the melancholy tradition as, unlike the other narratives I have examined, it portrays the conditions of  life both under the GDR regime and in the post-Wende years up until the new millennium. The novel relates the protagonist’s life story, opening with Paula’s death by suicide in the year 2000 and then turning to a first-person account, which depicts her life from the age of nineteen, with intermittent chapters providing a retrospective view of  her childhood. Her childhood is dominated by a father’s unrelenting tyranny and a mother’s despair. Her mother attempts to commit suicide a number of  times, as does Paula herself, the episode that brings her closest to death taking place in her mid- to late teens and being triggered by a painful rejection. By this time she has already escaped the family home and is training to be a nurse. In order to also be financially independent of  her parents she marries Hans Trousseau, a successful architect living in Leipzig. However, she puts the marriage in jeopardy from the start by insisting on attending entrance exams at the Kunsthochschule in Berlin on the day on which the wedding is supposed to take place. Hans eventually agrees to postpone the wedding but does everything in his power to prevent her from taking her place at the art college, including replacing her contraceptive pills with placebos. Although she becomes pregnant, Paula cannot be deterred from moving to Berlin to study art. As she tells her mother, ‘Das Malen ist für mich das Wichtigste, viel wichtiger als Heirat und Liebe. Ich sterbe, wenn ich nicht malen kann’ [Painting is for

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me the most important thing, much more important than love and marriage. I will die if  I cannot paint].1 During divorce proceedings a couple of years later Paula gives up her daughter as the price she feels she must pay for her freedom. Her subsequent relationships with men are conducted in a cold and calculating manner. She does form strong romantic attachments to women, which never develop into lasting partnership, however. She later gives birth to a son, Michael, and he becomes the centre of  her life. She does not inform his father of  the fact, having broken of f  their relationship as soon as she finds out that she is pregnant. While Paula and her son remain very close throughout his childhood, from his adolescence onward he begins to pull away from her until eventually she hardly sees him anymore. By this time she has only her lifelong friend Kathi left, the last one to see her before she departs for France, where she will soon after be found lying in a shallow river. The protagonist of  this novel is a character very similar to Claudia, the female protagonist of  Hein’s novella Der fremde Freund/Drachenblut (Distant Lover/Dragon Blood), although there is a twenty-five-year gap between the publications of  the two texts. Both women have resolved to close themselves of f  from any meaningful attachments, choosing to waste away in their self-imposed emotional exiles rather than suf fer the pain of  heartbreak and loss. Claudia continues to involve herself in society through her work as a doctor; however, Paula maintains very few connections to the outside world, particularly after her move to the countryside. The earlier narrative also opens with a death, Claudia being about to attend the funeral of  her ‘fremder Freund’ Henry. The rest of  the narrative is taken up with her recollection of  the year they have spent together, her uncommitted relationship with Henry encapsulating her attitude towards human relationships in general. The fates of  these women relate to those of  Hein’s most significant male protagonists, Horn and Dallow from the novels Horns Ende (Horn’s End)2 and Der Tangospieler (The Tango Player).3 However, 1 2 3

Christoph Hein, Frau Paula Trousseau (Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, 2007), p. 24. The novel will hereafter be referenced as follows: (FP, page number). Christoph Hein, Horns Ende (Berlin: Aufbau, 1985; Darmstadt: Neuwied, 1985). Christoph Hein, Der Tangospieler (Berlin: Aufbau, 1989).

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while the lives of  the aforementioned female characters play out against the background of  the GDR regime, it is not shown to have such a forceful impact on their lives as it does for Horn and Dallow. Horn was dismissed from his position as a historian at Leipzig University for research which was regarded as antagonistic and damaging to the principle of  ‘Parteilichkeit’ (partisanship). The novel is set in the 1980s and ref lects back on Horn’s suicide in the year 1957 from the point of view of several characters that knew him. The protagonist of  Der Tangospieler is also a Leipzig historian, who has been sentenced to two years in prison for the ridiculous charge of accompanying a student cabaret on the piano, not realizing that they would be performing a satirical text denouncing leading government dignitaries. On his release from prison in 1968, at which point the novel commences, Dallow renounces all engagement with politics, to the extent of professing his lack of interest in the unfolding events at Prague. His retreat from the world and lethargic resignation mirrors that of  Claudia and Paula. The fate of all of  the aforementioned characters may be seen as the result of  their alienation from the regime. Yet it is not only explicit political exigencies that have an inf luence on the lives of  these characters but also the rigid patriarchal structures that dominate in this society and impose emotional suppression. This phenomenon may be identified in all narratives, but its ef fects are arguably more pronounced in the case of  the female protagonists. As regards Hein’s post-Wende novels (apart from the fictional autobio­ graphy Von allem Anfang an (From the very Beginning)4), the oppressive atmosphere under the communist regime has been replaced by a society with violent undertones. Although the random killing thematized in Das Napoleon-Spiel (The Napoleon Game)5 takes place shortly before the fall of  the Wall, it is in line with the sentiments of  later novels. In seiner frühen Kindheit ein Garten (In His Early Childhood, a Garden)6 deals with a murder, this time of  the RAF terrorist Wolfgang Grams. Although it was

4 5 6

Christoph Hein, Von allem Anfang an (Berlin: Aufbau, 1997). Christoph Hein, Das Napoleon-Spiel (Berlin: Aufbau, 1993). Christoph Hein, In seiner frühen Kindheit ein Garten (Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, 2004).

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publicized as a suicide, Grams’ parents are not convinced and thus attempt to seek justice for their son. Willenbrock7 addresses the violence that persistently lurks in the background and erupts in the form of  burglaries and assault. The novel Landnahme (Settlement)8 depicts the life of a refugee from the former eastern territories, covering the same period as that of  Frau Paula Trousseau. Despite the fact that he and his family suf fered discrimination following their arrival in Sachsen, the protagonist does not shy from contributing to the xenophobic tendencies of  the post-unification era. Returning to Frau Paula Trousseau, I intend to analyse the novel primarily against the background of  the sociopolitical conditions that inform the text, rather than from the point of view of a psychoanalytical reading. It will, however, be seen that the protagonist displays most, if not all of the Freudian symptoms of melancholy, including the incapacity to love, narcissism and self-loathing. These elements will be read, however, within the wider context of  the protagonist’s family background and the inf luence of societal factors. Further melancholy motifs to be explored include those of  fear, inertia, coldness, especially as these relate to the body, as well as the motifs of darkness, emptiness, landscape and nature. While the first three motifs describe the protagonist’s relationship with the outside world and her view of  herself, the latter four motifs are represented primarily through her work as an artist. The two main sections of  this chapter will also be structured along these lines, i.e. the first will examine her connection with the imaginary or creative realm and the second the relationship, or rather confrontation, with the real world. Throughout the chapter I will be keeping in mind the central question as to the source of the protagonist’s melancholy. It is not made clear in the narrative whether Paula’s melancholy stems from an innate inclination or whether it has socio-political causes. Beyond the dialectic of nature versus nurture, Hein’s overriding preoccupation is to emphasize the division that patriarchy has created between the male and female spheres, which includes the divergent conceptions of male and female melancholy. The alienation that patriarchal domination causes at the societal level is matched at the individual level by the split 7 8

Christoph Hein, Willenbrock (Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, 2000). Christoph Hein, Landnahme (Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, 2004).

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between the rational and the emotional self. Preceding both of  these sections will be one that deals with the narrative structure of  the novel. As in many of  Hein’s previous prose works, the narrative’s key event is revealed at the beginning, which sets up an analytical framework within which the narrative will be read. The action takes place over two dif ferent temporal levels, one of which deals with the protagonist’s adult life and is related in the first person, the second of which reveals details of  her childhood and adolescence and is related from a third-person point of view. The following section will examine the connection between melancholy and creativity as well as the gender associations attached to the conception of creativity and genius in order to illuminate the protagonist’s position as a female artist. This section will also of fer a close analysis of  her artistic output. The next section then addresses the inf luence of family, education and society at large on the protagonist’s life. The primary and most overpowering inf luence on Paula’s life is her father and his ef fect on the family as a whole. Beyond the family circle are the wider social contexts of  the art school environment and the political conditions. Within the implicit criticism of  the GDR regime lies a reference to ingrained bourgeois values, which continue to prevail in communist as well as capitalist societies. These moral values have a direct ef fect on the protagonist’s personal relationships. This section will also consider the lack of historical agency that has been engendered by a disconnection from the past. This phenomenon is introduced through the figure of  the father and is also manifest in his daughter’s life. Having analysed the contribution of sociopolitical factors to the protagonist’s melancholy, I will consider how such societal inf luences may provide a dif ferent perspective on her art. Finally, I will return to the narrator’s viewpoint to consider whether he remains neutral or provides his own interpretation of  Paula’s condition. The key event in the present narrative is the protagonist’s suicide, which is presented in the first chapter. The reader thus approaches the narrative as a case study, the protagonist’s life and death being retrospectively analysed against the background of environmental inf luences. As already indicated, subsequent chapters unfold over two separate periods in time. The primary narrative level, on which events are related in the first person, deals with Paula’s life from the age of nineteen up until her departure for France in the year 2000. The secondary narrative level provides a retrospective view

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of  the protagonist’s childhood and adolescence from the point of view of a third-person narrator. Although no dates are given in the text, from background details one infers that she was a child of  the 1950s and would therefore have been in her late forties at the time of  her death. The narrative is divided into five books of similar length. Book One contains fifteen chapters; Book Two has sixteen chapters; Book Three consists of  fifteen chapters; Book Four of  twenty-one chapters and Book Five of eighteen chapters. Each of  the books has an internal thematic unity only in so far as they each loosely mark the beginning of a new phase in Paula’s life, apart from Book One, which discloses the news of  her death in the first chapter. The second book begins with Paula’s move to Berlin and her new life as an art student. Book Three sees her move in with one of  her lecturers, Professor Waldschmidt. This relationship only lasts for a year, however, and at the beginning of  Book Four Paula moves out of  Waldschmidt’s villa after having finished her final exams. She is now finally living alone and has the freedom she has always longed for. The last book opens with the news of  her second pregnancy, the years of  her son’s childhood being the happiest of  her life. Each of  the books contains two retrospective chapters, except for Book Four, which includes three chapters dealing with Paula’s childhood and adolescence. These retrospective chapters are interspersed at various intervals throughout the novel, having no direct connection with the chapters either preceding or following them, but rather gradually illuminating the conditions of  Paula’s childhood and the possible reasons behind her inability to master her adult life. While the basic family dynamic is revealed in the first retrospective chapter, subsequent chapters expand on the relations between the family members and the impact of  the father’s tyranny on each of  them and on the family as a whole. The reader is also informed of  Paula’s degrading experiences with boys as a young teenager and of  her heartbreak after having been rejected by her first, and, as she will acknowledge later, her only love. Perhaps the key retrospective chapter is the one that appears towards the end of  the novel, in which Paula meets an artist in the forest clearing near her home. This encounter marks a turning point in her life. The clearing is the place she runs to when she can no longer bear the arguing of  her parents. Here she can lose herself and shut out the world

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around her through immersion in her drawing. Having on this occasion spotted an artist at work there, she sits on a bench patiently waiting for him to paint her, but when she finally approaches him he tells her that he never paints people as they cannot help but convey a false image of  themselves, thus their true essence can never be captured (see FP, 524–525). The experience of meeting an artist in this place reinforces her own ambitions and his artistic preferences obviously have a significant inf luence on her own in later life. This forest clearing becomes the subject of two paintings, which are both of central importance in her artistic career; furthermore, landscapes empty of a human or even an animal presence will form the primary focus of  her work. As regards the reception of  Hein’s previous work, history and memory are recognized as central themes of  both his prose and his drama. In relation to history, Hannes Krauss emphasizes that it is not only collective, political history that interests Hein but above all ‘die Entwicklungsgeschichte der Individuen, die Sozialisation’ [the history of  the development of individuals, socialization].9 While many authors have described the destruction of  the individual’s identity through socialization, Hein depicts the conf lation of  traditional bourgeois strategies of socialization with the deformation wrought by real existing socialism, although (before the Wende) only through allusion and insinuation.10 A central concern of  Hein’s prose is thus to define ‘the qualities of a society which would be suited to basic human needs, chief ly the need for a sense of community and solidarity with other members of  that society, based on participation in certain common values’.11 Hein’s interest in this issue places him within a particular tradition of  GDR literature, since ‘the concept of community is central to much East 9

10 11

Hannes Krauss, ‘Schreibend das Sprechen üben oder: “Worüber man nicht reden kann, davon kann die Kunst ein Lied singen” oder: “Als Kind habe ich Stalin gesehen” – Zur Prosa Christoph Heins’, in Geist und Macht: Writers and the State in the GDR, ed. by Axel Goodbody and Dennis Tate (Amsterdam: Rodopi, 1992), pp. 204–214 (p. 205). Krauss, ‘Schreibend das Sprechen üben’, p. 209. David Clarke, ‘Diese merkwürdige Kleinigkeit einer Vision’: Christoph Hein’s Social Critique in Transition (Amsterdam: Rodopi, 2002), p. 11.

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German literature of  the 1950s and 1960s, which was broadly af firmative of  the SED regime’.12 However, Hein considers that the conditions of real existing socialism and of capitalist society are equally incapable of catering for the above-mentioned human needs, as evidenced by his acceptance speech for the Erich Fried prize.13 As David Clarke writes: Hein’s critique of  the GDR regime equally shows the extent to which the SED abandoned the hope of creating a socialist utopia at some point in the future, and how the party instead tried to make good this loss of vision by seeking to satisfy the immediate material needs and desires of  the population. However, according to Hein, capitalism also consistently undermines the possibility of  the shared ‘vision’ which he sees as essential for any society.14

Therefore what appeared to interest Hein most about the demonstrations of 1989 was the possibility that they might represent the re-emergence of a popular enthusiasm for a democratic form of socialism and thus a return of  the kind of solidarity, encompassing both ordinary people and intellectuals, which the SED regime appeared to have stif led long ago in its determination to secure its exclusive hold on power.15

Hein has also attempted to highlight elements of continuity across dif ferent historical eras. For instance, ‘during the GDR’s existence, he successfully challenged its of ficial self-image as an autonomous entity within German history by exposing fundamental aspects of its unbewältigte Vergangenheit [unmastered past] in relation to the Nazi past’.16 A thematic continuity is also evident in his emphasis on the ‘“Imperativ des Gedenkens, des SichErinnerns” als eine vernachlässigte Größe […], die beim Leser den Umgang 12 13 14 15 16

Clarke, ‘Diese merkwürdige Kleinigkeit einer Vision’, p. 11. David Clarke, ‘“Himmel auf  Erden”?: Christoph Hein, Capitalism and the “Wende”’, in Christoph Hein in Perspective (Amsterdam: Rodopi, 2000), pp. 21–44 (p. 22). Clarke, ‘“Himmel auf  Erden”?’, p. 22. Clarke, ‘“Himmel auf  Erden”?’, p. 30. Simon Bevan, ‘Change and Continuity in the Work of Christoph Hein: a Comparison of Horns Ende (1985) and Von allem Anfang an’ (1997), in East Germany: Continuity and Change, ed. by Paul Cooke and Jonathan Grix (Amsterdam: Rodopi, 2000), pp. 15–23 (p. 15).

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mit der eigenen Geschichte evoziert’ [imperative of remembrance, of recollection as a neglected dimension, which evokes in the reader an association with his own history].17 However, remembrance also involves remembrance of  the dead. As Clarke demonstrates, remembering the dead in Hein’s prose texts serves as a point of departure for a confrontation with the unpleasant past or as a central motivation for the protagonists: Das gilt ebenso für die bekannten gesellschafts- und zivilisationskritischen DDRTexte der achtziger Jahre wie Der fremde Freund (1982) oder Horns Ende (1985) wie für Heins Romane, die nach der Deutschen Einheit erschienen sind. [That is valid for the well-known GDR texts of  the 1980s, such as Distant Lover (1982) or Horn’s End (1985), which were critical of society and civilization, as well as for Hein’s novels that appeared after German unification.]18

Clarke points out that Hein is interested above all in those who have suf fered under the pressures of either real existing socialism or of market capitalism: Bei der Erinnerung an die Toten wird auch in Heins Texten deutlich, dass sein Interesse vor allem denen gilt, die unter die Räder der realsozialistischen bzw. der liberalmarktwirtschaftlichen Gesellschaft kommen. Die Schicksale der Ausgegrenzten und der Opfer dienen dem Autor als Messlatte für die moralische Qualität der jeweiligen Gesellschaftsordnung. [It also becomes clear in Hein’s texts, in his remembrance of  the dead, that his interest is directed above all towards those who have been subjugated by ‘real socialist’ or liberal, free-market society. For the author, the fates of  the marginalized and the victims serve as a benchmark for the moral quality of  the respective social order.]19

17 18

19

Terrance Albrecht, Rezeption und Zeitlichkeit des Werkes Christoph Heins (Frankfurt am Main: Lang, 2000), p. 10. David Clarke, ‘Requiem für Michael Kohlhaas: Der Dialog mit den Toten in Christoph Heins Horns Ende und In seiner frühen Kindheit ein Garten’, in Literatur im Krebsgang: Totenbeschwörung und memoria in der deutschsprachigen Literatur nach 1989, ed. by Arne De Winde and Anke Gilleir (Amsterdam: Rodopi, 2008), pp. 159–179 (p. 159). Clarke, ‘Requiem für Michael Kohlhaas’, p. 159.

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While Clarke does not include Frau Paula Trousseau in his analysis, Hein’s interest in remembering the dead is also apparent in this narrative.

Paradigm of  the Melancholy Artist Creativity and genius have been linked to the melancholy condition since antiquity, as previously documented. The Renaissance humanist Marsilio Ficino integrated the assertions of  Theophrastus, a student of  Aristotle’s, regarding the link between melancholy and genius with the teachings of  Plato on divine frenzy and the astrological association of melancholy with the planet Saturn: Die Melancholie kommt von Saturn, aber sie ist in der Tat eine ‘einzigartige und göttliche Gabe’, wie Saturn nunmehr nicht nur das mächtigste, sondern auch das edelste Gestirn ist. Sowie wir sehen, war Ficino der erste Autor, der das, was ‘Aristoteles’20 die Melancholie der geistig überragenden Menschen genannt hatte, als identisch mit Platons ‘göttlichem Wahn’ erkannte. [Melancholy comes from Saturn but it is in fact a ‘unique and divine gift’, just as Saturn is henceforth not only the most powerful but also the noblest star. As we have seen, Ficino was the first author who recognized that that which ‘Aristotle’ called the melancholy of  the intellectually superior was identical to Plato’s ‘divine fervour’].21

This divinely ordained fervour, as opposed to intellectual brilliance, is particularly pertinent for an understanding of artistic creativity. Originating with the Muses of  Greek mythology, the notion that the artist draws his inspiration from a divine source has prevailed since the late Renaissance

20 Inverted commas indicate that it may have been either Aristotle or one of  his followers who made this assertion. 21 Raymond Klibansky, Erwin Panofsky and Fritz Saxl, Saturn und Melancholie: Studien zur Geschichte der Naturphilosophie und Medizin, der Religion und der Kunst, trans. by Christa Buschendorf (Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, 1990), pp. 373–374.

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period. (The dominant paradigm during the Middle Ages and the early Renaissance was of mimesis rather than originality; nevertheless reproduction of  the works of masters entailed a high degree of creativity.22) One of  Paula’s professors refers to this belief during his criticism of  Paula’s abuse of art to protect herself  from life. He argues that this egocentric inclination is accompanied by a monotonous tenor and has entailed a disconnection from the true source of inspiration: Das ist nur ein laut tönendes Erz, wie es in der Bibel heißt, und würde nichts nützen, hast du die Liebe nicht. […] Ich bin nicht gläubig. Jedenfalls nicht im herkömmlichen Sinn. Aber alle Künstler glauben an einen Genius, von dem sie abhängig sind, der etwas vermag, von dem sie selbst nur einen Hauch auf das Papier bringen können und vor dem wir allesamt Schulbuben sind. (FP, 138) [That is just a loud sounding brass, as it is called in the Bible, and would be of no use without love. I am not a believer. At least not in the traditional sense. But all artists believe in a genius who they are dependent on and that is capable of something of which they themselves can only commit the faintest hint to paper, and in front of whom we are all schoolboys.]

While the Platonic notion of divine fervour resembles the mania associated with the melancholy condition, the template for the dejected yet contemplative artist was set in 1514 with Albrecht Dürer’s Melencolia I. The impetus for this work came from Ficino’s nobilization of melancholy and by the dialectical bond he posited between melancholy and genius: i.e. that not only are those born under the sign of  Saturn both melancholy and gifted, but that equally those with a creative or scholarly vocation are destined to become melancholic: ‘Ficino ist davon überzeugt, daß nicht nur die Saturnkinder zu geistiger Arbeit qualifiziert sind, sondern daß auch umgekehrt die geistige Arbeit auf den Menschen einwirkt und ihn der Herrschaft Saturns unterwirft’ [Ficino is convinced not only that the children of  Saturn are qualified for scholarly work but that, vice versa, scholarly work has an ef fect on the person and subjects him to the rule

22

Verena Krieger, Was ist ein Künstler?: Genie – Heilsbringer – Antikünstler (Cologne: Deubner, 2007), pp. 19–20.

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of  Saturn].23 While Ficino does not expressly mention visual artists in this context, referring only to scholars, philosophers and writers, in his Theologia platonica he af fords the visual arts the same status as music and poetry. Artists eagerly adopted Ficino’s theory and saw themselves as fitting into this paradigm of  the melancholy artist, Dürer’s Melencolia I being the most famous example of  this.24 Dürer’s engraving is a seminal work in the melancholy tradition due to his elevation of melancholy above the negative characteristics customarily associated with the melancholiac. In Frau Paula Trousseau allusion is made to the work of  Dürer early in the narrative when we see the protagonist looking at a volume of  Dürer drawings (see FP, 72). This citation denotes Hein’s intention of situating his narrative within melancholy discourse. Furthermore, the text includes a number of references to elements of  the Melencolia I engraving. While this print thematizes the connection between melancholy and intelligence or creativity, it can also be seen to link melancholy with the power of  the imagination. This is due to the association of  the number one in the title with melancholia imaginationis, the first level in Agrippa von Nettesheim’s classification of melancholy into three spheres: melancholia imaginationis, melancholia rationis and melancholia mentis.25 In the novel the suppression of  the artist’s imagination under the totalitarian regime is thematized, as highlighted by the unwillingness of  Paula’s professors to recognize the imaginative achievement of  her ‘weißes Bild’ [white picture], something that a number of  her fellow students were unbiased enough to appreciate: Sie müssten doch erkennen, was mir gelungen war, sie müssten doch akzeptieren, dass es ein Bild war. Meine Kommilitonen waren aufgeschlossen genug, sich auf mein Bild einzulassen, doch die Herren Professoren wollten es nicht wahrhaben, für sie galt allein ihre Kunstauf fassung, für sie existierte nur ihre Ästhetik. Aber wer Augen und Sinne hatte, sah, dass mein Bild eine Kraft besaß, einen Sog, dem man sich kaum entziehen konnte. (FP, 278)

23 Klibansky, Panofsky and Saxl, Saturn und Melancholie, p. 377. 24 Krieger, Was ist ein Künstler?, pp. 98–99. 25 See discussion in Introduction.

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[They surely had to recognize what I had achieved; they had to accept that it was a picture. My fellow students were open-minded enough to engage with my picture, yet the Mister Professors disavowed it; for them, only their own conception of art was valid, for them, only their own aesthetic existed. But whoever had eyes and senses saw that my picture possessed a potency, a lure, that was dif ficult to elude.]

Another significant element of  Dürer’s engraving is the separation of  the melancholic figure from the world outside. The isolation of the protagonist is pronounced in this narrative, as in all of  the other examined narratives. A further melancholy motif, which had been well-established before Dürer’s time, is that of  the dog, the traditional companion of  the melancholiac as well as of  the scholar. Hein’s protagonist is shown to consider a dog a suitable companion for herself, preferable to a man. When Charlotte, the wife of a well-known artist, tells Paula that she talks more to her plants than to her husband, Paula replies: ‘Schön. So gut geht es mir nicht. Vielleicht sollte ich mir einen Hund anschaf fen. Mit dem kann ich dann auch reden’ [That’s nice. I’m not doing as well as you. Maybe I should get a dog. Then I can talk to him] (FP, 356). Although she does not eventually get a dog, the melancholic allusion has been made. The allegorical figure of melancholy is itself of interest in the context of  the genderization of melancholy. As discussed by Hartmut Böhme in his analysis of  the engraving, it cannot be determined whether the figure represents a man, a woman, an angel or a genius.26 However, this does not indicate that the piece may be interpreted as an universalization of melancholy. One must bear in mind that women have been almost exclusively connected to the negative elements of  the melancholy condition, both prior to the sixteenth century, when Dürer produced his engraving, and up to at least the end of  the nineteenth century. A singular female scholar and mystic, Hildegard von Bingen, was the only one to claim equality of  the sexes in this regard. As Klibansky and Saxl explain, she was, however, interested in a theological interpretation of melancholy, which entailed a focus on the negative aspects of  the condition. Such an interpretation involved an integration of  the concept of melancholy as a temperamental 26 Böhme, Albrecht Dürer Melencolia I, pp. 6–8.

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and pathological condition with that of acedia, and therefore combined the physiological symptoms of  humoral theory with the spiritual suf fering caused by one’s separation from God. According to Klibansky and Saxl, Hildegard von Bingen construed this af f liction as being a direct result of  Adam’s fall from grace. Her genderized classification of melancholiacs (as well as sanguine, phlegmatic and choleric types) was based on sexual characteristics. The melancholy man was believed to be plagued with sadistic urges and liable to succumb to madness if  he cannot sate his desires, being capable of murdering the women that he loved.27 The suf fering of  female melancholiacs was also considerable: ‘Melancholica’ ist das weibliche Gegenstück zu diesem zugleich entsetzlichen und bemitleidenswerten Wesen. Sie ist unbeständigen Geistes, freudlos, von Männern gemieden, steril (nur von sanguinischen und starken Männern kann sie in vorgerücktem Alter manchmal ein Kind bekommen), anfällig für viele Krankheiten, vor allem für melancholischen Wahnsinn, und bei sonst harmlosen Anlässen vom Tod bedroht.28 [‘Melancholica’ is the female counterpart to this at once abominable and pitiable being. She is of  fickle mind, joyless, avoided by men, sterile (only in advanced years can she sometimes bear a child with strong and sanguine men), prone to many illnesses, above all melancholy madness, and may be brought close to death by otherwise harmless ailments.]

A similar apprehension of  female melancholy or madness has been upheld through the centuries, being closely associated with the condition of erotomania in the Elizabethan era and hysteria in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. In fact, as Elaine Showalter has shown, from the end of  the eighteenth century ‘the dialectic of reason and unreason took on specifically sexual meanings, and […] the symbolic gender of  the insane person shifted from male to female’.29 Thus the image of  the beautiful, melancholy madwoman replaced that of  the brutish, uncontrollable madman. 27 28 29

Klibansky, Panofsky and Saxl, Saturn und Melancholie, p. 183. Cit. in Klibansky and Saxl, Saturn und Melancholie, p. 184. Elaine Showalter, The Female Malady: Women, Madness, and English Culture, 1830– 1980 (London: Virago, 1987), p. 8.

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The continuing belief in the capriciousness of  the melancholy woman, or indeed of women in general, is ref lected in Hein’s novel in the presumption of  the protagonist’s husband that her desire to study art is a whim as well as her later partner’s assertion that her white landscape was merely the product of a ‘Spleen’. While Paula is not explicitly aligned with the tradition of  female hysteria or erotomania, she is nevertheless subjected to the sexually discriminating criticism that she is unable to express her emotions except through her art, thus sublimating the excesses that would otherwise erupt in the form of  hysteria. Crucially, women were never believed to be capable of reaching the heights of creative and scholarly brilliance that Theophrastus (and later Ficino) had observed in melancholic men: ‘Kreativität und Genialität sind nie geschlechtsneutral gedacht worden, vielmehr galten sie stets – ausgesprochen oder unausgesprochen – als Privileg der Männer’ [Creativity and ingenuity have never been considered gender neutral; in fact they were always held to be – whether explicitly or implicitly – the privilege of men].30 Thus women were never taken seriously as professional artists: Jean de La Bruyère [behauptete] Frauen verfügten über ‘Talent und Genie … nur für Handarbeiten’ und bei Schopenhauer heißt es: ‘Weiber können bedeutendes Talent, aber kein Genie haben: Denn sie bleiben stets subjektiv’. Otto Weininger (1880–1903) spitzte diese Auf fassung sogar dahingehend zu, dass er der Frau die Fähigkeit zum Geistigen vollkommen absprach. Vollkommen dem Sinnlichen verhaftet, könne sie nur Hure oder Mutter sein, denn sie habe keine Seele und letztlich auch kein Ich.31 [ Jean de la Bruyère claimed that women possess ‘talent and genius … only for handcraft’ and in Schopenhauer it says that: ‘Women can have significant talent but cannot be geniuses: Because they always remain subjective’. Otto Weininger (1880–1903) brought this argument to a head in that he completely denied women of any intellectual ability. Entirely bound to the sensual realm, they can only be whores or mothers, since they have no souls and, ultimately, no egos.]

According to Krieger, the increasing intellectualization of art gave rise to the supposition that only men were naturally capable of producing great 30 Krieger, Was ist ein Künstler?, p. 129. 31 Krieger, Was ist ein Künstler?, p. 129.

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art, due to the ingrained connection between the realm of the intellect with the male and the realm of  the material with the female. Furthermore, the creative potential of man was, particularly from 1900 onwards, regarded as superior to the creative power of nature: Die Natur ist ‘nur’ prokreativ, d.h. sie pf lanzt sich fort im Sinne eines trieb- statt vernunftgesteuerten leiblichen Mechanismus. Da diesem aufgrund ihrer Gebärfähigkeit auch die Frau unterworfen ist, hat man Fruchtbarkeit und Prokreativität zum eigentlichen ‘weiblichen Wesen’ erklärt. Demgegenüber erscheint die Kreativität als eine geistige Potenz, die die prokreative Kraft von Frau und Natur übertrif ft und daher dem Mann vorbehalten sei. Dieser Gegenüberstellung von männlicher Geisteskraft und weiblicher Gebärfähigkeit entspricht der Dualismus von Neuschöpfung und Reproduktion, von Genialität und Epigonentum, von wahrer Kunst und einfachem Kunsthandwerk – stets ist der minderwertige Part weiblich konnotiert.32 [Nature is ‘only’ procreative, i.e. she propagates in terms of a bodily mechanism driven by instinct rather than reason. Since the woman is also subjected to this mechanism by reason of  her ability to bear children, fertility and procreativity have been declared the real ‘essence of  the female’. In contrast to this, creativity appears as a mental virility that surpasses the procreative power of woman and nature, and therefore is reserved for men. This comparison between male intellectual strength and female childbearing ability corresponds to the dualism between a new creation and reproduction, between ingenuity and epigonism, between true art and simple craftwork – the inferior part is always connoted as female.]

It is within this context that the above comments by de La Bruyère and Weininger can be understood. Analogous to these historical developments came the increasing relegation of women to the role of objects rather than subjects of art. They served not only as models for the portrayal of women but also for the depiction of allegorical figures: Wenn Frauen nur unter erschwerten Bedingungen als Subjekte der Kunst in Erscheinung treten konnten, so waren sie als deren Objekte umso beliebter. So sind allegorische Figuren in der bildenden Kunst der Renaissance und des Barock

32 Krieger, Was ist ein Künstler?, p. 131.

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überwiegend weiblichen Geschlechts: Statt als Akteurinnen realer Handlungen treten Frauen als Repräsentantinnen von Eigenschaften auf.33 [The more the ability of women to come forth as subjects of art was hampered, the more popular they were as objects of art. Thus allegorical figures in the visual art of  the Renaissance and the Baroque are predominantly of  female gender: Instead of  being depicted as active agents, women appear as the representatives of  human attributes.]

Dürer’s allegorization of melancholy must therefore be understood within this context.

Attitudes towards Paula’s Work This historical background was necessary for a contextualization of male attitudes toward Paula and her profession. The artist Frieder Kronauer concedes that women may have a talent for art but are suited only to areas such as fashion and design and are not by nature proficient painters or sculptors. He justifies his position by proclaiming his adoration of women as models: ‘Ich bin kein Frauenverächter, ganz im Gegenteil. Das weibliche Modell, da geht nichts drüber, das kann man bei den alten Kirchenmalern sehen. Welch eine Erotik bei den Marien und Magdalenen!’ [I am no despiser of women, quite the contrary. The female model, there’s nothing to beat it; you can see that with the old church painters. Such eroticism in their Virgin Marys and Mary Magdalenes!] (FP, 350). The protagonist’s husband Hans is also portrayed as having implacable ideas about the role of women as wives and mothers, ideas that ref lect the aforementioned segregation of  the sexes into the dual spheres of spirit and matter. Paula regards him as the type of man who sees women as reproductive vessels, who are fully contented upon becoming mothers: ‘Hans glaubte immer noch wie vor tausend Jahren, dass die Zeugung eine Empfängnis sei, der Mann versenkt 33 Krieger, Was ist ein Künstler?, p. 132.

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mit dem Samen das Kind im mütterlichen Schoß, die Frau ist nur der Blumentopf, die Muttererde, die lediglich für neun Monate benötigt wird’ [Hans believed the same as they did a thousand years ago, that procreation was a conception in the sense that the child is received into the mother’s womb through the man’s sperm; the woman is only the f lower pot, the mould that is only needed for nine months] (FP, 91–92). She highlights elsewhere the patriarchal standpoint from which the woman is seen as the proverbial mother hen: Die Frau ist ein Muttertier, die beglückt ist, wenn man sie begattet und sie schwanger wird. Und wenn das Kind auf der Welt ist, dann ist sie ohnehin nur noch eine dumm strahlende Glucke, die allein Augen für das Küken hat, die nichts weiter bekümmert als das Wohl und Wehe des hilf losen Nachwuchses. (FP, 72) [The woman is a mother hen, who is contented when one copulates with her and she becomes pregnant. And when the child comes into the world, then she is in any case just a stupidly-grinning clucking hen, who only has eyes for her chick and who cares about nothing else but the weal and woe of  her helpless of fspring.]

Hans was actually charmed by the fact that his wife was an artist, but amenable only to the notion of painting as a hobby; he considered her aspiration to attend the art academy as ‘lachhaft und grotesk’ [risible and grotesque] (FP, 56). This view ref lects the fact that through the course of  the nineteenth century the conviction that women could not and should not become professional artists gained credence. While art had been a respectable amateur pursuit in earlier centuries, the demotion of amateur art in the nineteenth century led to it becoming the preserve of women: Die dilettantische Kunstbetätigung, die im 16. bis 18. Jahrhundert als Privileg und respektable Leistung des Fürsten und Adeligen gegolten hatte, erhielt [im Verlauf des neunzehnten Jahrhunderts] jenen abwertenden Beigeschmack, der uns heute geläufig ist. Die Kategorie des Geschlechts – die Verwendung der Konstrukte ‘männlich’ und ‘weiblich’ – hat somit in der modernen Definition des Künstlergenies einen festen Platz: den des komplementären Gegensatzes. Denn was wäre […] ein ‘genialer Künstler’ ohne ‘dilettantische Kunsthandwerkerinnen’?34

34 Krieger, Was ist ein Künstler?, p. 131.

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[The dilettante pursuit of art, which, from the sixteenth to the eighteenth century, had been regarded as the privilege and respectable exploit of princes and noblemen, attained [in the course of  the nineteenth century] that pejorative aftertaste which is familiar to us today. The category of gender – the use of  the constructs ‘male’ and ‘female’ – consequently has a fixed place in the modern definition of  the artistic genius: that of  the complementary opposite. Because what would the ‘ingenious male artist’ be without the ‘dilettante female craftworkers’?]

Towards the end of  the twentieth century the position of women as professional artists was still regarded as questionable by many. Hein has himself addressed the notion of dilettantism, from a sociopolitical rather than genderized point of view. In his condemnation of  the practices of censorship and literary criticism in the GDR Hein promotes amateur engagement in art as a means of avoiding the pressures posed by the state and the public, as well as the need for financial success. As Bernd Fischer points out, Hein was well aware of  the political connections between the state and the constraints imposed on art and on artists, which is why he recognizes the importance of amateur art.35 The protagonist of  Hein’s novella Der fremde Freund/Drachenblut is a doctor by profession but her true passion is photography. Hein has articulated the view that art has come to replace religious belief in helping individuals to master overwhelming experiences.36 This observation finds expression in the character of  Claudia, who admits to an almost pathological obsession with the photographing of  landscape: Neuerdings beginne ich, mich vor meinen Fotos zu fürchten. Sie füllen alle Schränke und Schubladen in meiner Wohnung. Von überallher quellen mir Bäume, Landschaften, Gräser, Feldwege, totes, abgestorbenes Holz entgegen. Eine entseelte Natur, die ich erschuf und die mich nun zu überf luten droht. […] Ihnen fehlt Horizont, ihnen fehlt das Verwelken, Vergehen und damit die Hof fnung. Trotzdem

Bernd Fischer, Christoph Hein: Drama und Prosa im letzten Jahrzehnt der DDR (Heidelberg: Winter, 1990), pp. 61–62. 36 Fischer, Christoph Hein: Drama und Prosa im letzten Jahrzehnt der DDR, p. 67. 35

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Chapter 3 werde ich nicht aufhören, diese Bilder herzustellen. Ich fürchte mich davor, es aufzugeben. Es ersetzt mir viel, es hilft mir über meine Probleme hinweg.37 [Recently I have begun to fear my photos. They fill all the cupboards and drawers in my apartment. Trees, landscapes, grasses, dirt tracks, dead, extinct wood spring towards me from all directions. A soulless nature, which I have created and which now threatens to overwhelm me. […] They are missing a horizon, they are missing the withering, the decay, and therefore hope. Nevertheless I will not stop producing these pictures. I am afraid to give it up. It compensates me for a lot; it helps me to get over my problems.]

Her art is therapeutic only insofar as it is a private pursuit. Claudia has no desire for anyone else to see these photographs, which is why she decides not to move some of  them into her of fice: ‘Ich überlegte bereits, die Schränke im Arbeitszimmer der Klinik damit zu füllen, doch ich befürchte, daß Karla sie entdeckt und mich ausfragt’ [I already considered filling the cupboards in the of fice at the hospital with them, but I was afraid that Karla would discover them and interrogate me].38 For the protagonist of  Frau Paula Trousseau music fulfils the function that art does for Claudia. She learns to play the piano while living with Prof. Waldschmidt and finds that she has a talent for it. In later years she spends a couple of  hours every day at the piano, it becoming an essential part of  her life: ‘es half mir beim Überleben’ [it helped me to survive] (FP, 293). Music was long considered a key remedy for the treatment of melancholy, its positive ef fect being reaf firmed here.39 This positive impact is unblemished by the exposure to criticism and the need for commercial success that impinges on Paula’s professional work. The question as to whether her art nevertheless has a therapeutic function in her life will be discussed later. Whether or not this is the case, the sinister image of  Claudia’s photographs taking over her apartment is replicated to a certain degree in the case of  Paula’s art. In later life the dif ficulty of selling

Christoph Hein, Der fremde Freund/Drachenblut (Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, 2002), p. 174. 38 Hein, Der fremde Freund/Drachenblut, p. 174. 39 See Klibansky, Panofsky and Saxl, Saturn und Melancholie, pp. 149 and 372. 37

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her work means that paintings and drawings are filling up her atelier and constricting her space: Die Blätter und aufgespannten Leinwände stapelten sich im Atelier und Heinrichs ehemaliger Werkstatt, sie waren zu einer geradezu beängstigend großen Sammlung angewachsen […] Was ich ersehnt hatte, nun, da ich es besaß, bedrückte es mich. Die Sammlung führte mir nicht meine Produktivität vor Augen, sondern allein die Schwierigkeit, meine Bilder zu verkaufen. (FP, 532) [The sheets and stretched canvases piled up in the atelier and Heinrich’s former workshop; they had grown to an almost frighteningly large collection […] What I had once longed for oppressed me, now that I possessed it. The collection did not bring home to me my productivity but rather just the dif ficulty of selling my pictures.]

While the dilettante is concerned only with the personal impact of  their pursuit, the professional artist is constantly burdened by the necessity of making a living from their work. This necessity is what forces Paula, at the onset of  her career, to take on an assignment from the trade union magazine of a chemical plant, although the restrictions imposed on her are so severe that she can in no way express her own artistic impulses. The dark and depressing nature of  her initial submissions does not correspond to the factory’s ethos: ‘Mit Melancholie haben unsere Menschen nichts zu schaf fen, die wollen etwas aufbauen’ [Our people have no use for melancholy, they want to build something] (FP, 316). From the outset of  the novel her paintings are portrayed by a colleague as not only melancholy but of doubtful worth and little market value: ‘als Malerin, da taugt das Mädchen nichts […] Das ist Tristesse mit Trauerrand […] Bei ihr gibt es nur Schwarz und Grau, und Grau und Schwarz. Depressionen auf die Leinwand pinseln, das ist das Letzte, was der Markt braucht’ [The girl is no good as a painter. That’s drabness with an edging of dolefulness. With her there’s only black and grey, and grey and black. Painting depressions onto the canvas, that’s the last thing the market needs] (FP, 10–11). Paula herself refers to the reception of  her work towards the end of  the narrative: ‘Meine Blätter und Leinwände stießen nicht auf  Begeisterung, meine Bilder galten als zu spröde und

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düster’ [My sheets and canvases were not enthusiastically received, my pictures were considered too prim and bleak] (FP, 503); and when, at a particular moment, she is in need of consolation Paula admits that her pictures cannot help her: ‘Ich […] schaute auf meine Bilder an den Wänden. So trostlos und traurig und trüb wie in dieser Nacht waren sie mir nie erschienen’ [I looked at my pictures on the walls. They had never appeared to me to be so desolate, doleful and dreary as they did that night] (FP, 499–500). A melancholy tone is thus shown to dominate her art throughout her career, with specific reference being made to humoral theory through the colour black. Evocation of  the melancholy tradition is also in evidence in the protagonist’s landscape paintings. Similar to Claudia in Der fremde Freund, the representation of  landscape is Paula’s preferred genre. When asked by a curator whether her work may present any political dif ficulties, Paula replies: ‘Ich denke, Sie haben bei mir nichts zu befürchten. Ich will eigentlich nur meine Landschaften malen’ [I don’t think you have anything to fear with me. I really just want to paint my landscape] (FP, 379). A significant preoccupation in these pieces is with the depiction of a particular forest clearing, which references the place she escaped to as a child and where she met a painter who deeply inf luenced her. The emptiness of  her images ref lects his conception of  the deceit of  human models, who routinely falsify their true selves: ‘alle Menschen lügen. Sie versuchen alle, etwas anderes darzustellen, als sie in Wirklichkeit sind […] Wenn ich einen Menschen male, dann kann ich mich anstrengen, wie ich will, ich bekomme auf das Papier nur das, was er mir zu sehen gibt. Seine Seele kann ich nicht malen’ [Everyone lies. They all try to portray themselves as something that they are not. When I paint a person, try as I might I can only get down on paper what he allows me to see. I cannot paint his soul] (FP, 524–525). The protagonist’s most accomplished piece is her ‘weißes Bild’, in which this forest clearing is illustrated but only barely discernible under a heavy covering of snow. The enigma of  this painting derives not only from the fact that the viewer at first sees nothing but pure whiteness, but also from the sense of ambiguity regarding what is hidden:

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Alles war nur erahnbar, es war eine scheinbar hingehauchte Landschaft. Wer lange hinsah, konnte die gesamte verborgene Landschaft aufspüren, die grünen Bäume sehen, die morschen Parkbänke, den zerfurchten Waldweg. […] Die Schatten, die verschiedenen Schattierungen, die das Weiß strukturierten, verrieten auch jedem länger auf meinem Bild ruhenden Blick die nicht sichtbare, verborgene Landschaft, eine Welt hinter der Welt. (FP, 270–271) [It was all just suggested, it was a landscape that seemed to have been breathed into life. Whoever looked at it for a long time could detect the entire hidden landscape, see the green trees, the rotten park benches, the furrowed forest track. The shadows, the various shadings that gave texture to the white, revealed to everyone, whose gaze rested a while longer on my picture, the invisible, hidden landscape, a world behind the world.]

Beyond the play of shadows a hidden world is revealed. The attempt to be enigmatic is a little clichéd; nevertheless an image of melancholy beauty is conjured. The melancholy landscapes of  the Romantic period, which often depicted wide, open spaces but maintained a human presence, have been replaced here by the representation of a more enclosed setting, devoid of any living thing. The inf luence of  the Romantic tradition is, however, evident in the impression of nature as the site from which the material world may be transcended. The intimation of  transcendence, of  the possibility of  ‘a world behind the world’, in conjunction with the colour white, signals hope, a hope which is soon crushed by the crude sensibilities of  the elite. The colour white can also be read as a reference to female melancholy, especially when analysed in connection with the portrayal of  Paula’s suicide. The position of  her body when she is eventually found alludes to the Ophelia myth. In Shakespeare’s Hamlet Ophelia is found lying in a stream with an overhanging willow bough, the leaves of which can be seen in the water. This scene is cited in the discovery of  Paula’s body in a ‘verkrauteten Nebenarm der Loire’: [Paula] war Ende Juni von Bauern in einem verkrauteten Nebenarm der Loire gefunden worden. Zu diesem Zeitpunkt war sie bereits vier Wochen tot. Dieser Nebenarm sei ein fast stehendes Gewässer, kaum tiefer als einen Meter, es sei unzweifelhaft festgestellt worden, dass [sie] keinem Gewaltverbrechen zum Opfer gefallen sei, sondern Selbstmord verübt habe. (FP, 12)

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Chapter 3 [Paula was found by farmers at the end of  June in an overgrown branch of  the Loire. At this point she had already been dead for four weeks. This branch of  the river is an almost stagnant body of water, barely more than a metre deep; it was established without doubt that she had not fallen victim to a violent crime but had committed suicide.]

The figure of  Ophelia has in turn been classically presented in white dress; in this way a contrast was established with the black attire customarily worn by the character of  Hamlet, which symbolized the cerebral melancholy exclusive to men. White thus came to be associated with female hysteria or erotomania. In this context Paula’s inability to continue living can be connected to the absence of  love in her life – not in the sense of unrequited love, however, as in the case of  Ophelia, but as a consequence of  her own incapacity to love. In another variant of  the Ophelia myth, Paula is not associated with the method of suicide thought to be preferred by women, since she does not drown herself  but dies from an overdose of various tablets. While the opinion is conveyed in the novel that the artistic profession is a vehicle employed by women to deal with their emotions, the association of  Paula’s death with the Ophelia motif points in fact to her failure to do so. In her suicide letter to her son Michael Paula acknowledges her weakness: Ich wünschte, ich wäre nur irgendein Mädchen gewesen, nicht hübsch, nicht begabt und vor allem ohne Träume. Es wäre mir leichter geworden, den Nachstellungen und Verleumdungen zu entgehen. Es hätte mir vielleicht die Kraft gegeben, mich zu wehren. Verzeih mir, Michael, […] aber ich habe mein Leben einige Jahre länger getragen, als ich es ertragen konnte […] ich bin am Ende. (FP, 13–14) [I wish that I was just any girl, not pretty, not talented and, above all, without dreams. It would have been easier for me to escape from the stalkings and the slander. It might have given me the strength to defend myself. Forgive me, Michael, but I sustained my life for a few years longer than I could endure it. I am finished.]

In alluding to the figure of  Ophelia, Hein is not only citing female melancholy or insanity but also referencing the preoccupation with the Ophelia myth among German writers of  the Expressionist and particularly the GDR era. According to Ruth Owen, writers, such as Brecht and Johannes

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R. Becher, maintain the traditional associations with beauty and eroticism in their poetry, whereas poets such as Bobrowksi, Huchel, Hilbig, Bartsch, Pietrass, and Köhler, while interacting with the earlier reception of  Ophelia, frame their portrayal within a sociopolitical critique: The texts discussed make Ophelia manifest as a sign warning of unacknowledged catastrophe; now she embodies female suf fering caused not by love, but by larger sociopolitical forces. GDR writers reinterpret her immobility as the result of oppression: the Ophelia role was always to suf fer and be still. Her dying now comes in pursuit of  ‘Entgrenzung’. […] The Ophelia image becomes part of  the rhetoric of social death. It ref lects a fear that society is threatened by forces intrinsic to it. Rather than the highly gendered contemplation of  beauty and decay, new paradigms instate Ophelia’s death as an outrage indicative of social corruption.40

Hein’s critique of  GDR society (as well as of  the post-Wende era) is a lot less forceful than in the poems referred to here. Nevertheless the protagonist is very much a product of  her society. Its stagnant atmosphere, both before and after the Wende, has pervaded her life and her wish to die, if  based on her suicide letter, seems to stem primarily from the need to escape this oppressive culture more than from a sense of self-loathing. However, Hein’s perspective remains fixed on an individual perception of reality; therefore he is not concerned with a concentrated depiction of social, or indeed environmental, disintegration, as are the above authors. He does in fact focus on ‘a highly gendered contemplation of  beauty and decay’. The protagonist is many times referred to as being exceptionally beautiful; accordingly her death may be regarded as juxtaposing beauty and decay. This juxtaposition leads back to an examination of  the protagonist’s other compositions, in which similar juxtapositions or syntheses are illustrated. Whereas her work is described as predominantly dark and bleak, a warm tone is introduced in her portrayal of  Sibylle, with whom she had had a sexual relationship. The finished piece is described as a very monochrome picture, very bright with a soft reddish tone, between skincoloured and chamois; it was only Sibylle’s black hair that broke through 40 Ruth J. Owen, ‘Claiming the Body: The Ophelia Myth in the GDR’, The Germanic Review, 82, 3 (2007), 251–267 (pp. 265–266).

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this monochrome surface (FP, 468). Warmth and radiance are contrasted with darkness, symbolizing the ambivalence of  Paula’s relationship with her. Both the intimacy and timidity she experienced in Sibylle’s presence are heightened during the process of painting her image. Having experimented with charcoal drawings that showed her back and her profile, Paula finds herself unable to depict Sibylle’s face. She wonders if she shies away from it because Sibylle is present to her when she paints her and her gaze makes Paula self-conscious (FP, 468). Nevertheless, her finished painting exudes both warmth and a mystique that connects it to the Sibyls, who, among other clairvoyants, were believed to attain their powers through an overheating of  black bile, and were also considered to be by nature either especially talented or very erotically inclined.41 The eroticism and warmth earlier associated with Sibylle are combined in this portrait with the aura of mystery and darkness symbolized by her dark hair and her evasion of  the viewer’s gaze. Paula’s next project involves the adaptation of  the drawings of  Maria Sibylla Merian, who in the seventeenth century travelled to South America and captured the process of metamorphosis in insects: Her careful observations made her one of  the first to describe metamorphosis, the unsettling process by which a species, in the middle of its life, swaps one body form for another. These transformations had long been the source of speculation and intrigue, because the dramatic shape shifting seemed to hold the key to the unidentified origins of  life.42

Paula shows a great fascination for Merian’s illustrations, believing that they speak to something deep within her, something which she can work to expose (FP, 513). These pictures perhaps invoke the impression that she herself is undergoing a process of  transformation. It appears, however, that their allure lies above all in the juxtaposition of  beauty and ugliness, of attraction and repulsion: 41 Klibansky, Panofsky and Saxl, Saturn und Melancholie, pp. 67–68 (taken from the pseudo-Aristotelian Problemata physica, Problem XXX, I). 42 Kim Todd, Chrysalis: Maria Sibylla Merian and the Secrets of  Metamorphosis (London: I.B. Tauris, 2007), p. 5.

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Many butterf ly and moth pictures show only the pretty adults, but not these. […] A caterpillar crept up the branch and the artist didn’t shy from including its bristles and the wicked edge of its jaw. There was an empirical coldness in the details combined with a lush, almost sensual feeling for color.43

Paula uses Merian’s watercolours as the basis for a number of oil paintings, adapting the latter’s style to suit her own. This involves the complete exclusion of any human traces and the use of a darker and more muted palette: Ein halbes Jahr zuvor hatte ich ein erstes Ölbild nach den Aquarellen von Maria Sibylla Merian begonnen, und jetzt stand bereits die fünfte Leinwand auf der Staf felei. Ich malte nur Blumen und große Insekten vor einer angedeuteten Landschaft, keine Personen kamen ins Bild, keinerlei menschliche Spuren, nichts als Natur, die zugleich anziehend und schrecklich war, bedrohlich für den Betrachter durch ihre Größe und Nähe. Die Merianfarben hatte ich zurückgenommen, ihre hellen und warmen Farbtöne waren bei mir düsterer, dunkler, einsamer. (FP, 513) [Half a year before I had begun the first oil painting after the watercolours of  Maria Sibylla Merian, and now the fifth canvas already stood on the easel. I painted only f lowers and large insects before an implied landscape; no people came into the picture, no human traces whatsoever, nothing but nature, which was at once appealing and frightful, threatening for the viewer in its size and proximity. I had reduced the Merian colours; their bright and warm tones were bleaker, darker and lonelier in my work.]

The inscription of  fragments of  text onto these paintings expresses more clearly the connection between them and the protagonist’s own self-conception. Words and phrases such as: ‘unwiderstehlich’ [irresistible] and ‘das ist die Bitte, geliebt zu werden’ [that is the plea to be loved] (FP, 514) are described as ‘Wortsplitter, die mir in der Haut steckten’ [word fragments that stuck in my skin] (FP, 514) and suggest that Paula may be attempting to come to terms with the synthesis of  beauty and despair within her own person. As already seen, her beauty has not brought her happiness but has constituted one of  the factors leading to her downfall. Previous to the reworking of  the Merian pictures, Paula had begun to write short texts that captured her impressions of nature:

43 Todd, Chrysalis, p. 6.

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Chapter 3 Eindrücke von meinen Spaziergängen, Naturbeobachtungen, Notate meiner Wanderungen, es waren gewissermaßen die kleinen Steinchen, die mir aufgefallen waren und die ich gesammelt hatte, Beobachtungen, all die kleinen und eigentlich unbedeutenden Wahrnehmungen, die in mir eine Spur zurückgelassen hatten. (FP, 505) [Impressions from my walks, observations of nature, notations of my wanderings; they were, in a manner of speaking, the small stones that had caught my eye and that I had collected; observations, all the small and essentially insignificant perceptions which had left a trace in me.]

These written compositions point up a close af finity with nature in and of itself, in contrast to the landscape paintings mentioned, which present a scene that is of  both personal and artistic significance, but whose natural constituents are of  little intrinsic interest to the protagonist. These texts, in which, similar to her other work, no people are present, signify her complete retreat into nature and away from human contact. They also represent an intense engagement with her inner self: An dieser Arbeit, an diesen kleinen Gedankensplittern und den dafür gemalten und gezeichneten Blättern, hing mein Herz. Ich hatte das Gefühl, dieses Buch könnte meine ausdrucksstärkste Arbeit werden, meine intimste. (FP, 506) [My heart was set on this work, these small thought fragments and the sketches that I painted and drew to accommodate them. I had the feeling that this book could be my most expressive work, my most intimate.]

However, neither such an articulation of profound sentiments nor her artistic work in general is able to sustain her in the long term, to fill the void that is gradually taking over her life.

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The Family Dynamic as a Ref lection of  Historical Power Structures The family dynamic described in this novel is similar to the one portrayed in Dagmar Leupold’s semi-autobiographical narrative Nach den Kriegen. An examination of  these similarities is pertinent, since the stories are set on opposite sides of  the Berlin Wall. Both father figures were Nazi soldiers, both were held in prisoner of war camps and each of  them is highly ambitious. Rudolf  Leupold and Gerhard Plasterer both quickly progressed to the position of school principal after the war. Each rules tyrannically over the other family members, continually frightening and humiliating them. In the case of  the present narrative Paula’s father abuses his family not only psychologically but also physically. The father figures in both of these texts subjugate their wives, who have neither the financial nor emotional means to break free of  them. Their failure to protect their children from the cruelty of  their husbands is, however, of utmost consequence. Some reviewers have found the character of  Paula’s father to be exaggerated to the extent of caricature.44 However, his resemblance to the father figure of  Leupold’s narrative belies this, especially as the psychological profile of  Rudolf  Leupold corresponds so well to Helmut Lethen’s characterization of  the ‘cold persona’. As described by Lethen, a culture of shame emerged in 1920s Germany following the loss of  the First World War.45 However, the symptoms of a culture of shame can equally be observed in the generation of men who were involved in the Second World War. The figure of  Paula’s father is not as well developed as that of  Leupold’s narrator, since Hein’s focus is on the protagonist’s apprehension of  her father’s behaviour and its ef fect on her development. Nevertheless, one

44 See Ursula Homann, ‘Warum musste Paula scheitern?’, Literaturkritik, Nr. 5, May 2007, [accessed 10 June 2009]. See also . 45 Helmut Lethen, Verhaltenslehre der Kälte: Lebensversuche zwischen den Kriegen (Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, 1994), esp. pp. 23–38.

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can conclude that, as in Nach den Kriegen, the father figure in this narrative is much more interested in outward appearances than in ref lection and true self-expression. When his wife is taken to hospital by ambulance his response is to check whether the neighbours have been observing the incident (FP, 113). He appears entirely unaf fected by his wife’s inner torment and concerned only with the impact of  her suicide attempt on his own position and reputation (FP, 116). His ‘cold persona’ will be shown to have not only deeply af fected the protagonist but to have been later adopted by her. However, it is important to point out that his generation as a whole was marked by its denial of  the past and the resulting inability to mourn, as Alexander and Margarete Mitscherlich have argued: Der kollektiven Verleugnung der Vergangenheit ist es zuzuschreiben, daß wenig Anzeichen von Melancholie oder auch von Trauer in der großen Masse der Bevölkerung zu bemerken waren. Einzig die Verbissenheit, mit der sofort mit der Beseitigung der Ruinen begonnen wurde und die zu einfach als Zeichen deutscher Tüchtigkeit ausgelegt wird, zeigt einen manischen Einschlag.46 [The fact that hardly any sign of melancholy or sorrow could be detected in the great mass of  the population is attributable to the collective denial of  the past. The determination alone, which immediately accompanied the clearing away of  the ruins, and which was interpreted too simply as a sign of  German ef ficiency, demonstrates a manic bent.]

Therefore it fell to the second generation to bear the burden of melancholy and sorrow which the previous generation had been so eager to shrug of f. From the point of view of  the novel’s overriding concern with patriarchal structures, the father figure can be seen as standing for the domination of male-oriented values in GDR society. In the context of  the protagonist’s withdrawal from society her father’s refusal to acknowledge historical truth and his own culpability is significant. Quite late in the novel, through the description of a visit by Paula to her grandparents, the reader learns more about her father’s background.

46 Alexander and Margarete Mitscherlich, Die Unfähigkeit zu trauern: Grundlagen kollektiven Verhaltens (Munich: Piper, 1967), p. 40.

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Gerhard Plasterer was brought up on a small farm and left the family home at the age of seventeen – he wanted to be something better, according to his father (FP, 399), who hasn’t spoken to his son for twenty years. During the war he enlisted in the army, wishing to become an of ficer, and ended up in a prisoner of war camp, as Paula’s grandfather informs her. However, he was always strapping and always striving forwards (FP, 399–400), and so, following the war, he became a teacher, quickly rising to the position of school principal. His opportunistic readiness to pledge allegiance to both the Nazi party and the SED signals a lack of any ideological bond with either regime. The promotion to prominent positions of  those who had previously held high of fice during the Nazi era was widespread in both East and particularly West Germany after the war. The KPD ‘Aufruf ’ of  June 1945 had called for an antifascist democracy while also presenting the rationale for a dictatorship which could control and reeducate ‘the millions and millions of  Germans’ who had succumbed to Nazi ideology.47 With the foundation of  the socialist dictatorship and the onset of  the Cold War these masses of ordinary people who had a few years before been regarded as complicit with the crimes of  the Nazis were turned into innocent victims of western imperialism. In fact at the party conference in 1949 Walter Ulbricht went so far as to proclaim that one’s previous party membership was of no significance and that present political views were of sole concern in the struggle against western domination.48 The antifascist ideals of  the regime were thus immediately reduced to the present need to oppose the capitalism and bourgeois cosmopolitanism of  the West, which threatened the proletarian consciousness that the SED were attempting to establish in East Germany.49 Of ficial doctrine was thus very much at odds with reality, a situation that characterized the conditions of life at many levels in the GDR.

Jef frey Herf, Divided Memory: The Nazi Past in the Two Germanys (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1997), pp. 28–32. 48 Herf, Divided Memory, pp. 110–111. 49 Herf, Divided Memory, esp. pp. 27–33 and pp. 106–112. 47

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The irony of  the rapid rehabilitation of  former Nazi supporters was particularly emphatic in the East, where the Russians were considered as having saved the population from the Nazis. This line is in fact attributed to Paula’s father, who ef fusively welcomes two Russian soldiers into his house, greeting them as ‘die Söhne der Befreier und Sozialisten’ [sons of  the liberators and socialists] (FP, 161). On their next visit he speaks about the role of  the Soviet Union and the Red Army, explaining to the soldiers the mistakes that Stalin had made but that, despite these, he regarded him as a hero and a liberator (FP, 164). That he is able to speak like this, despite the fact that his brother was mercilessly killed by Russian soldiers while he and his parents were f leeing to the West, signifies his complete disavowal of  his earlier life. Like so many other opportunists, Gerhard Plasterer did not explicitly renounce his Nazi past but simply suppressed it, as if  his life had somehow begun anew after the war. This ref lects the wider historical, albeit West German, phenomenon of  ‘Stunde Null’, which designated the capitulation of  the Nazi government in May 1945 as both the end and the beginning of a new era. Paradoxically, this positive new beginning, while leading to the establishment of democracy in West Germany, did not turn out to be the total restart signified by the ‘zero hour’. This term was not employed at all in the East, all responsibility for the immediate past being ef fectively denied. In this way the connection to history was lost, both at a social and at an individual level. Hein has himself commented (here in relation to the Wende) that history should be seen as a continuum, present conditions being the inescapable result of past events: In der Geschichte der Welt und der einzelnen Länder aber gab es und gibt es keine Wendepunkte. Hier ist alles die Folge einer Folge einer Folge […] und jeder Schritt ist abhängig von allen früheren […] wir werden auch künftig eine Geschichte haben, in der die vielfach verdrängte Vorgeschichte unserer Länder ihren Anteil verlangt. Die Zukunft, so lehrt uns die Geschichte, ist kein völlig unbeschriebenes Blatt. Einige Zeilen stehen bereits unlöschlich auf diesem Papier, unsere Vergangenheit.50

50 Christoph Hein, ‘A World Turning Point’, in Text + Kritik: Christoph Hein, ed. by Heinz Ludwig Arnold (Munich: Text + Kritik, 1991), pp. 3–5 (pp. 3–4).

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[In the history of  the world and of individual countries there were and are no turning points. Here everything is the consequence of a consequence of a consequence, and every step is dependent on all earlier ones. In the future we will also have a history in which the, in many cases suppressed, prehistory of our countries will demand its part. The future, as history teaches us, is not a completely clean slate. A few lines are already written on it, which cannot be erased: our past.]

More significant for the present narrative is the relationship of  the individual to the course of history. Melancholy sentiments are closely connected to the sense of  historical loss. The extrication of  GDR society from its historical roots is ref lected in the father figure’s ability to change his stripes overnight and has led to the protagonist’s complete disinterest in politics and lack of  historical agency. That the regime allowed those who colluded in the atrocities of  the past to retain positions of power, while suppressing those who voiced opposition to its practices, indicates the deep hypocrisy and functionalization of its ideals upon which the state was founded. Its leaders were the sole arbiters in all areas of public life; its citizens were thus prevented from meaningfully engaging with social and political issues, which resulted in an inability to see themselves as part of  the historical process. Klaus Hammer has highlighted this in an interview with Hein, in which he refers to Hein’s ‘Plädoyer für Engagement’: In [dem historischen] Material steckt schon die Auf forderung an den einzelnen, sich selbst in einer historischen Kontinuität zu sehen, mit allen Schrecknissen, allem Mißlingen und allen Verbrechen. 1983 nannten Sie dies ‘Plädoyer für Engagement’, in das man das eigene Leben einbeziehen müsse.51 [There already exists in the historical material the challenge to the individual to see him/herself in a historical continuum, with all its horrors, failures and crimes. In 1983 you called this the ‘plea for engagement’, in which the individual must implicate his own life.]

51

‘“Dialog ist das Gegenteil von Belehren”: Gespräch mit Christoph Hein’ (Klaus Hammer, February 1991), in Chronist ohne Botschaft Christoph Hein. Ein Arbeitsbuch: Materialien, Auskünfte, Bibliographie, ed. by Klaus Hammer (Berlin: Aufbau, 1992), pp. 11–50 (p. 14).

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Following the fall of  the Wall, Hein conveyed the sentiments which he himself and many others had previously articulated in regard to the express stagnation, accompanied by false proclamations of progress, which characterized the GDR. Klaus Hammer reiterates this view, pointing out that the idea of progress which the SED put forward lacked an historical basis: ‘Ein Fortschrittsbegrif f also, der nur eine Reproduktion seiner selbst war, immer unhistorischer wurde, dieser aufgesetzte Optimismus, der da historisch unbegründet proklamiert wurde …’ [A concept of progress, therefore, which was only a reproduction of itself, became ever more unhistorical, this superimposed optimism, which was proclaimed there without any historical grounding].52 To which Hein replies: Ja, das hat die DDR-Politik stark geprägt; ich habe mich darüber in einer Rede über die ‘Sieger der Geschichte’ geäußert. Und dann eben als andere Seite davon dieses Gefühl von Vergeblichkeit oder Auf-der-Stelle-Treten, das in der DDR sehr stark war, diese soziale Geborgenheit, aber gleichzeitig eine Unbeweglichkeit, die die Nähe zu versteinerten Verhältnissen hatte. Und das wurde dann noch mit den entsprechenden Parolen, dieses: Fortschritt, Fortschreiten, garniert. Das war etwas, was die DDR gekennzeichnet hat …53 [Yes, GDR politics was very much shaped by that; I voiced my opinion on this in a speech about the ‘victors of  history’. And then, as the other side of it, there is this feeling of  futility or of marking time, which was very strong in the GDR; this feeling of social security, but at the same time an immobility that approximated fossilized relationships. And that was then further garnished with corresponding slogans like progress, progression. That was something which characterized the GDR …]

The sense of  futility at the lack of any historical progress is not directly thematized yet it constitutes the underlying tone running through the novel. It is most directly expressed in the portrayal of  how little the cultural and aesthetic values of  the GDR elite changed over time (FP, 250), which is further demonstrated by the automatic negative reaction of  Paula’s professors to her abstract portrayal of a snow-covered landscape (FP, 275 and 277). 52 53

‘“Dialog ist das Gegenteil von Belehren”’, pp. 21–22. ‘“Dialog ist das Gegenteil von Belehren”’, pp. 21–22.

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Along with a consideration of  the historical background, the family dynamic in this narrative must also be interpreted from the point of view of  traditional gender roles. As already seen, the mother figure suf fers inordinately at the hands of  her husband, representing the reduction of women to the male ideal of submissive wives and mothers; the position of relative power that women held in the immediate post-war period was thus negated: With the solidification of  the Cold War split, men in both halves of  Germany began to work on an idealised model of  the modern woman: the sexy consumer citizen of  the West was juxtaposed with the ideologically correct, Socialist worker-mother of  the East. Her temporary status as the self-confident, activist Trümmerfrau (woman who ‘clears the rubble’) was largely pushed back in favor of  the more traditional image as the docile hausfrau, the mother and beautifier of  the home, even to some extent in the East.54

A traditional patriarchal society was quickly reestablished after the war, even in the East despite its af firmation of  female equality. By the time the protagonist has reached adulthood considerable progress had been made in the emancipation of women; nevertheless it is obviously Hein’s intent to highlight the continuing inf luence of patriarchal structures. In particular, the chauvinistic impulses of several men with whom Paula comes into contact ironically run counter to the policy of sexual egalitarianism propounded by the GDR regime. However, Hein has pointed out that it is not only women but also men who have to submit to the hierarchy of power: Es geht also auch ums Patriarchat. Wenn wir das mit ‘Männerherrschaft’ übersetzen, wird’s unsinnig. Das ist eine gesellschaftliche Herrschaftsstruktur, denn dem Patriarchat haben Männer wie Frauen zu genügen. Die Unterdrückung der Frauen ist in den letzten Jahren bekannter geworden, diejenige des Mannes wird kaum wahrgenommen, auch von den Männern selber nicht.55

54 Stunde Null: The End and the Beginning Fifty Years Ago, Occasional Paper no. 20, ed. by Geof frey J. Giles (Washington, DC: German Historical Institute, 1997), p. 7. 55 ‘Mut ist keine literarische Kategorie: Gespräch mit Alois Bischof, aus Anlaß einer Auf führung von Die wahre Geschichte des Ah Q in Zürich (1985)’, in Christoph Hein: Texte, Daten, Bilder, ed. by Lothar Baier (Frankfurt am Main: Luchterhand, 1990), pp. 87–100 (p. 99). While Hein is referring here specifically to the play included

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Chapter 3 [It is also, therefore, about patriarchy. If we translate that as ‘male supremacy’ it becomes nonsensical. Patriarchy is a hierarchical social structure, to which both men and women have to conform. The subjugation of women has been recognized more in recent years, but that of  the man is barely acknowledged, even by men themselves.]

The ef fect of patriarchal structures is evident in the depiction of male characters who submit to the prevailing hierarchy as well as in those who do not. These characters will be considered in the following discussion, which focuses on the impact of patriarchy on the life and outlook of  the main protagonist and will be illuminated through the melancholy motifs of inertia, fear and coldness.

Psychological Ef fects of  Patriarchy The ef fects of patriarchal dominance can be illuminated through an examination of  how this dominance results from the segregation of  the male and female realms. As described by Elaine Showalter, this separation is distinguished by the exaltation of supposedly male manifestations of melancholy over the symptoms attributed to women, as well as the domination of a rationalistic and functionalistic approach over a humanistic one. However, a number of other dialectical concepts are assigned to these separate spheres, as Showalter has pointed out in relation to contemporary associations of women with madness: Contemporary feminist philosophers, literary critics, and social theorists […] have shown how women, within our dualistic systems of  language and representation, are typically situated on the side of irrationality, silence, nature, and body, while men are situated on the side of reason, discourse, culture, and mind.56

in the title of  the interview, this conception of  the ef fect of patriarchal structures informs much of  his work. 56 Showalter, The Female Malady, pp. 3–4.

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In the following portrayal of patriarchal, and subsequently authoritarian, dominance the ef fective silencing of  the protagonist due to her inability to counter either individual male oppression or socialist dogma is thematized, as is her negative perception of  her own body. Her preference for nature over culture (as well as isolation over integration) is symbolized by the departure from Berlin, the cultural centre of  East Germany, to set up home in the countryside. The first retrospective chapter introduces the protagonist as a thirteenyear-old, although she appears to be younger in subsequent chapters. Every day Paula sits and waits for her sister to come out of school, in fear of what might await her at home (as a younger child she had come home to find her mother unconscious): Sie saß auf der Bank am Luisenstein und wartete. Sie hatte die Gehwegplatten gezählt und dann die Kieselsteine, die auf die Platten lagen […] Wenn kein Auto vorbeifahren würde und kein Fuhrwerk, könnte sie die Schulklingel hören, aber darauf wollte sie sich nicht verlassen und schaute alle fünf  Minuten auf ihre kleine rote Armbanduhr. (FP, 75) [She sat on the bench at the Luisenstein and waited. She had counted the pavement slabs and then the gravel stones that lay on the slabs […] If no car drove by and no lorry she could hear the school bell, but she didn’t want to depend on that and looked at her small, red watch every five minutes.]

On passing the Luisenstein as an adult Paula remarks that she had spent half of  her life waiting here. Her inertia is connected here with fear, not merely of returning home alone but of  Cornelia’s scoldings, who had long since tired of  her little sister following her around – the image of  her eyes cast down in fear and trepidation is employed in this context as well as on further occasions when she is subjected to her father’s reprimands (see for instance FP, 76 and 82). This particular motif refers to an established melancholy stance, as documented by Klibansky and Saxl.57 The motifs of inertia, fear and coldness are closely intertwined in the image of  the body freezing or stif fening in fear. This reaction, as well as 57

Klibansky, Panofsky and Saxl, Saturn und Melancholie, p. 116.

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the continuing ef fects of  her father’s scorn, is described in detail by the nineteen-year-old Paula: Ich schrak zusammen. Vaters Stimme hatte diesen klirrenden, bedrohlichen Klang, der mich zu Eis erstarren ließ, jenen Ton, der als Schatten über meiner ganzen Kindheit lag und der mich noch immer verfolgt, den ich urplötzlich und völlig unerwartet im Ohr habe, der mich heimsucht, wenn ich mit Freundinnen unterwegs bin und irgendein Wort oder eine Geste mich an Vater oder meine Kindheit erinnerten, wenn ich ganz gelöst und glücklich allein in meinem Zimmer sitze und die Stunden verträume, jenen Ton, der mich schlagartig heimsucht und beherrscht, der mich erneut in Panik versetzt, auch nachdem ich längst von zu Hause ausgezogen war. Wenn Vater mit dieser Stimme sprach, erfror alles in mir, und steif vor Entsetzen erwartete ich die darauf  folgende Eröf fnung, die sich ankündigende Drohung, einen Satz, der mit bösartiger Ironie mir und meiner Schwester mitteilte, dass wir beschränkt und faul seien. (FP, 20–21) [I started with fright. Father’s voice had this clanking, threatening sound that made me turn to ice, that tone that lay like a shadow over my entire childhood and which still follows me; I have it all of a sudden and completely unexpectedly in my ear; it haunts me when I’m out and about with friends and some word or gesture reminds me of  Father or my childhood; or when I’m sitting alone in my room, completely at ease and happy, dreaming away the hours; that tone that abruptly haunts and dominates me, that makes me panic again, even long after I had moved away from home. When Father spoke with this voice everything in me froze and, stif f with horror, I awaited the revelation to come, the threat that announced itself, a sentence that, with malicious irony, conveyed to my sister and myself  that we were dim-witted and lazy.]

Even at the time of writing her life story Paula remains haunted by her father’s voice. The impact of  his words led to a deadening of  her emotions as well as physical numbness. The extreme consequences of male domination are thus embodied in the figure of  her father. Subjugation by men is not limited to her father’s ill treatment, however. While still a young teenager Paula and her sister are molested by two Russian soldiers. Some years later, her first boyfriend pressurizes her into having sex with him, and afterwards degrades her by displaying her virginal blood to his friends. He justifies this by claiming that he had to prove that she was not a Russian whore: ‘Sie sollen wissen, dass du noch Jungfrau warst […] es ist wegen früher,

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wegen deinen Russen. Ich wollte ihnen beweisen, dass ich nicht mit einer Russennutte gehe’ [They should know that you were still a virgin […] it’s because of  before, because of your Russians. I wanted to prove to them that I am not going with a Russian whore] (FP, 227). The accumulated ef fects of  these experiences are further exacerbated when Paula’s love for Sebastian remains unrequited. The impact of  this leads to an attempted suicide. She continues to be troubled throughout her life not only by Sebastian’s lack of  love for her (she acknowledges in later life that he is the only man she has ever loved) but also by his ironic accusation that she is incapable of  love (FP, 142). Paula prefers to believe that she is just as capable of  love as anybody else but is simply not as sentimental as most people. Nevertheless she admits that this lack of sentimentality protects her from an even greater misery than she has already experienced (FP, 142). Having suf fered so much Paula vows never again to love in a manner that may later cause her pain (FP, 143). Although she becomes involved with a number of other men throughout her life, she follows through in her resolve never to love another man. She thereby lays down an emotional barrier similar to Claudia’s carapace of dragon’s blood in Der fremde Freund/Drachenblut and attempts to convince herself  that she is happy in her self-imposed seclusion. She can also be regarded as having adopted the cold persona of  her father, which involves not only protecting oneself  from outside intrusion but also keeping undesirable emotions at bay. Her willingness to enter into marriage with Hans is foregrounded by the fact that the option of divorce will always be open to her (FP, 52). In conversation with Elke, the wife of one of  Hans’s friends, Paula reveals her readiness to divorce her husband if  he does not meet her expectations. Elke, however, does not believe that divorce solves anything: ‘Ja, natürlich, du bist ja noch jung. Da glaubt man noch, man kann durch eine Scheidung irgendetwas verbessern. Auch so eine Illusion unserer Zeit, auf die wir uns etwas einbilden, weil Scheidung etwas Fortschrittliches ist […] Ich glaube nur, dass man sich früher, als es so etwas wie Scheidung noch nicht gab, weniger lebensfremd verhalten hat.’ (FP, 93–94)

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Chapter 3 [‘Yes, of course, you are still young. One still thinks then that through divorce one can improve something. Also one of  the illusions of our time that we think we can count on, because divorce is something progressive […] I just think that one behaved before in a less alienated way, when something like divorce did not yet exist.’]

The emancipation of women has thus not led to increased contentment and improvement in relations between the sexes but has resulted rather in emotional estrangement: ‘Die Liebenden entscheiden sich rücksichtslos, weil sie felsenfest davon überzeugt sind, weil sie diesen kleinen Schmetterling, der da durch ihr Leben huscht, mit einem Felsen verwechseln, auf dem sich ein Lebensglück gründen lässt’ [The lovers decide without deliberation because they are firmly convinced of it, because they confuse this little butterf ly that is f litting through their lives with a rock on which lifelong happiness can be founded] (FP, 94). However, the protagonist had never expected to experience true happiness with Hans, having already distanced herself  from any attempt to find love long before she met him. For her, emancipation is not embodied in the right to divorce one’s husband but by financial independence: this af fords her the freedom to enjoy the wealth of  the men she becomes involved with while being able to leave them whenever she wishes. However, it is Hans’s prosperity that contributes to his sense of superiority and leads to Paula’s humiliation; she describes herself as being treated like a poodle on display (FP, 55). Far worse than this is what Paula denotes as rape: Hans forces her into having a child by replacing her contraceptive pills with placebos. The inertia that characterized her childhood again comes to the fore in response to Hans’s mistreatment: ‘in mir war alles dumpf und stumpf, und so schaute ich ihn an, ein völlig leerer Blick’ [everything in me was muf f led and stunted and that was how I looked at him, a completely empty gaze] (FP, 68). When her husband later tries to denigrate her during divorce proceedings, she reacts similarly: ‘Ich fühlte nichts mehr. Ich war nicht wütend oder beschämt, ich erstarrte’ [I felt nothing anymore. I wasn’t furious or ashamed, I froze] (FP, 148). Such numbness can be observed in her relations with other men throughout her life. In instances where she has been hurt she does not seek to defend herself, her only reaction being to freeze inwardly. The insults of  her later partner, Fred Waldschmidt, are answered by impassive silence: ‘Ich sah ihn an, ganz lange,

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ich sagte nichts, ich fühlte nichts, ich konnte ihn nicht einmal hassen’ [I looked at him, for a very long time; I said nothing, I felt nothing, I couldn’t even hate him] (FP, 310). On another occasion, when she finds herself  the subject of a caricature drawn by her fellow students and displayed during Fasching festivities, her reaction echoes her earlier response to her father’s derision: ‘Mir war sofort klar, dass ich mit der Karikatur gemeint war, und ich vereiste innerlich’ [It was immediately clear to me that the caricature was meant to be me, and I turned to ice inside] (FP, 285). Her determination never to love again is thus being continually reinforced and is additionally strengthened by witnessing the desperate lovesickness of a fellow student. This girl is madly in love with Prof. Waldschmidt, with whom Paula will soon become involved, and appears naked in front of  him and many of  the other students at a party. This spectacle serves as a warning to Paula and she believes that the memory of it will strengthen her will to live: Wenn mir später jemals ein Mann gefiel und ich mich zu verlieben drohte, so brauchte ich mich nur an das Bild der nackten Rita zu erinnern, wie sie sich fast irrsinnig vor Liebesunglück dem geliebten, unerreichbaren Mann und uns zeigte. Vielleicht mache ich eine Skizze von Ritas Auftritt und nagele sie mir über das Bett. Wie das Bild eines gekreuzigten Jesus, der den Christen Glaubenskraft geben soll, so könnte mir das Bild der nackten Rita Lebenswillen und Stärke vermitteln. (FP, 201) [If ever I was attracted to a man again and was threatening to fall in love I need only remember the image of  the naked Rita, of  how, almost crazy with unrequited love, she showed herself  to the loved, unattainable man and to us. Perhaps I will make a sketch of  Rita’s appearance and nail it up over my bed. Like the picture of  the crucified Jesus, who should give strength of  faith to the Christians, the picture of  the naked Rita could give me strength and the will to live.]

Paula’s cold and calculating manner thus masks a deep-seated fear of her own weakness. The spectre of death hangs over her life. This is apparent from an early age and is related to the self-loathing apparent in Paula’s description of  her body as ‘hager und hässlich. Ein Knochengerippe, an dem nichts dran ist, eine Bohnenstange’ [gaunt and ugly. A bag of  bones without a pick on it, a beanpole] (FP, 75). She cannot bear to look at it, especially her hands, which she describes as reddened and frozen-looking (FP, 75).

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When her friend Kathi tells her that she is beautiful, Paula replies that her body does not fit her own ideal of  beauty: ‘Ich bin ein viel zu blasser Typ. Mir gefällt es, wenn Frauen wie das blühende Leben ausschauen, wenn sie etwas Strahlendes haben. Eine Frau sollte bezaubern können, aber ich sehe aus wie ein halb erfrorenes Vögelchen’ [I am a much too pale type. I like it when women look like blossoming life, when they have something radiant about them. A woman should be able to enchant, but I just look like a half-frozen little bird] (FP, 176). The recurring motif of  freezing or being frozen goes beyond evoking the sensation of coldness, in both the emotional and physical senses, to raise associations with death. This is particularly manifest in the juxtaposition of radiance and coldness in the above quotation. The motifs of death and the body are further associated with love, or rather the absence of  love. While the despair caused by unrequited love may lead one to commit suicide, the loss of  love also leads to a kind of  bodily death. This is brought home to Paula on the day following the incident with Rita, when she meets a woman in her early thirties who already looks like an old woman: Ihr Körper bewegte sich kaum beim Gehen, er war müde wie bei einer alten Frau, er federte nicht mehr, er besaß keine Spannung und keine Leichtigkeit, so als würde er nicht pulsieren, keinen Atem schöpfen und nichts mehr von den Rosen und Schmetterlingen wissen, die ihn einst so geschmeidig gemacht hatten und of fen für Wolken und Wind und hungrig nach Liebe. Ihr Körper war schon verstorben, und sie schob ihn nur noch vor sich her. […] Nachdem ich die Tür leise geschlossen hatte, schüttelte es mich. (FP, 211) [Her body hardly moved when she walked, it was tired like the body of an old woman, the springs were no longer working, it had no tension and no buoyancy, as if it no longer pulsated, produced no breath and knew no more of  the roses and butterf lies, which once had made it so supple and open to the clouds and the wind and hungry for love. Her body was already dead and now she just pushed it along in front of  her. […] After I had quietly closed the door I got the shivers.]

Paula is obviously deeply af fected by this encounter and remains steadfast in her resolve never to fall in love with a man. According to her conception, every person is concerned with him/herself above all else: everyone

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loves themselves, or hates themselves, above all others (FP, 303); thus all that remains of  love is ashes (FP, 304). Love and death are therefore inextricably linked. Yet despite Paula’s avoidance of  love her life continues to be overshadowed by death. Paula collects several packets of sleeping tablets, which, as in the case of  the sketch of  the naked Rita, she believes will give her strength. While it is evident to the reader that the death drive dominates her life, even without consideration of  her eventual suicide, Paula paradoxically conceives of  these measures as galvanizing her will to live, as providing a kind of spiritual consolation: [Die Schlaftabletten] bedeuteten für mich eine Möglichkeit, alles zu bestehen, zu überstehen. Vielleicht sind die Tabletten für mich das, was für einen gläubigen Menschen Gott ist, bei dem man zeitweise Trost findet, zu dem man f lüchten, bei dem es etwas gibt, das einen retten kann, oder von dessen Hilfe man zumindest überzeugt ist. (FP, 193) [The sleeping tablets signified for me the possibility of coping with everything, of overcoming everything. Perhaps the tablets are for me that which God is for a believer, something through which one can at times find consolation, to which one can f lee, where there is something that can save one, or of whose help one is at least convinced.]

While Paula claims that she will never take these tablets, the reader knows that she will not have the strength in the long term to resist death. Thanatos metaphorically manifests itself in the bleakness of  the artist’s work. In the present context the protagonist’s subjugation to the death drive may be understood as a consequence of  the misogyny engendered by a patriarchal society. We have seen Hans’ treatment of  her as a pretty accessory. Her next partner, the lecturer Fred Waldschmidt, is apparently more open-minded; nevertheless he is unable to respect her ambitions when they do not correspond to his own. He has arranged for her to display a painting at an exhibition for promising new artists but her wish to display a dif ferent, abstract picture there is treated as a childish whim: ‘Für den Marstall habe ich deine Landschaft angemeldet, und das wird nicht mehr geändert […] Verspiele nicht deine Chancen, Mädchen, nur wegen eines Spleens’ [I have entered your landscape for the Marstall and that will not be changed […]

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Don’t throw away your chances, girl, just because of a whim] (FP, 251). The use of  the term ‘spleen’ here is significant as it relates to the concept of melancholy, in particular the perception of  female melancholy, with its connotations of psychological weakness, as seen above.58 A renowned artist with a disparaging view of  female artists provides further evidence of misogyny. It is his belief  that women fundamentally abuse art (FP, 348). He sees art as an outlet for women to express emotions that they cannot otherwise process: ‘Ich habe erlebt, dass Frauen nur deshalb Malerinnen wurden, weil sie auf andere Art nicht mit ihren Gefühlen umgehen konnten, weil sie außerhalb der Malerei völlig gefühllos sind. Sie brauchen das Malen, weil sie sich sonst umbringen würden’ [I have seen that women only become painters because they cannot deal with their emotions in any other way, because, outside of art, they are completely unfeeling. They need to paint, because otherwise they would kill themselves] (FP, 351). The extent to which this assertion may apply to Paula’s situation will be discussed later. In contrast to those who demean her, Paula regards the men who do not as childish. This ref lects Hein’s observation, cited earlier, that both men and women are oppressed by patriarchal forces. Those who conform to these demands believe in their own superiority and treat women accordingly; those who do not are regarded as weak and are excluded from the corridors of power. Both Jan, a fun-loving actor, and Heinrich, a kind of jack-of-alltrades, are more evolved in regard to their relations with women, yet Paula cannot take them seriously. She remarks that Jan and his colleagues had remained like children: ‘Vielleicht lag es an ihrem Beruf, dem Spielen, dass sie das Kindliche nicht verloren hatten. Es war ein wenig lächerlich, aber mich amüsierte es’ [Perhaps it was because of  their occupation, the playing about, that they hadn’t lost the childlike in them. It was a little ridiculous but it amused me] (FP, 385). While she enjoys the time she spends with Jan

58 Showalter, The Female Malady, p. 8. This connotation dif fers significantly from the Baudelairean term, which characterizes ‘the inner state of  the “plaintive soul prey to endless melancholy” [as] dark, without hope, frightening, painful, and full of  tedium and despair’, Radden, The Nature of  Melancholy, p. 232.

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she cannot contemplate a real relationship with him and reveals that she only finally decided to sleep with him because he appeared so helpless and vulnerable. As soon as she becomes pregnant she leaves Jan, determined to raise this child on her own. Her longest relationship is with Heinrich; however, she is with him only for the sake of  her son, who is in need of a father figure. The relationship lacks any passion and Paula comes to see herself more as a mother to Heinrich than as a partner: Vielleicht war er zu jung oder der falsche Mann für mich. Wenn ich ihn und Michael zusammen spielen sah, hatte ich das Gefühl, zwei Kinder zu haben, aber ich wollte kein weiteres Kind. Als Mann weckte Heinrich in mir Aggressionen […] Er war ein lieber Junge, er war verlässlich, geduldig, aufmerksam, hilfsbereit, aber kein Mann. […] Er war geruchlos und neutral. (FP, 496) [Perhaps he was too young or the wrong man for me. When I saw him and Michael playing together I had the feeling that I had two children, but I didn’t want another child. As a man Heinrich roused aggression in me. […] He was a dear boy; he was reliable, patient, attentive, helpful, but not a man. […] He was odourless and neutral.]

Women may have achieved a certain degree of emancipation from a practical point of view, yet evolutionary impulses have not caught up. Paula realizes that the more macho types to whom she is attracted are the ones who will eventually make her desperately unhappy, nevertheless she cannot live with somebody for whom she feels nothing (FP, 496). The narrative’s portrayal of  the ef fects of patriarchy can be seen as part of a more wide-ranging discourse on the restrictions imposed by modern industrialized societies. We learn, for example, that Heinrich does not abide by a central principle of industrialized society, in that he has not specialized in any particular area of work. When he expresses the wish to build a workshop in which he will engage in all kinds of manual labour, Paula informs him that this society operates through division of  labour and that he cannot be a specialist for a thousand dif ferent things (FP, 474). This reference to the specialization of work practices also critiques the specific circumstances of  the GDR, in which, according to the utopian ideals of communism, such specialization was to be abolished:

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Chapter 3 In Lukács’s interpretation [in Goethe und seine Zeit], Goethe’s und Schiller’s lament for a lost wholeness, and their dreams of its possible restitution, acquire the status of (albeit distorted) prophecy: their idealist vision prefigures the materialist one of  Marx, and will find its eventual fulfilment in a future communist society in which all division of  labour will be abolished.59

According to Paula’s economist friend Marco Pariani, present-day conditions may in fact be regarded as the end result of  the intervention of  the state in the life of  the individual. In order to consolidate its power the state had to go to war. While war led to increased solidarity, it also necessitated the sacrifice of individuality: the private individual became the uniform citizen, a servant of  the state, rather than of  his own needs. This dominance of state matters in the lives of ordinary people has additional significance from the standpoint of emotional wellbeing. Pariani argues that modern society has imposed unnatural restrictions on our choice of sexual partners. Monogamy has become the established form of partnership, although it may not necessarily be the instinctive preference of all members of society. Its endurance is owed to the fact that it renders the population easier to control (FP, 409–411). Political and economic exigencies have brought about a profound cultural transformation and have, according to Pariani, moulded and confined the human psyche to such an extent that the individual is no longer conscious of  his natural desires (FP, 412). In the light of  these historical inf luences we may consider the protagonist’s melancholy state as being partly the result of a repression of  her natural impulses. She is not conscious of  her innate attraction to women and even when she does become aware of it she remains very inhibited in her relationships with women. This reticence will have a lasting impact on Paula’s life and contribute to her disconnection from society, from the petit-bourgeois patriarchal environment that in the first place engendered this reticence in her. The specific conditions of  GDR society must also be taken into account, its elite having been notoriously prudish in the early decades. By the time the 59

Culture and Society in the GDR, ed. by Graham Bartram and Anthony Waine (Dundee: GDR Monitor, 1984), p. 16.

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protagonist reaches adulthood political attitudes had begun to change; however, society as a whole retained its petit-bourgeois moralism and the dif ficulty for her of shedding ingrained inhibitions is evident. At a deeper level the misogyny to which the protagonist has been subjected is the result of an underlying fear of  female sexuality, alluded to above in the alignment of women with melancholy and madness. Kathi, her lifelong friend, and Sibylle, the wife of Marco Pariani, are the two women who, apart from her son, will mean more to her than anyone else throughout her life. The bond with these women is much deeper than any that connects her with men. In fact her first sexual encounter with Sibylle seems almost mystical. Paula sees her surrounded by a green aura and is entranced by it (FP, 233). However, despite the warmth of  her relationship with Sibylle, Paula remains fearful. The fear implanted in her by her father is matched by the innate and irrational fears symptomatic of melancholy: ‘das Leben ist so einfach, ganz einfach, es sind unsere Ängste, die es so schwer machen, meine Ängste, all meine unsinnigen Ängste’ [life is so simple, really simple, it is our fears that make it so hard, my fears, all my senseless fears] (FP, 338). Most frightening of all in this context is the dawning awareness that she has found the life she longed for as a child, which emerges now in the face, the body, the smell of  Sibylle (FP, 242–243). The intimacy of  her relationship with Sibylle lifts the veil for Paula on another life, a life in which Eros rather than Thanatos prevails. In fact Sibylle may be seen to represent a kind of  Earth Mother: as well as being related to the Sibyls of  Roman mythology, her name also associates her with the Phrygian Earth Mother Cybele. Just as Cybele, she is described as possessing a voluptuous beauty as well as an inner poise and radiance. Furthermore, the goddess Cybele was believed to embody the fertile Earth and is associated with nature, wild dancing and the night. These associations are ref lected in Paula’s experience of  Sibylle’s strength and vitality in the face of death, having been diagnosed with terminal cancer. On one occasion Sibylle dances through the night on the lawn behind her house, carrying Paula along with her until both have given themselves over to the music and the night (FP, 422). It is only when Sibylle reveals that she is dying that Paula realizes how much she loves her. After Sibylle’s death Paula’s sense of  loss intensifies with each passing year, and is compounded by the regret at not

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having been able to escape her inhibitions. The motifs of  the earth and of  the night demonstrate that even the joyful experiences of  Paula’s life are tinged with melancholy. Her love for Sibylle will be ref lected, however, in Paula’s work, the overwhelmingly gloomy tone of  her paintings giving way to a juxtaposition of  beauty and sorrow, as seen above. The most enduring relationship of  Paula’s life is with Kathi, her friend since childhood. She is the one who opens her mind to the possibility that she may be attracted to women as well as to men, although this idea is frightening and alienating to her. Nevertheless, following her initiation with Sibylle, Paula is able to embark on a sexual relationship with Kathi, sleeping with her regularly over the years while also maintaining relationships with men. The two become closer with the birth of  Paula’s son, yet she describes Kathi somewhat dispassionately as a ‘verlässliche Freundin [dependable friend]’, someone who supports her and her son and with whom she has an easy, undemanding relationship. Kathi had earlier intimated her desire to live with Paula, and avoids visiting her when she moves to Kietz, eventually admitting to Paula that she is jealous of  her relationship with Heinrich. Paula has resisted a closer relationship with Kathi, although towards the end of  her life Kathi is the only friend she has left, and the only one who can relieve her of  her increasing psychological oppression, as symbolized by chronic headaches (FP, 534). Paula has become ever more isolated and ever more fearful of social contact, a development which frightens her but which she feels unable to counteract, her country refuge being more suited to her reclusive nature than the city, which she finds exhausting: Mein vieles, mein allzu vieles Alleinsein beunruhigte mich. […] Ich wurde menschenscheu, entwickelte mich wieder zu dem Schulmädchen, das ich einmal gewesen war, das sich am liebsten in sein Zimmer zurückzog, um dort ungestört zu lesen oder zu malen. Ich ärgerte mich über mich selbst, ich versuchte, mich dazu zu zwingen, auf andere Leute zuzugehen, aber das fiel mir schwer. Ich spielte mit dem Gedanken, das Haus zu verkaufen und nach Berlin zu ziehen, doch nach jeder Fahrt in die Stadt kam ich erschöpft zurück und war glücklich, mich wieder in mein Refugium zurückziehen zu können. (FP, 504)

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[I was troubled by the fact that I spent so much time alone, much too much time. […] I was becoming shy with people, was turning back into the schoolgirl that I had once been, who liked most of all to go to her room to read or paint without being disturbed. I was annoyed with myself, I tried to force myself  to approach other people but it was hard for me. I played with the thought of selling the house and moving to Berlin, but after every trip to the city I came back exhausted and was happy to be able to retreat to my refuge again.]

During their last meeting her son Michael suggests that she move in with Kathi, as he worries about her being so alone. This, coupled with Kathi’s wish to live with Paula, leads the reader to understand that a union with Kathi may have represented Paula’s chance for happiness, but that her unsubstantiated fears, engendered by cultural taboos, have entailed continued entrapment within a melancholy state.

The Impact of  Authoritarianism on Artistic Life The deep-seated prejudices engendered by bourgeois society have been shown to still persist in the supposedly anti-bourgeois East Germany. However, the SED’s anti-bourgeois stance was pronounced in its conception of  the decadence of  the West. Politics and the arts were closely connected in the GDR, not only in the wish to control artistic production, and thus weed out examples of  bourgeois decadence, but also in the belief  that art and literature had the power to inf luence the populace, to aid in the ef fort to educate them to become better socialists. GDR artists and writers were constantly reminded of  their role in society and the importance of providing a ‘realistic’ portrayal of socialist ideals. J.H. Reid argues that the East German Writers’ Union maintained a commitment to the method of socialist realism throughout the tenure of  the GDR state, socialist realism being defined as follows: ‘Socialist realism is the truthful, historically concrete

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representation of reality in its revolutionary development’.60 This conception of realism may be regarded as a return to the original medieval standpoint, whereby realism was the belief  that universals were real and the particular manifestations of  these universals merely secondary. Socialist realism was thus a representation of  the ‘truth’, not of  the ostensible, superficial appearance of  things. And this truth was the Marxist-Leninist interpretation of  history.61 In line with this ideological stance, artists were expected to follow the model of conventional genre painting from the nineteenth century and particularly the paintings of positive heroes from the Soviet Union of  the 1930s. Those who were thought to be inf luenced by western ideals faced charges of decadence, cosmopolitanism and formalism (the 60 However, as Dennis Tate has shown, in 1953 ‘one of  the editors of  the journal of  the newly formed Writers’ Union, Neue Deutsche Literatur, described the bureaucratic urge to make Soviet socialist realism obligatory as “just as absurd as it is damaging”’, Dennis Tate, ‘“Breadth and Diversity”: Socialist Realism in the GDR’, in European Socialist Realism, ed. by Michael Scriven and Dennis Tate (Oxford: Berg, 1988), pp. 60–78 (p. 66). He also points out that, at the Writers’ Congress of  January 1956 in East Berlin, there was an impressive show of solidarity against the bureaucratic control of  literature in the GDR, which included contributions from Johannes R. Becher, Anna Seghers, Georg Lukács and Bertolt Brecht that placed a clear emphasis on the priorities of a socialist Nationalliteratur, Tate, ‘“Breadth and Diversity”’, p. 66. 61 J.H. Reid, Writing without Taboos: The New East German Literature (New York: Berg, 1990), pp. 32–33. Lukács and Brecht each provided alternative conceptions of socialist realist literature: Lukács proposed a modified form of  the Entwicklungsroman for German authors in exile in the 1930s. Although he ‘might well have regarded this as a transitional solution for authors as yet insuf ficiently mature to produce the Tolstoyan “great proletarian work of art” which he projected as the ultimate goal of socialist realism, the focus it encouraged on the complex portrayal of individual experience was to provide a more substantial theoretical foundation for East German literature than the bureaucratic exhortation to conjure up “epic totality” overnight’, Tate, ‘“Breadth and Diversity”’, pp. 62–63. Conversely, Brecht and Seghers refused ‘to accept any definition of realism imposed from above and tied to a narrow canon of  “great works”. […] Brecht’s insistence on the transitory nature of all literary forms, their limitation to a specific stage in any society’s socio-political development led him to advocate for socialist realism an innovative “breadth and diversity” of style and the close study of  technical features like stream of consciousness, montage and multi-perspective narrative’, Tate, ‘“Breadth and Diversity”’, p. 63.

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latter being defined simply as the preoccupation with form at the expense of content, which was deemed anti-humanist and anti-democratic).62 The work of  the German Expressionists and the European avant-garde, as well as abstract art was all branded as decadent. This historical background is ref lected in the experience of  the protagonist. By the time Paula enters art college the dogma of  Socialist Realism is no longer being so doggedly pursued, yet on the first day of  the entrance exams the candidates are lectured about the ‘role of the artist in the struggles of  the time’ (FP, 41–42). Paula’s lack of  knowledge in matters of politics is revealed but does not prevent her from attaining a place at the college. However, her continuing political indif ference throughout her student years, and indeed thereafter, does not go unnoticed and she is accused of using art as an escape from life by one of  her professors, a charge she must later hear again from the well-known artist Frieder Kronauer, as seen above. Professor Tschäkel believes that art cannot provide a refuge from life and that using art as a means of coping with life leads to ‘romantischer Quark’ [romantic nonsense]. ‘Kunst ist Kraft. Meinetwegen Gewalt. Aber ganz gewiss nicht Schwärmerei’ [Art is power. Violence, for all I care. But certainly not sentimentality] (FP, 136), according to Tschäkel. While his criticisms may be legitimate, it appears that the underlying motive is to assert the primacy of art that is outward-looking, that engages with and ref lects society. The use of  the term ‘Schwärmerei’ here also entails an association with melancholy, the two being closely linked in the Enlightenment and early Romantic periods.63 Some years later, following her divorce from Hans and loss of  her daughter, Tschäkel accuses Paula of being unable to feel for anyone but herself, which has led to her work taking on a brutal edge: Es ist so ein harter Zug in Ihre Blätter gekommen, Ihre Zeichnungen wirken brutal. Als Sie zu uns kamen, hatten Sie bereits diese Neigung, aber es war auch Leichtigkeit und Spaß in Ihren Sachen zu sehen, und die sind völlig verschwunden […] Sie haben keinerlei Mitleid, Mädchen, Sie sind mitleidlos mit allen anderen Menschen, und aufgeschlossen nur für sich selbst. Sie sind ausschließlich um sich selbst besorgt. (FP, 168–169) 62 Reid, Writing without Taboos, p. 62. 63 See Schings, Melancholie und Aufklärung, esp. pp. 143–150 and pp. 270–278.

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Paula’s melancholy self-absorption is evidently expressed in her work. From the viewpoint of  Marxist aesthetics neither introspection nor dark motifs can be tolerated. All art produced in the GDR was considered, as all else, the possession of  the state, and the artist was therefore expected to fulfil the state’s requirements of art, these being that it portray the zest for life which supposedly existed in the GDR and lift the spirits of workers. A retrospective of  GDR art shown in the Neue Nationalgalerie Berlin in 2003 documented the products of  this ethos, as well as compositions that ran counter to it.64 A wall text accompanying this exhibition relayed remarks made by Walter Ulbricht at the 5th SED Central Committee Conference in 1951: Walter Ulbricht then exercised his authority as he threateningly declared before the East German Parliament: ‘We do not want to see any more abstract paintings in our art academies. We need neither the images of moonscapes nor of rotting fish. The grey-in-grey painting, which is an expression of  the capitalist decline, stands in the sharpest possible contrast to life today in the GDR’.65

Paula recognizes similar sentiments in the attitude of her college but thinks them to be an element of  the school’s philosophy: Außerdem war es eine Marotte an dieser Schule, dass sie alle davon reden, die Kunst müsse heiter sein und leicht. Wir sollten spielerischer werden, als ob alle Kunst der Welt fröhliche Stimmung zu verbreiten habe. In der Vergangenheit jedenfalls hatte es ein paar Maler gegeben, bei denen die Bilder auch noch etwas anderes ausstrahlten als unaufhörliche Lebenslust. (FP, 170)

64 The exhibition was also displayed at the ‘Kunst- und Ausstellungshalle der Bundes­ republik Bonn’ from October 2004 to February 2005. 65 ‘Re-(en)visioning Art in the GDR’, [accessed 15 July 2009], p. 2.

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[Besides, it was the fad at this school that all of  them talked about art having to be cheerful and light. We should become more playful, as if all the art in the world must spread a gleeful mood. In the past, in any case, there were a few painters whose pictures radiated something else besides unending lust for life.]

In a similar vein Paula is told she may face criticism for the lack of  human subjects in her paintings, her dominant interest being depictions of empty landscapes. Although she will not be reprimanded for the absence of human figures, the development of  her work means that she will soon encounter the force of immediate censorship. The painting to which the above criticism particularly applies is a winter landscape, described by the protagonist as follows: Es [war] eine Landschaft im Winter. Alles war verschneit, es gab keinerlei menschliche oder tierische Spuren, die Farben waren vorhanden, aber unter dem winterlichen Weiß versteckt, sie waren nur zu ahnen. Ein dunkles Grün in vielen Schattierungen und einige Brauntöne versuchten, unter der weißen Decke hervorzubrechen, diese nur angedeuteten dunklen Farben kontrastierten die Bäume, die Parkbänke und die Wege. (FP, 196) [It was a landscape in winter. Everything was covered in snow, there were no human or animal traces whatsoever, the colours were there but, hidden under the wintery whiteness, were only hinted at. A dark green in many shades and a few brown tones tried to break through from under the white cover; these dark colours, which were only suggested, formed the contrast between the trees, the park benches and the paths.]

This composition is acceptable to her teachers, despite the lack of  human figures, but is not pleasing to Paula herself as she dreams of a completely white landscape. Waldschmidt is dismissive of  this idea, particularly as it may result in an abstract piece, which would be abhorrent to him and have extreme consequences for Paula: ‘“Und wenn es abstrakt wird oder auch nur so wirkt, dann kannst du es gleich vergessen”, sagte er gereizt, “an meiner Schule lernt man malen und nicht klecksen. […] Komm mir also nicht mit abstrakt an, für mich ist das ein Exmatrikulations­grund”’ [‘And if it is abstract or if it only appears to be, then you can forget it straight away’, he said irascibly, ‘at my school one learns to paint and not to make blobs. […] So don’t come to me with abstract stuf f, for me that’s a cause

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for expulsion.’] (FP, 249). However, the change in sentiments between the 1950s and 1970s is illustrated by the fact that, according to Waldschmidt, if  Paula had even intimated her desire to paint a monochrome picture twenty years earlier she would have been expelled immediately. The transformation in the position of  the regime is clearly highlighted in the example of  the college’s attitude towards the painter Picasso. While there exists a present-day acceptance, if not celebration of  his work, twenty years before he was absolutely disparaged, to the detriment of  his supporters (FP, 250). A glimpse is thus given into the cultural politics of the state, into the limits set and how the goalposts have moved over time. The protagonist is, however, not willing to wait for a progression in attitudes and forges ahead with her ambitious project, ignoring Waldschmidt’s advice. She finally finishes her white landscape and is completely satisfied with it. At the same time she knows that it may be branded as decadent by the college and she may have to provide explanations and apologies. The reaction turns out in fact to be even harsher than expected. Waldschmidt calls the painting ‘modernistische Scheiße’ [modernist shit] and warns her not to appear with it in the college. When she shows it to another lecturer he tells her to get rid of it immediately as they will both face severe penalties if  the canvas is seen by anyone else. As was demonstrated in the above description of  her work, both the completion and the rejection of  this picture mark important turning points in Paula’s life. From the point of view of  the present discourse it can be seen to what extent totalitarianism had a grip on the smallest of events in individual lives. Further evidence of  this is given in the accusation of cosmopolitanism and formalism levelled at Paula following her final exams, charges that were commonly directed at those whose work or artistic conceptions did not correspond to the realist norm, even though these purported transgressions almost cost Paula her degree. Some years later the lingering ef fects of  her subjection to such an educational ethos are evident in her continuing fear of exhibiting her white painting. However, in the intervening time she has found her own path, making just enough compromises to survive while remaining unyielding in her overall vision. One of  these compromises includes accepting a commission from a chemical factory in Halle to supply, over an extended period, drawings and

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sketches for their trade union magazine. All of these images had to be compatible with socialist ideals and thus provide positive, non-abstract depictions of  the factory (FP, 315). Paula finds this work insuf ferable, particularly as she is forced to abandon her own artistic vision, which is considered too gloomy and depressing, and conform to the narrow requirements of  the magazine. Nevertheless she must continue with it until she has generated suf ficient income from selling her own paintings and drawings. This collaboration between artists and the proletariat alludes to the ‘Bitterfelder Weg’, through which artists were encouraged to visit factories and depict the lives of  factory workers, and workers were given the opportunity to write and to paint.66 Although art and literature had already been employed as a promotional tool, to greater or lesser degrees of sophistication, the initiation of  the Bitterfelder Weg in 1959 led to an increasing functionalization of art and of  the artist. In regard to the novel, it is shown that this policy had been largely abandoned by the time of  Paula’s experience, as evidenced by the fact that the majority of graduates from the art academy were able to reject this work. Following her eventual resignation from the magazine Paula determines to distance herself  from any involvement with the of ficial institutions that might compromise her art, which, however, also precludes attainment of most of  the scholarship funding that her colleagues avail of every year (FP, 492). The protagonist’s isolation is therefore not just the result of a natural inclination, but is also a necessary measure to protect her independence from state control. While her melancholy art is not of fensive to the regime, it is nonetheless undesirable, and also unpopular with the general public. Paula’s determination to remain true to her art thus further compounds her melancholy, causing not only her physical isolation but also an increasing inward withdrawal.

66 On the ‘Bitterfelder Weg’ see Wolfgang Emmerich, Kleine Literaturgeschichte der DDR (Darmstadt: Luchterhand, 1981), pp. 86–89. A revised and extended edition of  this seminal text was published in 1996, which ref lects developments in the postWende period up until 1995: Wolfgang Emmerich, Kleine Literaturgeschichte der DDR (Leipzig: Kiepenheuer, 1996).

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Not many appear willing to pay such a price for this modicum of  freedom, as can be witnessed, on the one hand, in the readiness of  Paula’s lecturers and other high-profile figures to conform to the requirements of  GDR politics, and, on the other hand, in those who decide to f lee the state rather than continue to submit to its constraints. The former group is populated by few who truly support the regime, the majority maintaining a hypocritical stance of which the protagonist was unaware until she met these men in private. Paula is astonished at the sarcasm of  the intellectuals and artists she encounters at Waldschmidt’s parties; she had thought that her lecturers believed what they preached in public but now finds that they, along with other prominent figures from various intellectual and artistic fields, are united in their scorn for the regime (FP, 228). However, when one of  Waldschmidt’s colleagues f lees to the West, those who are left behind must face the consequences. Max Bertholdt utilizes the opportunity of  having his work exhibited in Munich in order to f lee the GDR. This move is all the more surprising, as he was a determined anti-fascist and supposedly staunch party member. The mechanisms of public criticism and self-criticism are laid bare in the wake of  this treachery. The endorsement of  those colleagues who had supported the exhibition in Munich is thrown into relief  by Lieblich, a sworn enemy of  Bertholdt’s who had opposed it. Lieblich, a proponent of  Socialist Realism, had been mocked consistently by Bertholdt, as well as Waldschmidt on one occasion. The latter is thus accused by Lieblich of  having knowledge of  Bertholdt’s plans and is hounded for the most demeaning declaration of guilt: Waldschmidt wollte alles mit einer entschuldigenden Geste rasch erledigen, doch Lieblich ließ es sich nicht nehmen, ihn mit wiederholten Nachfragen zu einem umfänglichen Schuld- und Reuebekenntnis zu nötigen, das allen unangenehm war. Schließlich bekam Waldschmidt eine Parteistrafe auferlegt und musste von seinem Amt als Prorektor zurücktreten. (FP, 291) [Waldschmidt wanted to sort everything out quickly with a repentant gesture, but Lieblich didn’t allow the chance to go by to coerce him, through repeated questions, into a comprehensive declaration of guilt and repentance, something which was unpleasant for all concerned. Finally a penalty was imposed on Waldschmidt by the party and he had to step down from his of fice as prorector.]

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The exodus of artists and writers from the GDR in the late seventies, following the expatriation of  Wolf  Biermann, is referenced in order to highlight Paula’s reluctance to leave. She remains politically apathetic, while also willing to accept the restrictions imposed on her. It is only much later, ironically shortly before unification, that she has the courage to unwrap her white landscape and is confronted with the creative possibilities now lost to her: ‘Als ich das Bild schließlich im Atelier aufhing, war ich überrascht, enttäuscht und sehr zufrieden. Es machte mich wehmütig, denn das Bild zeigte einen Weg auf, den ich nicht gegangen, der mir verstellt worden war’ [When I finally hung the picture in the atelier I was surprised, disappointed, and very content. It made me melancholy because the picture pointed out a path that I had not taken, which had been blocked to me] (FP, 506–507). In the aftermath of unification it is brought home to her the true extent of  the personal consequences of not only physical but also cultural segregation from the West. Having never been able to see the originals of  the paintings she admired, the protagonist could not observe the techniques of  the artists in question and thus was deprived of an important connection to their work. The loss Paula has suf fered is profound and can no longer be made good: ‘Dieses war der ganz persönliche Preis, den ich für dieses Jahrhundert zu zahlen hatte. Die kleine Paula hatte auch ihren Preis für den Riss durch diese Welt zu zahlen, und nun war ich zu alt, um das Verlorene zu gewinnen’ [This was the very personal price that I had to pay for this century. Little Paula also had her price to pay for the tear through this world and now I was too old to regain what had been lost] (FP, 515–516). For her, who regards art as more important than anything or anyone else in her life, apart from her son, this loss is akin to the loss of a loved one. While she must have been aware of  this deficit throughout her artistic life it is only now that it can be consciously registered and its true ef fects understood. In a number of speeches and interviews after the fall of  the Wall, Hein continually expressed the desire that the GDR would free itself  from Stalinism but that socialism would prevail in a more authentic form. He fears however that the opportunity will be squandered and that stagnation will again set in:

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Hein’s dream did not of course come true. Unlike the majority of  GDR intellectuals, the majority of  GDR citizens were happy to embrace the consumerist culture of  the West. We are provided with only limited insight into the post-unification society of  the former GDR in the present narrative; nevertheless an implicit critique of its materialistic concerns is apparent: Man redete viel über Grundstücke und Hausverkäufe, die älteren Leute fürchteten, übers Ohr gehauen zu werden, die jüngeren erhof ften sich schnelle Geschäfte, und mir schien, als hätte jeder plötzlich Termine bei einem Anwalt oder einem Notar. Das Straßenbild veränderte sich rasch, vor jedem Haus standen nun westeuropäische Wagen, die man stolz den Nachbarn vorführte. (FP, 511) [Plots of  land and house sales were much talked about: the older people were afraid of  being taken for a ride; the younger ones hoped for a quick deal, and it seemed to me as if everyone suddenly had appointments with a lawyer or a notary. The streetscape changed rapidly; in front of every house a West-European car was parked, which was proudly displayed to the neighbours.]

On the other hand, many of  those who had worked the land in communist cooperatives have lost their jobs (FP, 530); others have been forced to switch to less secure and more capitalist-oriented occupations, which have no footing in a society devoid of personal wealth. For instance, Paula’s 67 Christoph Hein, ‘Ein Berliner Traum im Oktober 1989, der bereits im August 1968 von deutschen Panzern auf dem Wenzelsplatz überrollt wurde: Zur Podiumsdiskussion “DDR – wie ich sie träume”, 24. Oktober 89’, in Die fünfte Grundrechenart: Aufsätze und Reden 1987–1990 (Frankfurt am Main: Luchterhand, 1990), pp. 182–183 (p. 182).

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neighbour Frau Dickert used to work as an agricultural economist and is now employed as an insurance agent. She tells Paula about the dif ficult situation she and her husband are in: Ich dachte anfangs, nun würde ich mit Menschen arbeiten, könnte ein paar Leuten helfen, aber ich muss jetzt sehr darauf achten, wo ich selbst bleibe. Ich brauche neue Abschlüsse, die Leute haben kein Geld mehr, und ich versuche, ihnen etwas einzureden. Mein Mann hat schon seit zwei Jahren keine Arbeit, er kommt am Morgen gar nicht mehr aus dem Bett. (FP, 530–531) [I thought at the start that now I would be working with people, could help a few people, but I must really watch out for myself now. I need new accounts, the people have no money left, and I am trying to convince them to buy. My husband has had no work for two years already; he doesn’t get out of  bed anymore in the morning.]

She and Frau Dickert are now the youngest members of  the community but both feel as if  they are ancient. The fall of  the Wall appears to mark a kind of  turning point for Paula, to represent the approach of old age. Whilst visiting Berlin a week after the Wall had come down the city suddenly seems strange and sinister to her: An diesem Tag hatte ich zum ersten Mal den Eindruck, dass sich auch für mich etwas geändert hatte, ohne dass ich es benennen konnte. In der Bahn auf dem Weg zu Kathi schaute ich durch die Scheibe auf die Stadt, die mir plötzlich fremd und unheimlich geworden war. Ich lachte über mich, ich war auf dem Wege, eine Dorftrine zu werden, die sich in der Großstadt ängstigt. (FP, 510–511) [On this day I had, for the first time, the impression that something had also changed for me, although I could not put my finger on it. In the train on the way to Kathi I looked out the window at the city, which suddenly had become strange and uncanny to me. I laughed at myself; I was on the way to becoming a country bumpkin who is frightened in the city.]

The rapid changes following the fall of  the Wall were evidently dif ficult for the older generations to come to terms with. This inability to adjust to the conditions of  the new society in turn led those of middle age, such as Paula, to feel older than they were. For this reason the protagonist prefers the slower pace of country life, opting to live alone in her refuge rather

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than move back to the city. There is a striking resemblance between Paula and the protagonist of  Monika Maron’s Endmoränen. Johanna is a writer of similar age to Paula who establishes a strong bond with nature while living in her summer home: ‘Die Landschaft [leistete] mir Gesellschaft […] wie eine Person, die mich begleitete, mit der ich hin und wieder einen Gedanken austauschte und von der ich mich für die Nacht verabschiedete’ [The landscape of fered me companionship, like a person who accompanied me, with whom I exchanged a thought now and then, and whom I wished goodnight].68 Such a deeply personal relationship to nature is also echoed in Paula’s later work, particularly in her written impressions of nature. Johanna ref lects on the ef fects of unification on her generation, who are not old enough to resign themselves to old age yet not young enough to make any fundamental changes to their lives. Under the conditions of capitalism society can make no use of its middle-aged citizens; it is only their purchasing power that is of any worth: Diese öde lange Restzeit beginnt, zwanzig oder dreißig Jahre Restzeit, in der wir nur noch als Zielgruppe von Verkäufern aller Branchen und als katastrophaler Kostenfaktor für die Krankenkassen wichtig sind und sonst von skandalöser Unwichtigkeit.69 [This long, barren, residual time will soon be starting for us, twenty or thirty years of residual time, during which we will only have importance as a target group for salespeople of all sectors and as a catastrophic cost factor for the health insurance companies, and otherwise will be scandalously unimportant.]

While Paula is able to continue in her profession, since the Wende she has had problems in selling her work, like many other artists at the time. There are no galleries interested in exhibiting her work in Germany and she has neglected to foster any international contacts; the former patrons who used to visit her atelier have also abandoned her. The only close relationships remaining in her life are with her son Michael and her friend Kathi. Both have become successful under the new conditions and consequently have 68 Maron, Endmoränen, p. 151. 69 Maron, Endmoränen, pp. 55–56.

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less time for her. Eventually her son no longer visits her and thus Kathi remains the only person she can depend on, and the only one who can relieve her of  the headaches that dominate her last years, and which symbolize the ef fects of  the burden that her self-imposed isolation has become. The lethargy felt by Johanna is ref lected in Paula’s lack of interest in her work. She admits that, similar to Frau Dickert, she has dif ficulty getting up in the morning and does not feel the accustomed excitement when beginning a new composition: Jene Unruhe, die mich vor einer neuen Arbeit befiel und bef lügelte, die Furcht vor der unberührten Leinwand, all das war der Gewöhnung gewichen. Ich spürte, dass es mich am Morgen nicht mehr ins Atelier zog, dass mich meine eigenen Arbeiten nicht mehr erregten. (FP, 533) [That restlessness that came over me and spurred me on before a new piece of work, the fear of  the untouched canvas, all of  that had given way to familiarity. I no longer felt drawn into the atelier in the morning; my own pieces did not excite me anymore.]

This development has been prompted by the financial dif ficulties engendered by the changeover to market capitalism and by the general sense of stagnation that newly exists in rural communities, which have been drained of younger members due to high unemployment. Most importantly however, it signalizes the failure of  the protagonist’s occupation to compensate for the increasing isolation that the post-unification era has brought with it.

Genius or Victim? – Art as Refuge in the GDR Both the GDR and the new Berlin Republic are portrayed as being dominated by anti-humanistic materialism, albeit in dif ferent guises. A patriarchal worldview is depicted as its fundamental cause, the sphere of male-oriented values having ultimately overpowered the female realm of  the emotions. The protagonist’s death symbolizes this defeat in its allusion

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to the myth of  Ophelia. Coming back to the question of  the source of  the protagonist’s melancholy, her alignment with the tradition of  the melancholy artist would indicate an innate predisposition. However, throughout this tradition the genius associated with the melancholy artist has been reserved exclusively for men. Paula does seem to possess an innate talent: she is accepted into the art academy without having undergone any formal training and the composition at the centre of the narrative, which is rejected by her professors, is considered to be highly accomplished by several of  her fellow students. Yet looking at this white landscape in later life, and comparing it with the best work she has produced since then, namely a painting of  Sibylle, Paula recognizes the potential that was lost, not only due to external forces but also because of  her own unwillingness to fight for her artistic freedom: An diese Kunstform konnte ich nicht mehr anschließen. Der Faden war gerissen, diese Fantasie war in mir abgestorben, ich hatte damals zu wenig dafür gekämpft. Nun tat es körperlich weh, auf diesem Bild zu sehen, was ich einmal besessen und nun verloren hatte. (FP, 507) [I could no longer connect to this art form. The thread was broken, this kind of imaginativeness had died away in me; I had fought too little for it back then. Now it pained me physically to see in this picture what I had once possessed and now had lost.]

The potential that would have aligned her with the tradition of melancholy genius has been lost, due to her own fearful nature as well as the sociopolitical environment. This profound fearfulness is portrayed as having both an irrational basis as well as being a reaction to male tyranny. Fear and sadness without cause have long stood as a prime description of melancholy symptoms, in particular the melancholy associated with female weakness. The protagonist is shown to have been suicidal at several stages through her life, and would have killed herself much sooner if not for the promise she made to her son when he once found her during a suicide attempt. Her innate talent, as well as her homosexuality, set her at cross purposes to a society still dominated by petit-bourgeois values, accompanied by crude, totalitarian censorship.

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Her art has thus been debased by censorship as well as by her own weakness. It is depicted as being uniformly dark and bleak, which on the one hand points to melancholy but on the other hand suggests a lack of inspiration. Paula perhaps retains a subconscious fear that her art may not be strong enough to withstand intense scrutiny, which is why she is content to stay in the GDR rather than seek her fortune in the West as many of  her colleagues did. Instead she makes a modest living from portrait commissions and book illustrations, rather than from her own compositions. Although her work does not f lout aesthetic conventions, it is described as being unappealing, both to the cultural hierarchy as well as to the buying public. The accusation that she is using art as a means of  therapy was interpreted above within the context of  the chauvinistic outlook dominating East German society. However, in the light of  the ambiguity surrounding the value of  her art, perhaps her work may in fact be regarded as a means of expressing the emotions that she is otherwise fearful of expressing. Nevertheless, it is obviously unable to sustain her in the long term, due not only to her inability to break free of  her ‘cold persona’ but primarily to the death drive that dominates her life. Sebastian, to whom she bequeathes all of  her art, recognized this the first time that her met her: ‘Er hatte nie so viel freund­ liche Trauer gesehen, und hatte vom ersten Moment an gewusst, dass diese Frau gierig auf das Leben war und doch unfähig sein würde, ihr Leben zu bestehen’ [He had never seen so much friendly sorrow and knew from the very first moment that this woman was greedy for life but nevertheless would be unable to sustain her life] (FP, 16). This leads to a consideration of  the role of  the narrator, who does not merely provide a neutral perspective on the protagonist’s early years and the aftermath of  her death but also of fers a counterpoint to her continuing denial of  her will to die. In the first-person narrative the façade of someone who derives spiritual consolation from a cache of sleeping tablets is maintained. She believes herself stronger than this underlying drive, choosing to document only one of  her suicide attempts (through third-person narration the reader learns that she has attempted to commit suicide a number of  times). The particular illumination of  her life from a third-person perspective attests to an innate melancholy predisposition, the ef fects of which are purely intensified by adverse social and political

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conditions. However, it may also attest to the unspoken prejudices of a male narrative viewpoint. Meanwhile, the author maintains his customary standpoint as a neutral chronicler, never providing a clear indication of  the cause of  the protagonist’s melancholy. In fact by dedicating the book to ‘Paula T.’, and hence suggesting that this is the account of  the life of a real person, Hein justifies his stance as outside observer. In a disparaging review that appeared in the Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung Uwe Wittstock writes (in relation to the protagonists of  Der fremde Freund, Horns Ende and Der Tangospieler): ‘alle drei Figuren haben sich aus Verbitterung von ihrer Umwelt abgekapselt, bis ihnen nur noch der Wunsch nach Selbstvernichtung bleibt’ [all three characters have, due to bitterness, shut themselves away from the world around them, until only the desire for self-destruction is left to them].70 Hein’s early post-Wende narratives have dif ferent thematic concerns to these novels from the 1980s; thus the dominant mood in most of  these texts is one of agitation rather than stagnation. However, Frau Paula Trousseau marks a return to the preoccupations of  the pre-Wende narratives, since it is set primarily in the communist era. Therefore Wittstock’s synopsis could also be applied, albeit in a superficial way, to this narrative. It has been my intent in this chapter to emphasize that the novel goes beyond such a one-dimensional portrayal of its protagonist. We have seen that her state of mind is not solely the result of present sociopolitical circumstances. The repression of  Paula’s artistic potential as well as her sexuality by a prudish elite, fearful of  losing its grip on power, is certainly a significant factor. However, her melancholy has also been shown to be caused by inherited factors, such as the burden of  the past that has not been dealt with by the previous generation, as well as by the disconnection from history which this denial has brought with it. Of most significance for a melancholy reading of  the narrative are the juxtaposition of  the male and female realms and the ultimate supremacy

70 Uwe Wittstock, ‘Kammerkonzert mit Trillerpfeife. Die Talente und die Untugenden des Christoph Hein’, Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung, 6 May 1989, quoted in Ursula Elsner, ‘Stark, sinnlich, gut – Frauengestalten bei Christoph Hein’, in Christoph Hein in Perspective, pp. 115–135 (p. 118).

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of  the male sphere over the female. This has been thematized through reference to the diverging conceptions of male and female melancholy as well as through the dominance of a rationalistic and functionalistic approach, which is considered typically male, over female emotionality. The protagonist’s consequent suppression of  her emotions contributes to her melancholy state. However, the question as to the definitive source of  her melancholy is not resolved in the novel; the author maintains his distance, suggesting that, as in real life, the causes of such psychological states are complex and cannot be easily determined.

Chapter 4

Arno Geiger’s Es geht uns gut: A Posthistoire Narrative?

Introduction This chapter will focus on Arno Geiger’s novel Es geht uns gut (We’re doing fine), which was awarded the German Book Prize in 2005. It represents, on a number of  levels, a significant instance of a melancholy relationship with history. As I will attempt to demonstrate, the narrative epitomizes the conditions of a posthistorical existence, the ef fects of which are compounded by the relationship of  Austria to its past. The narrative also provides a transgenerational perspective on melancholy loss, while contributing to Heimat discourse and maintaining a melancholy discourse with the past through various emblematic motifs. Es geht uns gut depicts the lives of three generations of the same family at various stages throughout the twentieth and early twenty-first centuries. The majority of chapters portray the life of Philipp Erlach through the summer of 2001. He is represented as a character estranged from the world, whose only meaningful relationship is with Johanna, a married woman. Episodes from Philipp’s life are interspersed with chapters dealing with the lives of his parents and grandparents. His grandparents, Richard and Alma Sterk, are first introduced in 1938 in early married life, and appear again in the postwar era of the 1950s, in the early 1960s and again in the 1980s, when Richard has developed Alzheimer’s disease. Richard Sterk is deputy director of the municipal electricity works in the pre-war period but is appointed minister in the newly formed government after the war, due to his clean record during the Nazi era. His grandmother Alma is a housewife and beekeeper. Philipp’s parents, Peter Erlach and Ingrid Sterk, are also represented at various intervals

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through the century, from Ingrid’s infancy in 1938 and Peter’s wartime experiences in 1945 onwards. They marry against the wishes of Ingrid’s father and have two children, Philipp and his elder sister Sissi. Ingrid eventually becomes a doctor and Peter obtains a post at the ‘Kuratorium für Verkehrssicherheit’. Ingrid’s death in 1974 (which may have been suicide) has a profound ef fect on the whole family and is the principal cause of their estrangement from one another. Each of the retrospective chapters is narrated from the point of view of a dif ferent character; thus we are granted very dif ferent perspectives on history as well as on the prevailing sociopolitical circumstances. These chapters provide a context for Philipp’s life, and the details of  his family history facilitate an insight into his mental state. Geiger’s other narratives include Kleine Schule des Karusselfahrens (Small School for Carousel-Riding), Irrlichterloh (Fen Fire Blaze), Schöne Freunde (Lovely Friends) and a collection of short stories entitled Anna nicht vergessen (Don’t Forget Anna).1 There is an obvious similarity between many of  Geiger’s main protagonists, who are often driven by their imagination and who see themselves as outsiders and misfits. The protagonist’s outsider status is explicitly addressed in Es geht uns gut: ‘Eigentlich ist Philipp auf allen Mauern seines Lebens eine Randfigur, eigentlich besteht alles, was er macht, aus Fußnoten, und der Text dazu fehlt’ [Philipp sits on the margins of  his own life, in ef fect; everything that he does really just consists of  footnotes, the text that should match them is missing].2 This depiction could equally well apply to the protagonists of  Geiger’s other novels, all of whom have attempted to fill the emptiness of  their lives by inventing heroic and fantastical adventures. While their immersion in fantasy seems to heighten their intuitive capabilities, its surreal ef fect extends beyond the surface to their inner lives. For instance, the protagonist of  Irrlichterloh (1999), Jonas Kreuzer, believes at one point that he has invented his own feelings: ‘Selbst seine Empfindungen erscheinen Jonas mit einmal fingiert. Von wegen große 1 2

Arno Geiger, Kleine Schule des Karusselfahrens (Munich: Hanser, 1997), Irrlichterloh (Munich: Hanser, 1999), Schöne Freunde (Munich: Hanser, 2002), Anna nicht ver­ gessen (Munich: Hanser, 2007). Arno Geiger, Es geht uns gut (Munich: Hanser, 2005), p. 285. The novel will hereafter be referenced as follows: (EG, page number).

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Gefühle. Davon wird nur immer geredet. Das Schnüren im Hals ist nur die Trauer darüber, großer Gefühle nicht fähig zu sein’ [Even his feelings seemed fake to Jonas all of a sudden. Talk about big feelings. That’s all it is, just talk. Tightness in the throat is only a sign of  the sadness at not being capable of great emotion].3 The young orphan from Schöne Freunde (2002) spends his time observing the adults who live and work near him and has some of  the qualities of an Oskar Matzerath: while he wishes to learn essential life skills from these adults, he can also interpret their actions better than they themselves and seems to have more insight into their intentions.4 Geiger’s latest publication, Anna nicht vergessen (2007), includes twelve short stories, categorized under the rubrics of ‘Tage’, ‘Jahre’ and ‘Leben’ [‘Days’, ‘Years’ and ‘Life’]. Geiger’s imaginative capacity and ability to empathize with a rich variety of characters is again in evidence. Their stories are related with wit and humour. However, these characters are without exception downtrodden and demoralized, frequently in their professional, but particularly in their personal lives. All are either in emotionally destructive relationships or have previously experienced such relationships.5 In this regard they closely resemble the protagonist of  Es geht uns gut, who is involved in a dysfunctional relationship with a married woman.

Austrian Disillusionment and the ‘End of  History’ A brief consideration of the Austrian historical context will serve to illustrate some of  the possible factors contributing to the disillusionment portrayed in Es geht uns gut. Robert Menasse’s essay ‘Die sozialpartnerschaftliche 3 4 5

Arno Geiger, Irrlichterloh (Munich: Hanser, 1999), p. 101. The protagonist of  Günter Grass’s Die Blechtrommel [The Tin Drum] (Neuwied: Lucherhand, 1959). Geiger’s other work consists of: Das Kürbisfeld (Graz: Manuskripte, 1996), Vol. 134; and Alles auf  Band oder Die Elfenkinder (Vienna: Deuticke, 2001), which was written with Heiner Link.

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Ästhetik’ [The Aesthetics of  Social Partnership] provides a good insight into the factors leading to the stagnation of all areas of public life – political, social and cultural. Menasse sees social partnership as a system in which harmony was maintained and, consequently, conf licts avoided, which led to the end of  historical progress: ‘Die Ambivalenz jenes Endzeitzustandes der Sozialpartnerschaft, dieses bürgerlichen Geschichtszieles, das die totale Harmonie durchsetzt, ohne die Konf liktursachen zu beseitigen’ [The ambivalence of  that ‘end of  time’ state of social partnership, the bourgeois goal of  history, which would establish total harmony without getting rid of  the causes of conf lict].6 Furthermore, Menasse credits social partnership with creating the conditions in Austria for an ‘allgemeine und daher auch literarische “Rückzug in die Innerlichkeit”’ [general and therefore also literary ‘retreat into inwardness’], which constituted the ‘allgemeiner Ausdruck der allgemeinen gesellschaftlichen Apathie, die aus der Ahnungslosigkeit gegenüber dem politischen Gefüge und dem Gefühl seiner “Naturgegebenheit” abseits von einem selbst kommt’ [general expression of  the general societal apathy that comes from ignorance about the political structure and the feeling that it is a ‘naturally occurring entity’ that exists at a remove from one’s own life].7 He later goes so far as to say that history has come to an end in Austria, and with it any sense of a personal history: Eine ‘eigene Geschichte’ hat allerdings nur einen Sinn, wenn es eine allgemeine gibt; aber diese scheint mit der Sozialpartnerschaft nicht nur an ihrem Ziel, an ihrem Ende angekommen zu sein, sondern ist überhaupt, auch als Wissen von Geschichte und als historisches Bewußtsein, verschwunden.8 [A ‘history of one’s own’ only makes sense, however, when there is a collective history; but the latter seems not only to have arrived at its goal, at its end, with social partnership, but in fact has disappeared completely, also as knowledge about history and as historical consciousness.]

Robert Menasse, Überbau und Underground: die sozialpartnerschaftliche Ästhetik; Essays zum österreichischen Geist (Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, 1997), p. 91. 7 Menasse, Überbau und Underground, p. 94. 8 Menasse, Überbau und Underground, p. 96. 6

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This contrasts sharply with the posthistory theorist Demandt’s view (as outlined in the Introduction), since the latter believed that family and individual histories would take the place of political and social history. Ironically, Menasse also maintains that Austria is rich in history and is unable to escape the ties that bind it to the past. This means that the country is incapable of progressing historically, and therefore may be deemed to have reached the end of its history: Österreich ist nicht nur reich an Geschichte, man hatte hier nach dem Krieg buchstäblich genug von Geschichte, weshalb der Anspruch der Zweiten Republik, aus der Geschichte gelernt zu haben, umgesetzt wurde in die Konstruktion einer Immobilität, die es erlaubte, mit den fortwirkenden Konsequenzen der Fehler der Vergangenheit irgendwie zu leben, statt sich ihnen zu stellen; Fesseln werden grundsätzlich als Verband für die Wunden der Vergangenheit empfunden, statt sie abzuwerfen.9 [Austria is not only rich in history, one had literally had enough of  history after the war, which is why the claim of  the Second Republic that we had learned from history could be implemented to construct an immobility that enabled us to somehow live with the continuing consequences of  the mistakes of  the past instead of confronting them; chains are basically perceived as a bandage for the wounds of  the past, rather than being f lung of f.]

Menasse also emphasizes the lack of a linear progression in the context of  Austrian history. As seen earlier, he considers Austrian society to have stagnated and to be abnormally bound to its past. He observes this immobility within the present time in other societies, but regards it as especially prevalent in Austria: ‘[Die Geschichte ist] völlig im Heute aufgegangen, Vergangenheit, Gegenwart und Zukunft sind hier früher und umfassender als anderswo in eins zusammengefallen’ [History has been completely absorbed into today; past, present and future merged into one earlier here, and more comprehensively, than elsewhere].10 This observation is especially pertinent for the following analysis of a protagonist who is stranded in a

9 Menasse, Überbau und Underground, p. 157. 10 Menasse, Überbau und Underground, p. 157.

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repetitive present. However, his melancholy stems also from his attempt to deny the ties that bind him to the past.

Transgenerational Phantoms and Family History Es geht uns gut is an important exponent of the ‘Familienroman’, a genre that has become increasingly prevalent as well as popular in the last two decades. This genre is of interest for my study since, like the concept of melancholy, it is closely bound up with questions of individual and collective memory. The family narrative, which emerged in the early 1990s, is not an entirely new phenomenon as it is closely related to the Väterliteratur of  the 1970s and 1980s. However, while the earlier literature focused on the confrontation between the generation of 1968 and their parents, the more recent literature usually portrays three or more generations of a family, thus providing for a more wide-ranging and more detached view. The more objective nature of  these narratives, in comparison with the earlier Väterliteratur, is also evidenced by the wealth of archival and other documentary material employed in these texts. These narratives constitute the attempt to gain insight into the family history, which has remained shrouded in false or def lecting accounts or merely in silence. Despite the often painstaking research undertaken by the authors of  these family narratives, it is not the family secrets themselves that are of primary interest, as Friederike Eigler has highlighted, but the question as to how and with what ef fects the family history was forgotten, repressed or distorted.11 In order to gain this (psychological) insight an element of imaginative reconstruction and invention is necessary, along with the processes of searching and researching, as Aleida Assmann has pointed out in relation to Stefan Wackwitz’s

11

Friederike Eigler, Gedächtnis und Geschichte in Generationenromanen seit der Wende (Berlin: Schmidt, 2005), p. 29.

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Ein unsichtbares Land.12 In the case of  Wackwitz’s narrative the use of imagination and fantasy is foregrounded in the subtitle Familienroman. Indeed, as Anne Fuchs has shown, the majority of  family narratives are variants of  the Freudian family romance, which delineates the child’s pathway to independence through a process of re-imagining a noble family background before the child finally accepts the reality principle. Fantasy emerges […] as a powerful psychological drive behind the reinvention of a better German tradition.13

The imaginative engagement with the past at times involves the desire to embellish the memory of  National Socialism. Nevertheless, as Fuchs has pointed out, in the majority of cases the emotional need for some kind of positive family and cultural heritage does not lead to a cumulative heroization of  the past.14 Instead, these narratives ‘employ generational discourse to explore the function of deferral and transference as important means of indirect communication across generational thresholds’. Furthermore, they explore the meaningful silences and gaps that have shadowed the dialogue about the past in post-war German families. Although they are preoccupied with the shifting gap between vernacular memory, on the one hand, and of ficial memory, on the other, they do not resolve this tension in a one-sided fashion. On the contrary, the best examples of  this new genre adopt a meta-critical perspective that resists the temptation to remythologize history.15

Eigler uses the term ‘meta-historical’ to characterize generational novels in which the linguistic construction and imagination of  the past is itself

Aleida Assmann, Geschichte im Gedächtnis: Von der individuellen Erfahrung zur öf fentlichen Inszenierung (Munich: Beck, 2007), p. 85. 13 Anne Fuchs, Phantoms of  War in Contemporary German Literature, Films and Discourse (Basingstoke: Palgrave, 2008), p. 6. 14 Fuchs, Phantoms of  War, pp. 7 and 8. (The term ‘cumulative heroization’ is taken from Harald Welzer, Sabine Moller and Karoline Tschuggall’s empirical study ‘Opa war kein Nazi’: Nationalsozialismus und Holocaust im Familiengedächtnis (Frankfurt am Main: Fischer, 2002). Its findings will be discussed below.) 15 Fuchs, Phantoms of  War, p. 8. 12

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ref lected, whether implicitly or explicitly, through the employment of various forms of mediated memory. Eigler demonstrates that it is not only aspects of  family history and of  twentieth-century German and European history that are thematized in these narratives but also processes of remembering: Meine Konzentration auf das Genre des erforschenden Familienromans liegt zum einen in seiner Popularität in der Literatur der neuen Bundesrepublik begründet; zum anderen darin, dass diese Texte Medium von Familiengeschichte sind und zugleich die Konstruktionsprozesse des Gedächtnisses auf unterschiedliche Weise inszenieren oder thematisieren.16 [The reason for my concentration on the genre of  the investigative family novel lies on the one hand in its popularity in the literature of  the New Republic, on the other hand in the fact that these texts are a medium of family history and at the same time portray or thematize the processes of memory construction in various ways.]

Eigler points out, through reference to Andreas Huyssen, that memory discourses can have a ‘detemporalizing’ ef fect and it is therefore essential to dif ferentiate between diverse memory practices: Für Andreas Huyssen ist die derzeitige Faszination an Fragen von Erinnerung Symptom der sich rapide verändernden Vorstellungen von Temporalität, Raum und Identität in einer medialisierten, globalisierten Welt. Wenn zeitlich und geographisch Entferntes distanzlos repräsentiert und aktualisiert wird, kommt es zu der paradoxen Konstellation, dass Erinnerungsdiskurse ‘detemporalisierende’ Tendenzen verstärken […]. Huyssen plädiert daher dafür, zwischen unterschiedlichen Erinnerungspraktiken zu dif ferenzieren und solche zu fördern, die das Bewusstsein für das historisch und kulturell Andere schärfen anstatt es einzuebnen. Denn ohne ein solches Bewusstsein droht die Fähigkeit, sich unterschiedliche Versionen von Zukunft vorzustellen und aktiv mitzugestalten, verloren zu gehen.17 [For Andreas Huyssen the current fascination with questions of memory is a symptom of  the rapidly changing conceptions of  temporality, space and identity in a mediatized, globalized world. When that which is temporally and geographically distant is

16 Eigler, Gedächtnis und Geschichte in Generationenromanen, p. 25. 17 Eigler, Gedächtnis und Geschichte in Generationenromanen, p. 11.

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represented as a contemporary phenomenon, it leads to the paradoxical configuration that memory discourses intensify ‘detemporalizing’ tendencies. Huyssen therefore advocates for a dif ferentiation between various memory practices and for the promotion of  those that sharpen our awareness of  the historical and cultural Other instead of  levelling it out. Without such awareness the ability to imagine dif ferent versions of  the future, and to actively shape them, is at risk of  being lost.]

She further emphasizes the particular relevance of literary and other cultural practices in promoting this awareness of  the Other.18 The combination of  fictional and documentary elements in family narratives entails a focus on historical and cultural specificity without the need to reduce this focus to authentic material alone. Eigler points out that through the reading process one’s perception of  heterogeneous and incommensurable presents can be sharpened.19 These texts seem to me particularly well placed to heighten the reader’s awareness of  heterogeneous and incommensurable versions of  the past as well as the present (in Eigler’s account) and the future (in Huyssen’s view). Another important aspect of  the recent family narrative is its rejection of  the ‘große Erzählungen’ [great narratives] of  the twentieth century, which was a characteristic of earlier metahistorical generational novels: ‘Den Texten fehlen dadurch sowohl die emanzipatorischen und utopischen Ausrichtungen eines Günter Grass oder Peter Weiss, als auch die geschichtspessimistische Haltung eines Uwe Johnson oder der bekennende Impetus einer Christa Wolf ’ [The emancipatory and utopian orientations of a Günter Grass or a Peter Weiss, as well as the historical pessimism of a Uwe Johnson or the confessional impetus of a Christa Wolf are thereby missing from the texts].20 However, as Fuchs has shown, while these texts are sceptical towards all ideologies, this scepticism is also a sign of  the particular historical pessimism that characterizes the globalized age.21 This historical pessimism has been a catalyst for melancholy sentiments, as has been previously demonstrated. 18 Eigler, Gedächtnis und Geschichte in Generationenromanen, pp. 11–12. 19 Eigler, Gedächtnis und Geschichte in Generationenromanen, p. 18. 20 Eigler, Gedächtnis und Geschichte in Generationenromanen, p. 29. 21 Fuchs, Phantoms of  War, p. 8.

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Of equal significance within the melancholy tradition is the haunting or ghosting ef fect that is engendered by secrets or gaps in the family past. This haunting ef fect develops particularly in the silences that shroud these secrets and gaps, as Assmann has pointed out: ‘Das wichtigste Milieu, in dem sich der historische Spuk entfalten konnte, ist das familiäre Schweigen. Tabus und Geheimnisse bilden den Bodensatz des Familiengedächtnisses und konservieren das Unausgesprochene, das nicht vermittelt und weitererzählt wird’ [The most important milieu in which historical haunting could develop is in family silence. Taboos and secrets represent the sediments of  family memory and conserve the unspoken, which is not communicated and not passed on.]22 This ghosting is related to the concept of  transgenerational traumatization, which also frequently emerges in family narratives. As Sigrid Weigel has shown, only the passage of time has allowed this traumatization to surface: These symptoms are perceived by those af fected as a propagation of silenced and repressed guilt. This transgenerational traumatization af fects a generation that itself did not participate in the events to which the trauma refers. Thus the belatedness of symptoms that, according to Freud, marks all trauma has now entered historical time because it transgresses the period of an individual life, and the formation of symptoms is carried over into later generations.23

Trauma marks a psychological gap and works in the unconscious as a sort of  ‘foreign body’, according to Freud.24 The idea that this trauma can be inherited through the generations leads to a ‘traumatization of genealogy itself ’, according to Weigel: ‘At least, this is true when one takes the idea of  telescoping literally, in which the melding (Ineinanderrücken) of generations is described as a genealogy of  the unconscious’.25 As Fuchs has shown, techniques of ghosting are employed in contemporary family narratives ‘to foreground the presence of  the absent other as the main driver behind 22 Assmann, Geschichte im Gedächtnis, p. 87. 23 Sigrid Weigel, ‘“Generation” as a Symbolic Form: On the Genealogical Discourse of  Memory since 1945’, The Germanic Review, Vol. 77 (2002), 264–277 (p. 269). 24 Weigel, ‘“Generation” as a Symbolic Form’, p. 270. 25 Weigel, ‘“Generation” as a Symbolic Form’, p. 271.

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such intergenerational telescoping of  trauma’.26 There is a danger that the ‘traumatization of genealogy’ may lead to a naturalization of  the relationship between genealogy and history; that is, that a link may be formed between the natural progression of  the generations and the inheritance of a traumatic legacy.27 Weigel refers to the Väterliteratur, in which the children of perpetrator-fathers ‘described themselves as victims, and thus assumed the role of  the historical victims, who to a large extent had been forgotten in the discourse’.28 However, this danger is also evident in the more recent incarnation of  the ‘Germans as victims’ discourse. The first fictional depiction of  German wartime suf fering was in Günter Grass’s Im Krebsgang,29 but it has been followed by several others, as well as numerous historical accounts and television documentaries.30 While populist accounts often lose sight of  the basic issue of  historical responsibility, most literary depictions are underpinned by an ethics of remembering and a self-ref lexivity that rejects any revisionist historical agenda.31 Returning to Es geht uns gut, it can be seen that the generational experiences in this narrative are marked by trauma and loss and by the abiding presence of  ‘transgenerational phantoms’. These phantoms symbolize hidden lives or secrets as well as unresolved issues within the family, which have led to the breaking of  bonds between the generations. They can be shown to have a subliminal, yet profound ef fect on the experiences of each generation of  this family. However, it is essential to examine the family’s individual experiences of  history as well as their relations to each other in order to gain insight into the melancholy and sense of disempowerment of  26

Anne Fuchs, ‘From “Vergangenheitsbewältigung” to Generational Memory Contest in Günter Grass, Monika Maron and Uwe Timm’, German Life and Letters (online edition), Vol. 59 (April 2006), p. 14. 27 Compare Weigel, ‘“Generation” as a Symbolic Form’, p. 268; see also Sigrid Weigel, Genea-Logik: Generation, Tradition und Evolution zwischen Kultur- und Natur­ wissenschaften (Munich: Fink, 2006), pp. 100–101. 28 Weigel, ‘“Generation” as a Symbolic Form’, p. 268. 29 Günter Grass, Im Krebsgang. Eine Novelle (Göttingen: Steidl, 2002). Available in English as Crabwalk, trans. by Krishna Winston (London: Harcourt, 2002). 30 Fuchs, Phantoms of  War, p. 11. 31 Fuchs, Phantoms of  War, pp. 15–16.

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the main protagonist, since he has been left stranded without any meaningful connections to the past and an inability to relate to the present. As regards the secrets which are carried through the generations, it is in fact unclear how much Philipp actually knows about his family past; the reader learns about the family history only from retrospective chapters but it is of course possible that Philipp has merely suppressed his knowledge. On the whole, the extent to which each family member is aware of each other’s secrets is unclear. This pertains particularly to the relationship between Alma and Richard, Philipp’s grandparents. The earliest retrospective chapter is related from Richard’s point of view, and it deals with their domestic lives and their relationship with one another under the spectre of  the Nazi regime. Their behaviour towards each other is shown to be symptomatic of  their generation and of  their social class, in that neither is capable of revealing their emotional lives to the other. Richard’s emotional growth in particular has been stunted by his very strict Catholic upbringing and by a father who did not speak to his children except in a perfunctory manner: ‘Verständigung bedeutete, den Kindern etwas aufzutragen. Ansonsten hatten sie sich wie Topfblumen zu betragen, kein Vergleich zu den heutigen Freiheiten’ [Understanding meant assigning tasks to the children. Otherwise they had to behave like potted plants, no comparison to the freedoms of  today] (EG, 72). Consequently, Alma and Richard’s relationship is being shaped more by what is suppressed than by what is disclosed. The reader learns that Richard has been having an af fair with the children’s nanny for some time and is worried that Alma may be aware of what is happening. Alma, however, gives no indication of suspecting Richard of adultery, although it seems unlikely that she could be completely oblivious to the fact. Richard, for his part, appears to have entered into this liaison with the nanny because he feels that he cannot express himself  freely to his wife. He is nevertheless plagued with guilt and admits that he finds it dif ficult to handle this double life. He similarly keeps from her the fact that a former college acquaintance has attempted to gain his support for the Nazi government in return for a more desirable location for Alma’s parents’ lingerie shop, of which Richard owns a share. He decides to extricate himself  from the business and thereby from the attention of  the regime. This decision has consequences for the whole family as it means

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that Alma will no longer have to work at the shop and can stay at home to look after the children, which will in turn entail the dismissal of  the nanny. Richard does not discuss any of  this with his wife, and she does not challenge him to explain his decision. Richard is happy to have regained control over his life and attempts to divert his wife by providing her with a new pastime: he is conveniently able to buy the beehives left behind by Jewish neighbours who are f leeing to England. It is only in later life that Alma ref lects on Richard’s various secretive dealings, which also included financial donations to his sister as well as to his secretary, and resents his deception. At the same time she realizes that he had no rational motivation for keeping all these secrets: ‘Geheimnisse, die er gut gehütet hat. Und wofür? Für wen? Für niemanden. Um sich die Geheimnisse irgendwann selbst nicht mehr verraten zu können’ [Secrets that he has well protected. And for what? For whom? For nobody. In order to someday not even be able to reveal the secrets to himself ] (EG, 356). It is Richard’s fundamental inability to communicate which has led to this stock of secrets. Richard’s reaction to the political circumstances is comparable to his response to crises in his own life. He longs for a sense of control and stability after the constant upheaval of various political regimes, the most profound changes being brought about by Nazi rule, which included new street names, new currency and new salutations (EG, 84). Richard’s evaluation of  historical progress is connected to his acute relationship with time. He believes that this is a time that will not pass and that he will end his days under German rule. His sense of  historical disillusionment is heightened by an insight into the fundamental meaninglessness of  the world: ‘Ob auch die Zeit vergessen kann zu vergehen?’ Einen Moment lang sieht Richard das Gerüst der Welt wie bei einem mageren Menschen die Knochen. Er spürt, wie sinnlos, wie unmöglich alles ist und daß er irgendwann sterben wird. Ein Gedanke wie ein Spreißel im Kopf. Am meisten deprimiert ihn, daß er nicht als Österreicher sterben wird. (EG, 84) [‘Whether time can also forget to pass?’ For a moment Richard sees the framework of  the world in the same way as one sees the bones of a gaunt person. He senses how meaningless, how impossible everything is and that he will die someday. A thought like a splinter in the head. What depresses him the most is that he will not die as an Austrian.]

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Richard needs to feel in control of  his own destiny and that of  his country and this he achieves by becoming a minister in the newly formed post-war government. His thirst for control is illuminated throughout the novel by metaphors for controlling time. Most revealing is Philipp’s perception of  him as an old man: ‘ein Graukopf, der jeden Samstagabend seine Uhren aufzog und dieses Ritual als Kunststück vorführte, dem die Enkel beiwohnen durften. Grad so, als sei es in der Macht des alten Mannes gestanden, der Zeit beim Rinnen behilf lich zu sein oder sie daran zu hindern’ [a grey-haired man who wound his clocks every Saturday evening and performed this ritual as if it were a feat which the grandchildren were allowed to witness. Just as if it was in the power of  the old man to assist time to f low or to prevent it from doing so] (EG, 9). However, at this stage in his life this mundane ritual is the last vestige of control over time that he has left. As Philipp reveals: ‘Damals war das Ministerium des Großvaters längst in anderen Händen und der Großvater tagelang mit Wichtigtuereien unterwegs’ [At the time the grandfather’s ministry had long been passed over and Grandfather himself out and about all day long pretending to be important] (EG, 9). Richard’s loss of control over his future, when he is persuaded in 1962 to retire from his ministerial post, is illustrated by a loss of control over time: ‘Ob auch Zeit vergessen kann zu vergehen, liegengebliebene Zeit, die man berühren muß, um sie zum Verstreichen zu bringen?’ [If  time can also forget to pass, stranded time, that one has to touch to get it to elapse?] (EG, 203). He sees time standing still for him in a repetitive future with nothing meaningful to fill it: ‘in etwa so wird die Zukunft aussehen. Das wohlig warme Wasser, das ihn umgibt, das schmierige Wasser vom September 1962, das ist der Alltag ist der Ruhestand ist die Einsamkeit ist die Trauer ist der Raum die Distanz ist der Untergang’ [the future will look something like this. The warm, comforting water that surrounds him, the oily water of  September 1962, that is everyday life is the retirement is the loneliness is the sorrow is the space the distance is the downfall] (EG, 204). Richard had believed that his own future would be closely bound up with the future of  the republic (EG, 202) and is as a result shocked and distressed by the sudden turn of events. His distress is caused not only by the recognition that his destiny will no longer be connected to that of  the state but also by the awareness that, apart from some formal engagements, his life will from now on be

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restricted to the private sphere. This depresses him, since at home he feels himself surrounded by empty space and confronted by a wife who no longer needs him and with whom he cannot communicate. Richard’s increasing lack of control is ultimately symbolized by his development of  Alzheimer’s disease and the realization that time is running out: Für Richard bezeichnet der Tod keinen Endpunkt mehr, auf den man nach und nach zustrebt, sondern eine Bedrohung in unmittelbarer Nähe, mit der er rechnet, wenn er Pläne schmiedet, die über einen absehbaren Zeitraum hinausreichen. Richard […] besitzt ein neu gewonnenes Zeitgefühl für das, was ihm an Zukunft bevorsteht. (EG, 19) [For Richard death no longer represents an end point that one gradually strives towards but rather an immediately imminent threat that he reckons with when he forges plans that reach beyond a foreseeable period of time. Richard possesses a newly acquired sense of  how much of  the future is in store for him.]

Throughout their relationship the emotional distance between the couple is ref lected in their dif fering views of  Austrian history and society. In the novel Austria’s past is described, through one of Ingrid’s former teachers, as being so large that it cannot be swallowed: ‘Unsere Vergangenheit ist zu groß, um von einem so kleinen Land bewältigt zu werden. Es ist, wie wenn man einen zu großen Bissen nimmt, dann kann man nicht mehr schlucken’ [Our past is too big to be mastered by such a small country. It is as if one takes too big of a bite; then one can no longer swallow] (EG, 152–153). And indeed Richard and his colleagues are unconcerned with trying to digest the unappetizing elements of  Austria’s past. Many of  them, Richard included, have always been content to focus on the past in which they grew up, the First Republic, whereas Alma points out the failings of  the Austrian psyche, which seeks to forget the more disturbing aspects of its history:32

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Julia Freytag of fers a sociopolitical reading of  Richard’s attitude, emphasizing that Alma was also willing to turn a blind eye when presented with the beehive of her Jewish neighbours: ‘Seine Deutung des österreichischen Anschlusses als “Einmarsch” (65) und sein Gedanke, dass ihn “am meisten deprimiert […], daß er nicht als Österreicher

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The contrasting standpoints of  Alma and Richard are further emphasized through the motif of  the immovable furniture. Richard had arranged during the war to have most of  the furniture in the house made almost impossible to move so that it would not be stolen, but this had caused problems thereafter as the furniture could not be moved again for renovations or to pass it on to Ingrid (EG, 210). By 1989 Richard is in a nursing home and only intermittently recognizes his wife. Alma’s experience of  history is related through a long monologue to her husband. After telling him about the present political circumstances and her own situation, Alma recalls that the happiest time of  her life was in her youth during the 1920s and 1930s, sterben wird” (84), zeigen zwar seine Distanz zum Nationalsozialismus, aber auch jenes österreichische kollektive Selbstbild, “das erste Opfer” des Nationalsozialismus gewesen zu sein, das bis in die achtziger Jahre die Wahrnehmung und Aufarbeitung der Shoah in Österreich verdrängt hat. Von der zunehmenden Militarisierung, dem of fenen Antisemitismus, den Enteignungen und Deportationen in Wien wenden Richard und Alma Sterk den Blick ab’ [His interpretation of  the annexation of  Austria as an ‘invasion’ and the thought that ‘most depresses him, that he will not die as an Austrian’, do indeed demonstrate his distancing of  himself  from National Socialism, but they also point up that collective self-image of  Austria as having been ‘the first victim’ of  National Socialism, a belief which repressed the perception of  the Shoah in Austria and the ability to come to terms with it. Richard and Alma Sterk avert their eyes from the increasing militarization, the open anti-semitism, the disappropriations and deportations in Vienna], Julia Freytag, ‘“Wer kennt Österreich?”: Familiengeschichten erzählen. Arno Geiger Es geht uns gut (2005) und Eva Menasse Vienna (2005)’, in Nachbilder des Holocaust, ed. by Inge Stephan and Alexandra Tacke (Cologne: Böhlau, 2007), pp. 111–124 (p. 114).

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while for Richard the 1950s were the prime of  his life. For her the 1950s were dominated by old men and by a certain stagnation: Ich glaube, in den fünfziger Jahren hast du die Zeit wiedergefunden, in die du hineingeboren wurdest, die Zeit vor dem Ersten Weltkrieg, kein entscheidender Unterschied zwischen dem greisen Renner und dem greisen Franz Joseph, und auch sonst traten nur alte Männer auf den Plan. […] Für die Jungen war kein Platz […] Vergangenheit, nur als Beispiel, war für die jungen Leute ein irreführender Begrif f, denn plötzlich hatten wir eine eigene Zeitrechnung, wie es seinerzeit auch zwei Wetterberichte gab, einen für die Touristen und einen für die Bauern. Du mußt entschuldigen, Richard, es kommt mir heute so absurd vor, was anderswo eben erst passiert, war in Österreich bereits lange her, und was anderswo schon lange her war, war in Österreich gepf legte Gegenwart. Ist es dir nicht auch so ergangen, daß du manchmal nicht mehr wußtest, hat Kaiser Franz Joseph jetzt vor oder nach Hitler regiert? Ich glaube, darauf  lief es hinaus […] das hat den fünfziger Jahren den Weg geebnet, das hat Österreich zu dem gemacht, was es ist … (EG, 349) [I believe that in the fifties you rediscovered the time into which you were born, the time before the First World War: no appreciable dif ference between the aged Renner and the aged Franz Joseph, and even besides that, it was old men who appeared on the scene. There was no place for the young. The past, just as an example, was a misleading concept for the young people, because suddenly we had our own way of calculating time, just as at that time there were two weather reports, one for the tourists and one for the farmers. You must excuse me, Richard, it seems today so absurd to me that what had only just happened in other places, had taken place in Austria a long time before, and what had happened a long time ago in other places was the well-maintained present in Austria. Haven’t you ever had the feeling sometimes that you just didn’t know anymore whether Emperor Franz Joseph had been in power before or after Hitler? I believe that it all led from that, that it paved the way for what happened in the fifties, that it made Austria what it is.]

We can see here that Alma’s perception of the past and of  historical progress is entirely dif ferent to Richard’s. Richard believes that there has been a linear progression to Austria’s history, aside from the chaotic interlude of  the war and inter-war years. Alma, on the contrary, recognizes the circular nature of  Austria’s development, which is demonstrated by the ever-recurring accession to power of old men, who perpetuated the conservative politics of  their predecessors. She laments the consistent authority of such men to the detriment of  the young, who had no inf luence on public af fairs. Alma

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also implies that the policies of  these old men have inf luenced not only her own but also the public perception of  the past, in which the chronological progression of  history has become entirely distorted. Along with the stagnation of  the present comes an impression of a musealization of  the past; while Alma does not actually articulate this view, she does allude to the notion that Austria’s history has become detached from reality and been of ficially packaged and displayed in a favourable light, as illustrated by the use of  ‘eine eigene Zeitrechnung’. The idea that during this time, as well as in subsequent periods, a romantic vision of  Austria was created and maintained in order to attract tourists has already been articulated by various authors, such as Robert Menasse in the works quoted above, and Elfriede Jelinek, most powerfully in the novel Die Kinder der Toten (The Children of  the Dead).33 As regards relations between the first and second generations, Richard’s relationship with his own daughter Ingrid is characterized by the general attitude of  the ruling class towards the next generation. His haughty disregard for her point of view and for her feelings is exacerbated by his emotional detachment. He sees no reason to engage seriously with Ingrid about her relationship with Peter, which he is adamantly against, and dismisses her love for Peter as a foolish infatuation. Ingrid has at this stage already become disillusioned with her father’s generation and what she sees as their childish hankering for power (EG, 146). Ingrid is unable to relate to her father’s longing for historical stability as she has not experienced the upheavals which have af fected her father throughout his life. She is also therefore unwilling to carry the burden which has been placed on her, as it was on her generation as a whole, to restore the glory of  Austria’s imperial past: Es wird ihr langsam zuviel, alle Erwartungen von Jugend und Aufschwung und besseren Zeiten in ihrer Person konzentriert zu sehen. Sie ist nicht die Zukunft ihrer Eltern. Sie ist ihre eigene Zukunft. Am liebsten würde sie sagen: Papa, gib die Hof fnung auf, daß sich die Ordnung deiner Eltern nochmals wiederholt. Die Welt verändert sich, sie verändert sich an Stellen, von denen man es nicht erwartet: In der Gestalt von Töchtern zum Beispiel. (EG, 148)

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Elfriede Jelinek, Die Kinder der Toten (Reinbek bei Hamburg: Rowohlt, 1995).

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[It is getting too much for her, seeing all the expectations of youth and rebound and better times concentrated on her. She is not the future of  her parents. She is her own future. She would really like to say: Papa, give up hoping that the regime of your parents will be reenacted. The world is changing; it is changing in places where one wouldn’t expect it: in the shape of daughters for example.]

The weight of expectation that Ingrid is forced to bear, along with her and her father’s intractable positions, leads to relations between father and daughter deteriorating to the extent that Richard eventually throws Ingrid out of  the house. They subsequently become increasingly alienated from one another, and by the time of  her death there has been no reconciliation. However, Ingrid’s death is not the first tragedy to have befallen the family. Her brother Otto was killed during the war at the age of  fourteen. The family is naturally haunted by his death, because it is never discussed. This is not surprising, due to the general lack of communication within the family; but it is also most likely due to Richard’s guilt at not having prevented his son from joining the Nazis and going to war. Ingrid displays a lingering resentment for her parents’ negligence in this regard, believing that they should have ensured that Otto made it through the war (EG, 148). Alma must also feel some bitterness towards Richard for his part in the loss of  both her children. His imperious approach to their upbringing resulted in both of  them defying him – Otto by joining the Nazis and Ingrid by marrying Peter. Otto’s decision led directly to his death, while Ingrid’s marriage to Peter caused a deep emotional estrangement from her parents. Alma has had recurring dreams about both her children and wishes that she could tell Richard about them, but it seems that there is somehow an unspoken agreement between them not to talk much about the children (EG, 38). Each of  them is thus forced to suf fer their grief alone and their children continue to exist as phantoms which cannot be laid to rest until their family’s memories of  them, and guilt regarding their deaths, have been confronted. Indeed Richard’s descent into senility may be seen to symbolize a mental escape from the past and from his own guilt. The dif ficult relationship between father and daughter in this narrative is due also to their dif fering historical positions and experiences. Richard is very much a product of  his era, in which the father had complete

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authority within the family, while Ingrid’s generation revolutionized the role of women, both privately and publicly. Richard remained staunchly conservative and unwilling to accept change, as seen above in relation to the motif of  the furniture. However, the men of  Ingrid’s own generation were also often disinclined to move with the times, as Ingrid herself soon discovers. She and Peter become increasingly alienated from each other due to Peter’s lack of interest in family life and repeated insistence that Ingrid should give up her career as a doctor to look after the children. In general there is a marked uncertainty and ambiguity in the attitudes and experiences of  the next generation. While Richard was always sure of  his path and progress in life and Alma seemed to be happy to fulfill her role as wife and mother, Ingrid and Peter are troubled by a sense of  fragmentation in their lives. Peter’s inability to function in his role as husband and father may be due in part to the trauma he suf fered during the war, and his subsequent inability to take responsibility for his future. His life at the time appears to him as a jumbled sequence of images, most of which are unhappy scenes of  the family’s poverty, of  his father’s arrests preceding the war, as well as of  his mother’s illness: Mit weitof fenen Augen starrt Peter in die kalte Finsternis. Bilder ziehen in regelmäßiger Wiederholung an ihm vorüber, drehen sich in seinem Kopf wie ein Brummkreisel, wie auf einer Walze. (EG, 124) Und dann die Reihe wieder von vorn: Achtzehn oder vierundzwanzig oder sechsunddreißig Bilder, die im Kreis herum eine Geschichte erzählen, manchmal in falscher Anordnung […], aber immer dieselben Bilder, die sich zu Peters fünfzehnjährigem Leben zusammenfügen, als wäre es eine runde Sache. (EG, 128) [Peter stares with wide-open eyes into the cold darkness. Pictures pass by him at regular intervals, the same ones f lashing by over and over in his head like on a humming top, like on a rotating drum. And then the sequence again from the beginning: Eighteen or twenty-four or thirtysix pictures that tell a story in a circular format, sometimes in the wrong order but always the same pictures, which fit together to make up Peter’s fifteen year old life, as if it was a well-rounded entity.]

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However, there is no indication in the narrative that he has ever revealed his traumatic experiences or discussed his inner feelings with Ingrid and she is therefore unable to comprehend the possible reasons for his emotional detachment. He does not seem able to recognize a teleological progression in his life until much later, after Ingrid has died and he alone must bear the responsibility for his children. The lack of a linear progression may also be observed in Ingrid’s life, as she herself experiences it. While watching the film Der Hofrat Geiger (The Court Counsellor Geiger) in which she played a role as a child, Ingrid thinks back on her life and observes that her fragmentary remembrance of  the film is similar to how she sees her life developing as a whole: Wenn sie zurückschaut, stellt sie dieselbe Fragmentierung an ihrem eigenen Leben fest. Es gibt darin keine durchgehende Ordnung, keine strenge Chronologie. Ihr Leben kommt ihr vor wie eine auf den Haufen geworfene Ansammlung scheinbar in sich abgeschlossener Etappen, zu denen auch ihr Auftritt im Film gehört. Sie hat dies gemacht, sie hat jenes gemacht, und alles in allem hat sie nichts gemacht, was ihr in der nächsten Etappe sonderlich weitergeholfen hätte. (EG, 250) [When she looks back she detects the same fragmentation in her own life. There is no consistent order to it, no strict chronology. Her life appears to her like an accumulation of seemingly self-contained stages, thrown together in a pile; her appearance in the film belongs to one of  these stages. She has done this, she has done that, and all in all she has done nothing that would have particularly helped her in the next stage.]

The belief  that her life has lacked meaningful progress plus the sense of disconnection from her life, evidenced by her forgetfulness, is in stark contrast to her father’s experience, whose actions and decisions before the war unquestionably led him on to the next stage of  his life, and who always saw the progression of  his life as closely connected to the progression of  the state. While father and daughter are unable to relate to each other, significant points of comparison emerge between Ingrid and her mother. They both experience the regime of  the Aufbau era as stagnant and stultifying, as detailed above, and both are receptive to ghostly experiences. Ingrid’s work as a doctor facilitates such experiences as it provides her with close contact to the dead: ‘Wie meistens hört sie auch diesmal nicht nichts,

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sondern dumpf die Geräusche draußen vom Gang, die im stillen Körper der Toten widerzuhallen scheinen; was ein wenig gespenstisch ist, beunruhigend und tröstend zugleich, aber auch gespenstisch’ [This time, as usually happens, she doesn’t just hear nothing, in fact she hear the muf f led noises from outside in the corridor that seem to echo in the still body of  the dead person; which is a bit ghostly, disturbing and comforting at the same time, but also ghostly] (EG, 236). She similarly finds her familiarity with Der Hofrat Geiger, the film in which she made a brief appearance as a child, ‘gespenstisch’ (EG, 249). Her memory of  the film is also fragmentary, however, as it does not follow a chronological order in her mind but is rather represented in jumbled scenes. Ingrid and Peter’s experiences of  fragmentation and of a lack of  teleological development in their lives represent a negative progression from the previous generation, in which the sense of non-linear progression is embodied by Alma’s perception of  Austrian history (quoted on p. 186). The culmination of  these experiences is reached in the third generation, in an atmosphere of complete personal and historical stagnation. Philipp’s melancholy state must consequently be elucidated both from the point of view of  his historical circumstances as well as his family heritage. His experience of  history marks the endpoint in a definite progression which can be observed from one generation to the next – from the conservative politics of  Philipp’s grandfather to the liberal stance of  his mother, terminating in Philipp’s apolitical position, which is characterized by a complete lack of interest or participation in either social or political af fairs; the only exception is his participation in the Mayday parade at the insistence of  his girlfriend Johanna.34 34

In his review for the Frankfurter Rundschau Anton Thuswaldner emphasizes the lack of  historical progression in the novel within the context of generational succession: ‘Geschichte nach Arno Geiger ist kein fortschreitender Prozess, schon gar keiner, der sich Schritt für Schritt einer höheren Ebene zubewegt. Geschichte manifestiert sich in Individuen, die jedes für sich im Konf likt der Generationen der Zeit eine neue Prägung aufdrücken […] Mit Philipp betreten wir das Zeitalter, in dem das Menschenmögliche keine großen Sprünge zulässt. Fast sieht es so aus, als wäre die Geschichte an ein Ende gekommen’ [History according to Arno Geiger is not a

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Along with Philipp’s lack of interest in matters outside his own sphere of inf luence, which does not stretch very far, comes a lack of any narrative input regarding news events in the outside world. In this respect the narrative style contrasts with that of  the majority of chapters from earlier periods, in which news snippets of domestic and international events are relayed. The reader is naturally expected to be aware of  the current political climate; nevertheless, the absence of any reference to external circumstances causes Philipp to be disconnected from the world around him. In fact he appears to live in a state in which sociopolitical conditions have no inf luence on his life.35 An illuminating portrayal of  Philipp’s melancholy state within the context of posthistoire is of fered by a dream he has of an encounter with his worker Atamanov’s future bride. He recounts that in the dream she looks like a party comrade at the time of  the class struggles. She radiates decisiveness and conviction, which makes Philipp so envious that he wants to become a communist, to own a red passport, and so find a way out of  his plight (EG, 274). The lack of certainty and conviction that marks the

35

progressive process, certainly not one that moves step by step towards a higher level. History manifests itself in individuals, who, each for him/herself, impresses a new shape on time, within the conf lict of  the generations. With Philipp we are entering the era in which human capabilities are not leading to great leaps forward. It almost looks as if  history had come to an end], Anton Thuswaldner, ‘Kinder, seid ihr schlaf f : Arno Geigers kraftvoller Roman Es geht uns gut erzählt von der Gewalt des Generationenkonf likts’, Frankfurter Rundschau, 19 October 2005, Literaturbeilage, [accessed 24 July 2007]. Julia Freytag reads Philipp’s passive indif ference to the outside world, as well as the barrenness of  this world, as a peculiarly Austrian phenomenon. She writes that both Arno Geiger and Eva Menasse tell of  family histories in a ‘Land ohne Eigenschaften’ [a land without characteristics] from the point of view of grandchildren ‘without characteristics’, who try to position themselves in relation to their family and within Austrian society (she is referencing here not only Musil’s novel but also Robert Menasse’s Das Land ohne Eigenschaften (see below), ‘“Wer kennt Österreich”’, p. 123.

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posthistorical, apolitical condition has led Philipp to want to retreat to an earlier political order, if only subconsciously. However, the posthistorical era is characterized not only by a lack of conviction but by a lack of control. According to posthistoire theory, the atomization of society has led to the isolation of  the individual, who feels himself powerless in the face of  the ‘mechanization’ brought about by technological advancement. This is exemplified on a more practical level by the loss of community bonds. It is evident that Philipp is suf fering from a sense of disempowerment due to his isolation; however, his position is ambivalent since he has chosen to avoid contact with the outside world. His melancholy nevertheless is exacerbated by his isolated condition, since in addition to cutting his ties with society Philipp also disconnects himself  from reality. His retreat to an imaginary world is most tellingly invoked by Philipp’s realization towards the end of  the novel that he is living in a void; everything that exists is the product of  his imagination: Beim Hören der Kinderstimmen kam es ihm vor, als hätte auch er gestern noch gespielt. Aber jetzt, ohne die Stimmen im Rücken, ist es ihm unerklärlich, wie dieser Eindruck hat entstehen können. Jetzt kommt es ihm vor, als sei er nur ein großer Angeber, der alles erfindet: das Wetter, die Liebe, die Tauben auf dem Dach, seine Großeltern, Eltern und seine Kindheit – die hat er auch (nur) erfunden. (EG, 374–375) [While listening to the children’s voices, it seemed to him as if up until yesterday he too had been playing. But now, without the voices at his back, it is incomprehensible to him how this impression could have come about. Now it seems to him as if  he is just a big poser who invents everything: the weather, love, the pigeons on the roof, his grandparents, parents and his childhood – this he also (just) invented.]

All links with the past have thus been definitively cut, and prospects for the future are bleak. The sense of  the unreal is a characteristic of  the arbitrary nature of postmodern, posthistorical existence, which seems to have reached its apotheosis here. Nonetheless, a loose connection to reality is a symptom not only of the posthistorical condition but also of a melancholy state generally. The desire to escape reality may therefore be engendered by both personal and sociopolitical circumstances. While Philipp’s condition may be symptomatic of

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a posthistorical world, it is also the result of  his family legacy. His desire to f lee to an imaginary realm stems from the inability to come to terms with his mother’s death. Indeed Philipp’s reaction to his mother’s drowning is recounted as an unreal experience: Und Philipp: Er schaut übers Wasser, er wartet, daß seine Mutter hochkommt, daß seine Mutter ihnen lachend eine lange Nase macht, daß sie ihnen das Schilfrohr zeigt, das sie zum Atmen verwendet hat, wie im Western, John Wayne, Rio Lobo, Philipp hat den Film gemeinsam mit seinem Vater gesehen, er zählt bis hundert, Mama, du hast uns einen schönen Schrecken eingejagt, das ist schon gar nicht mehr lustig, dann fängt er wieder von vorne an … siebzehn, achtzehn, neunzehn, zwanzig, einundzwanzig. (EG, 301) [And Philipp: he looks out over the water, he waits for his mother to come up, for his mother to laughingly thumb her nose at him, for her to show them the reed that she used to breathe, like in the Western, John Wayne, Rio Lobo, Philipp saw the film with his father, he counts to a hundred, Mama, you gave us a real fright, that’s not funny anymore, then he begins again from the start … seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty, twenty-one.]

In the early years following his mother’s death Philipp is portrayed as being unable to deal with reality. He is described as green in the face for half of  the school year, and is the only one in the class who can credibly forget the afternoon lessons (EG, 293–294). This disconnection from reality has become more pronounced in later years, in the narrative present. A detachment from the real world is accompanied by an af finity with the realm of  the dead rather than the living. A communion with ghosts provides consolation in an isolated and fragmented existence, and advice can also be procured from those who have passed on, as we saw in relation to the protagonist of  Monika Maron’s Endmoränen. Philipp’s encounters with the spectres of  family members are of a similar nature, as we see for instance his parents and grandparents appearing to him to warn him to take control of  his life: Die Stimmen der Eltern hören und die der Großeltern, seltsam nah, aber ausgehöhlt und unsicher: Sperrstunde, mein Junge, Sperrstunde! Geh zurück! Noch drei Züge aus der Zigarette. Dann geh zurück! Der Bindfaden der Nacht ist zerkaut und franst am Ende aus. Leg dich zu ihr auf die Matratze, leg dich zu ihr und sag nichts. (EG, 226)

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It is telling that, in mentioning his parents here Philipp is including his father in the realm of  the dead. It is as if  Peter is lost to Philipp in this life and that he feels closer to a memory of  him, to his disembodied voice, than to his father’s actual living presence. In Philipp’s f leeting remembrance of  his mother there is the sense that this ghostly memory is comforting to him in his loneliness, as it was for his grandmother, but that it is also marked by the vagueness of  his recollection and by the fact that its clarity can never be regained: Irgendwie gehört seine Mutter in diesen Zusammenhang. Es ist, als wäre sie nur kurz zum Einkaufen weggegangen und er zu Hause geblieben. Aber er kann nicht genau bestimmen, woher dieser Eindruck stammt, diese vage Kontur einer Erinnerung, die er schon so gut wie aus dem Gedächtnis verloren hat und die in ihren präzisen Umrissen nicht wiederherzustellen sein wird. (EG, 334) [His mother belongs somehow in this constellation. It is as if she had just gone out shopping and he had stayed at home. But he cannot determine exactly where this impression comes from, this vague outline of a recollection that he had as good as lost from his memory, the precise contours of which cannot be recreated.]

Many of  Philipp’s experiences can in fact be characterized as ‘gespenstisch’. It is very significant that an af finity to the phantoms or spectres of  his imagination constitutes for Philipp the most authentic of  his experiences, for it represents the most important legacy to be conveyed to him from the previous generations. It is these transgenerational phantoms which link the three generations to each other, and, while their appearance may at times be comforting, their function must be comprehended primarily in an Abrahamian sense. In the psychoanalytical theory of  Abraham and Torok phantoms represent the product of  the memories of  those left behind rather than being actual revenants. They are called on to fill the gaps in memory which are caused by the death of  loved ones:

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It is a fact that the ‘phantom’, whatever its form, is nothing but an invention of  the living. Yes, an invention in the sense that the phantom is meant to objectify, even if under the guise of individual or collective hallucinations, the gap produced in us by the concealment of some part of a love object’s life. The phantom is therefore also a metapsychological fact: what haunts are not the dead, but the gaps left within us by the secrets of others.36

These gaps in memory and fundamental lack of  knowledge regarding certain aspects of  the lives of  those who have died haunt many contemporary narratives, especially family narratives. The ghosting ef fect of repressed family memories has been analysed by Anne Fuchs, Aleida Assmann and Sigrid Weigel; of particular interest here, however, is Weigel’s expansion on Abraham and Torok’s idea of  the phantom. She posits that the phantom is constituted not just from the gaps created by the unknown, but also by what the imagination produces to fill these gaps: Das Phantom ist also nicht einfach das Unbekannte und Dunkle, das Verschwiegene oder Heimliche der Überlieferungen. Es ist vielmehr dasjenige, was die Einbildungskraft an Stelle der Lücken in der Überlieferung entstehen läßt, Vergegenständlichung der Lücken. Es ist also eine Hervorbringung – Fiktion im eigentlichen Sinne, nicht im eingeschränkten Verständnis von Fiktion, wie es die ebenso beliebte wie irreführende Formel ‘Fakten und Fiktionen’ suggeriert. Die Fiktion des Phantoms bezieht sich also auf das Leben und die Geheimnisse anderer, denen unser Interesse oder unsere Liebe gilt, genauer auf dunkle Stellen in dem, was sie von sich mitgeteilt oder auf andere Weise vermittelt haben, d.h. auf ihren Familienroman. Insofern betrif ft das Phantom nicht das eigene Unbewußte, sondern das Verdrängte in den Erzählungen der Vorfahren.37

36 From ‘Notes on the Phantom: A Complement to Freud’s Metapsychology’, in The Shell and the Kernel, Nicholas Abraham and Maria Torok, Vol. 1, ed., trans., and int. by Nicholas T. Rand (Chicago: University of  Chicago Press, 1994), pp. 171–176 (p. 171). 37 Weigel, Genea-Logik, p. 74. See also Ulrike Vedder, ‘Erblasten und Totengespräche: Zum Nachleben der Toten in Texten von Marlene Steeruwitz, Arno Geiger und Sibylle Lewitscharof f ’, in Literatur im Krebsgang, pp. 227–241.

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Chapter 4 [The phantom is therefore not only the dark and unknown, the unsaid or secret elements of  that which is transmitted. It is, to a much greater extent, that which the imagination creates to take the place of  the holes in the transmission, a concretion of  the holes. It is also a bringing forth – fiction in the real sense, not in the restricted understanding of  fiction as the at once popular and misleading formula ‘facts and fictions’ suggests. The fiction of  the phantom refers therefore to the life and the secrets of others, those who provoke our interest or our love; it refers, to be more exact, to the dark spots in what they tell us about themselves, or what has otherwise been transmitted, i.e. to their family romance. In this respect, the phantom does not concern one’s own unconscious, but rather that which is repressed in the stories of our ancestors.]

Philipp shies away from dealing with any aspect of  the past; instead he creates a safe haven for himself  by dreaming up fantastical stories about his ancestors, as will be seen in the next section. It appears that his fears of confronting the actual past are grounded in a fear of  having to face his mother’s death; at the same time the realization that he knows so little about her oppresses him (EG, 10). Ingrid represents a phantom figure for Philipp in the secondary sense as employed by Abraham and Torok. She never actually appears to him and he thinks of  her merely in an abstract manner. In fact, there is an abiding impression that the family past has long been neglected and that Philipp can no longer relate to it as his own. His inspection of  his grandmother’s photographs leads him to perceive his family as a lost culture: all die vertrauten und weniger vertrauten Gesichter, die ganze zerstreute, versprengte und verstorbene Familie. Philipp erkennt sie alle, in allen Altern. […] Mit Maske und Schutzbrille sieht er nicht wie ein Enkel, Sohn oder Bruder aus. Eher wie eine Erscheinung, wie einer, der sich keimgeschützt und unbetrof fen nach Jahrzehnten in eine längst verlassene Landschaft wagt und Materialproben nimmt. Zur Dokumentation einer untergegangenen Kultur. (EG, 135–136) [All of  the familiar and less familiar faces, the whole scattered, dispersed and deceased family. Philipp recognizes them all, at all ages. With mask and safety glasses he does not look like a grandchild, son or brother. More like an apparition, like someone who has been protected and unaf fected by germs and who, decades later, dares to enter a long deserted landscape to take substance samples.]

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Philipp never undertakes such an investigation of  his family history; it remains in the realm of  his imagination, along with so many other things. A general sense of meaninglessness and abandonment is conjured throughout the text in relation to family memories and family history. This is achieved through images of dust and dryness, all of which are discussed in the section dealing with melancholy motifs. Most prominent is the recurring emphasis on memories becoming faded and reduced to dust (‘Erinnerungsstaub’ [memory dust], ‘die graue Asche Erinnerung’ [the grey ash memory]). The most significant of  these images articulates a precise connection between the motif of dryness and family history: Es ist, als würde nach und nach mit der Feuchtigkeit auch die Bedeutung aus den Gegenständen gepreßt. Wohin man schaut, verklumpen sich die abgelegten Dinge zu einem Grundstof f, einer Materie, die Generationen vermengt, zu eingedickter, eingeschrumpfter, ihrer Farben beraubter Familiengeschichte. (EG, 362–363) [It is as if, along with the moistness, the meaning had been pressed out of  the objects, little by little. Wherever one looks, the discarded things clump together into a raw material, a material that blends the generations together into a family history that is condensed, shrunken and robbed of colour.]

Melancholy, as one of  the four humours, has been linked to the condition of dryness since antiquity.38 Since this motif epitomizes the family’s relationship to its past it is therefore fundamental to an interpretation of  the text as a melancholy narrative. The family history is depicted here as a dessicated clump – something abandoned and neglected, which has become devoid of all vitality. This is Alma’s description of  the various objects she finds in the attic and she obviously regards their condition as symbolic of  the state of  the family and of its legacy, which will soon be passed on to Philipp.

38

Klibansky, Panofsky and Saxl, Saturn und Melancholie, pp. 39–54.

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Philipp’s Writing Philipp’s retreat to an imaginary world is expressed not only through a relation to ghosts but also through the vehicle of  his writing. Although we receive little real insight into Philipp’s professional life, apart from the fact that his last book was unsuccessful, it appears that he is a writer of  fiction, as he uses notebooks to jot down creative ideas. While his sketches are fictional they are also biographical, however, as they constitute attempts to imagine scenes from the lives of  his ancestors, as well as scenes in which various members of  his family appear synchronously. Philipp malt sich ein fiktives Klassenfoto aus, mit vierzig Kindern in den Bänken, lauter Sechs- und Siebenjährige, die weder von den Jahren, in denen sie geboren, noch von den Orten, an denen sie aufgewachsen sind, zusammenpassen. […] Philipp geht die Reihen durch und fragt sich: Was ist aus ihnen geworden, aus all diesen Toten, die täglich mehr werden? (EG, 15) [pictures a fictional class photo, with forty children on the benches, full of six- and seven-year-olds, who neither fit together according to the years in which they were born, nor according to the places in which they grew up. Philipp goes through the rows and asks himself: What has become of  them, of all these dead, with more and more of  them every day?]

The melancholy nature of  this undertaking is obvious; the image portrayed here is similar to the metaphor of searching for a lost culture, which we encountered earlier. It is clear that Philipp is more concerned with the dead than with the living. He includes himself and his father in the class photo, but implies that he is the only member of  his family left alive, although we later learn that his father is also still living in Vienna, and that his sister Sissi moved to America and got married there at a young age. Despite having very little contact he is not completely estranged from his family, at least not from his father as he speaks to him on the telephone towards the end of  the novel. However, they remain emotionally isolated from one another and this is one of  the reasons for Philipp imagining himself as solitary survivor, as seen above.

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Philipp later imagines putting a writing desk in each room of  the house for each person in this class photograph, of creating their life stories synchronously (EG, 52). The type of desk and writing materials would be precisely determined by the life story of  the character in question. In particular, Philipp visualizes reconstructing the story of  his great-greatgrandfather Stanislaus Baptist Sterk’s audience with the emperor in 1847. Philipp himself is unsure of  the merit of  these anecdotes, while Johanna comments that he uses them as a means of preventing himself from seriously engaging with his family history (EG, 56). One is reminded of  Menasse’s analysis of  the postmodern relationship to the past, which consists of a random appropriation of sanitized elements of  history: Das postmoderne Bewußtsein ist die Emphase von der Beliebigkeit der Beziehungen, die die Phänomene heute eingehen können, weil reale gesellschaftliche Vermitteltheiten keine Rolle mehr spielen bzw. durch das Prinzip Beliebigkeit ersetzt sind: das allgemeine Bewußtsein ist eine Klitterung aus Versatzstücken der Geschichte, gereinigt von Geschichte.39 [Postmodern consciousness consists of an emphasis on the arbitrariness of  the relationships between various phenomena in today’s world; this is due to the fact that the mediations that take place within the real society no longer have a role to play, and, accordingly, are replaced by the principle of arbitrariness: the general consciousness is a cobbling together of incongruous aspects of  history, purged of  history.]

Philipp may be considered to be piecing together imaginary ‘Versatzstücke der Geschichte’ to replace the parts of  his family history he finds himself unable to confront: ‘Er ist nach wie vor nicht wirklich bereit, sich in die Gefahr zu begeben, daß er mehr erfährt als er wissen will, oder aufwärmt, was ihm halb ausgestanden im Bauch herumgeht’ [He is, as before, not really prepared to run the risk of  finding out more that he wants to know, or warming up what is circulating half-digested in his stomach] (EG, 230). An imaginative engagement with the past also defines the concept of postmemory, as described by Marianne Hirsch:

39 Menasse, Überbau und Underground, pp. 164–165.

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Chapter 4 In my reading, postmemory is distinguished from memory by generational distance and from history by deep personal connection. Postmemory is a powerful and very particular form of memory precisely because its connection to its object or source is mediated not through recollection but through an imaginative investment and creation.40

In the context of  this narrative Philipp’s imaginative investment exemplifies a desire to evade the real family history rather than an attempt to connect with it. Therefore the dangers of a misappropriation of  the past and of  the other, which J.J. Long has identified as a f law in the concept of postmemory, do not necessarily pertain to this protagonist’s engagement with the past.41 However, an interesting analogy to Menasse’s analysis of  the postmodern experience of  history is Anne Fuchs’s depiction of  the relationship between postmemory and trauma theory. She points out that: Current trauma theory has widened the concept’s meaning significantly, turning it into a prime agent of  history itself. Proponents of  this type of  theory suggest that the idea of  historical trauma does not just designate a specific type of  historical event, such as mass murder or genocide, that is deemed to have a traumatizing ef fect on its victims and survivors; rather historical change as such is recoded in terms of trauma.42

In her analysis of  Cathy Caruth’s argument that ‘history can be grasped only in the very inaccessibility of its occurrence’43 Fuchs shows how such an 40 Marianne Hirsch, Family Frames: Photography, Narrative and Postmemory (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1997), p. 22. 41 In his critique of postmemory Long recognizes that: ‘Imagination and creation, after all, contain the possibility of unregulated fantasy that need pay no attention at all either to historical accuracy or to the otherness of  the other. The question is: how can this imaginative investment and creation be policed in order to prevent appropriation or even usurpation of  the other’s experiences’, J.J. Long, ‘Monika Maron’s Pawels Briefe: Photography, Narrative and the Claims of  Postmemory’, in Anne Fuchs, Mary Cosgrove and Georg Grote (eds), German Memory Contests, pp. 147–165 (pp. 149–150). 42 Fuchs, Phantoms of  War, p. 49. 43 Cathy Caruth, Unclaimed Experience: Trauma, Narrative and History (Baltimore and London: John Hopkins University Press, 1996), pp. 17–18; quoted in Fuchs, Phantoms of  War, p. 50.

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interpretation of  history as trauma leads to ‘an ontologization of  trauma, eradicating the very notion of  historical experience itself ’.44 In fact, ‘the upshot of Caruth’s conversion of history into trauma is not an enhanced recognition of  the otherness of  the past but rather the erasure of  the category of  the past altogether. For in her reading the past resembles a gothic house peopled by phantoms and ghosts that haunt its inhabitants eternally’.45 The mishmash of random fragments of  history that have been stripped of  their context, which is Menasse’s interpretation of the postmodern consciousness, may also be seen as a consequence of the erasure of  the category of  the past. Returning to Philipp’s alternative versions of  the past, his imaginary history of  the origins of  the cannonball perched on the staircase of  his grandparents’ house is, like his other stories, employed by Philipp to protect himself  from reality. Besides considering some more mundane explanations for its origin, such as that it was found during excavation to lay the foundations for the cellar or that it came from a theatre depot, the cannonball leads him to recall the story of a Polish count by the name of  Jan Potocki, who, by reducing a cannonball to the size of a bullet, eventually used it to kill himself: Man denke an diesen Grafen, der über viele Jahre in monotoner Arbeit an einer Kanonenkugel feilte, Woche für Woche, Jahr für Jahr, bis die Kanonenkugel so klein war, daß sie in die Pistole des Mannes paßte. Daraufhin, als wäre die Konzentrierung des Kalibers der einzige Grund und das Ziel der langwierigen Feilerei gewesen, schoß sich der Graf die ehemalige Kanonenkugel mit der Pistole in den Kopf. Gut Ding braucht Weile. Ja, ja. Braucht es das? Lohnt sich der ganze Aufwand? Die endlose Feilerei? (EG, 51) [One thinks about this duke, who, over many years of monotonous work, filed down a cannonball, week for week, year for year, until the cannonball was so small that it fitted into the man’s pistol. As if  the concentration of  the calibre was the only reason for, and goal of, the interminable filing, the duke thereupon shot the cannonball, with his pistol, into his head. A good thing needs time. Yes, yes. Does it need that? Is the whole ef fort worth it? The endless filing?]

44 Fuchs, Phantoms of  War, p. 50. 45 Fuchs, Phantoms of  War, p. 51.

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A friend points up the falsity of  his story and argues for an alternative account, in which the duke does not file down a cannonball but rather carves an embellishment into his samovar. Philipp, however, is reluctant to renounce his version; holding on to it is described as a means of paying homage to the fragility of  the world that each builds for him/herself (EG, 58). Philipp’s attachment to this story is very significant in that it represents a melancholy connection with the past. He evidently sees the fragility of  his own world ref lected in that of  the duke’s. The image of  this duke’s painstaking and determined preparation for his own death, over perhaps several years, is melancholy in the extreme. It exhibits a resolute detachment from the world and yet a desire to remain in the realm of  the living, to make a gradual transition from one life to the next. Although Philipp gives no indication of wanting to end his life, he has detached himself  from society and is languishing in a melancholy state. Yet due to his own profound physical and mental stasis he fails to understand the motivation for the duke’s protracted preparation for death; for him such an ef fort is not worthwhile. A similar sentiment is articulated later when he ref lects on the futility of our ef forts to improve the condition of our lives. He perceives the attempts by children to perfect their handwriting as a metaphor for this: Zehn, zwanzig, einundzwanzig, zweiundzwanzig Mal immer dasselbe schreiben bis zur völligen Abstumpfung, in eine Unverbindlichkeit hinein, in der alles nichts mehr bedeutet. […] [Er denkt], daß alles immer ist, als versuche man denselben Satz diesmal noch schöner in sein Heft zu schreiben. Vielleicht ist es das, was uns zu armen Teufeln macht. (EG, 139–140) [Ten, twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two times, always writing the same thing until the senses are completely deadened, until all context has been lost and nothing means anything anymore. He thinks that, in all things, it is like trying to write the same sentence into one’s copy over and over, each time more neatly than the last. Maybe that’s what makes us poor devils.]

In both his observations above and his response to the story of  the duke it is obvious that he sees neither any purpose in attempting to free himself  from the sense of  the futility of  life, nor does he think it meaningful to

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undertake any concerted preparations for death. Unlike the duke, therefore, who was driven by a single-minded objective, Philipp is stranded in a kind of  limbo; he can neither commit to really improving his present conditions nor to ending his life. The idea that our ef forts in this life are futile is connected to the vanitas motif of  the Baroque era.46 However, while the common belief in an afterlife provided comfort in earlier centuries, Philipp has no such conviction and is left to wonder what becomes of all the dead. The fact that he writes fictional accounts of  the lives of real family members signals Philipp’s desire to engage with his family past on some level. He is naturally incapable of dealing with his immediate family history as he is still evidently haunted by his mother’s death. The alternative past that he chooses to ref lect on is a romanticized one. Just as in the dream in which he imagined himself as a communist, so in his writing he can f lee the present and envision a more idealistic past. This is exemplified particularly in his fictional account of  his ancestor’s audience with the emperor, who praises his diligent subject for his service to the empire and rewards him with three gold ducats. Philipp’s imaginary stories function as a replacement for the emptiness of  the ahistorical present, but more significantly for the elements of  his family past which he is unable to confront, in particular his mother’s death. Therefore these stories, as part of  Philipp’s imaginary life, can also be understood in the light of  Abraham and Torok’s theory on transgenerational phantoms, as analysed above. The gaps produced by the loss of  loved ones as well as by the lack of detailed knowledge about their lives and their secrets are represented ‘under the guise of individual or collective hallucinations’. The substance of  these hallucinations may have no connection to the lost love object. Philipp’s imaginings may be thus regarded as not merely idle fantasy but as ‘hallucinations’ which have a serious psychological function by serving as substitutes for the many things which Philipp does not know about his family past, in particular about his mother, and which he can now never ask her. While on the one hand these hallucinations play a compensatory role in Philipp’s life by filling the gaps left by 46 Klibansky, Panofsky & Saxl, Saturn und Melancholie, pp. 540–544.

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the disturbing aspects of  the past which he cannot face, on the other hand they also fuel Philipp’s melancholy since they represent losses which neither he nor previous family members have come to terms with. His imaginary stories also obstruct his relationship to the present, and will continue to do so until he confronts these family traumas.

Narrative Structure and Perspective The chapters of  the novel do not follow chronologically from one another. We are firstly introduced to Philipp, who has recently inherited his grandparents’ house. Subsequent chapters relate his parents’ and grandparents’ lives, as well as background historical details, and are interchanged with chapters dealing with Philipp’s life. The first retrospective chapter deals with his grandparents in their old age, in the year 1982. The next retrospective chapter is set in 1938 and all other chapters concerning Philipp’s parents and grandparents follow chronologically from this period on. The ef fect of  this structure is naturally to provide us with a very dif ferent perspective on the experiences of this family to that which a strictly chronological arrangement would af ford, since we are quite quickly made aware of  the most significant events to have befallen the family members. The narrative is tinged with melancholy from the outset as we already learn in the first two chapters of  Philipp’s detachment from his family and of  the deaths of  his mother and uncle at a young age, as well as of  his grandfather’s dementia. The continual alternation of episodes from the past with accounts of  Philipp’s life contextualizes his situation against the backdrop of  his family history. The structure of  the narrative is such that any sense of a linear progression is deliberately defused. It is quite obviously cyclical on a number of  levels: it has an internal cyclical structure since after each digression into the past we return to Philipp’s life; the overall structure of  the narrative is also cyclical as the first and last chapters deal with the main protagonist; and finally, the content of  the narrative itself maintains a cyclical element

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due to the inertia of  the protagonist, who appears in more or less the same position each time we revisit him. Indeed the cyclical nature of life becomes a motif in the novel, as it defines not only Philipp’s life but also to some extent the lives of  his parents, as seen above. The cyclical structure of  the narrative brings past, present and future together due to the ever-recurring return to the stagnant present which of fers no hope of a progression into the future. Although Philipp plans to make a trip to the Ukraine with Steinwald and Atamanov this trip has a sense of  the fantastical to it: Gleich wird Philipp auf dem Giebel seines Großelternhauses in die Welt hinausreiten […] Er wird von den Dieben verfolgt sein, die ihn schon sein Leben lang verfolgen. Aber diesmal wird er schneller sein. Er wird den Löwen und Drachen auf den Kopf  treten, singen und schreien (schreien bestimmt) und ungemein lachen (ja? sicher?), den Regen trinken (schon möglich) und – und über – über die Liebe nachdenken. Er winkt zum Abschied. (EG, 390) [Soon Philipp will ride out into the world from the gable of  his grandparents’ house. He will be pursued by the thieves who have pursued him all his life. But this time he will be faster. He will step on the heads of  the lions and dragons, sing and scream (definitely scream) and – and think about – about love. He waves farewell.]

Such a whimsical description leads to the assumption that this is simply another product of  Philipp’s active imagination, in line with his previous inventive recreations of  his early family past, although this last episode is related in the third person. Just as Philipp has been unable or unwilling to confront his family past in a sincere manner, he is also unlikely to make any serious ef fort to progress from his current mental stance. The past and the future are therefore consumed in the stagnant and repetitive present, which sees Philipp resuming the same physical position daily on the front steps of  the house, as well as his customary mental space, which involves an attempt to write but inevitably results in idle imaginings. His contemplative stance reminds us of  Albrecht Dürer’s engraving Melencolia I, whose depiction of such a figure is highlighted by an hourglass in the background, emphasizing the suspension of  this figure in a moment of  time. His lack of achievement is also ref lected in Dürer’s figure, which is

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characterized by Klibansky et al. as ‘sadly brooding with a feeling that she is achieving nothing.’47 The cyclical nature of  the narrative also finds a correlation in the theory of posthistoire. Demandt characterizes the era of posthistoire as progressing in a circular motion: Das Gegenteil eines […] historisch-chronologischen Fortgangs wäre der Stillstand. […] Noch prägnanter ist die Unterscheidung durch den Gegensatz zwischen linearer und zyklischer Bewegung, zwischen Fortschritt oder Entwicklung auf der einen, und Aufder-Stelle-Treten oder Kreislauf auf der anderen Seite. Gemäß der Grundbedeutung des Wortes ‘Sinn’, das mit ‘senden’ zusammenhängt und den Gedanken an ein Ziel enthält, scheint die kreisläufige Bewegung ‘sinnlos’.48 [The opposite of a historical-chronological progression would be stagnation. The dif ferentiation that arises by the opposition between linear and cyclical movement, between progress or development on the one hand and movement on a stationary basis or circulation on the other hand, is even more succinct. In accordance with the basic meaning of  the word ‘Sinn’ (sense), which is connected to ‘senden’ (to send) and comprises the notion of an objective, circular movement seems ‘sinnlos’ (senseless).]

While Demandt does not consider cyclical movement to be necessarily meaningless, pertaining to the situation of  the protagonist it cannot be interpreted otherwise. Philipp himself acknowledges that he and perhaps Johanna too are only moving on the spot, only marking time (EG, 14). Philipp again raises the idea of directionless movement in discussion with the postwoman: Er sagt ihr, angestrengt rechnend, daß sie, anstatt die Erde zu umrunden, wofür die bei zehn Kilometern pro Tag wenig mehr als zehn Jahre bräuchte (da wäre sie Ende dreißig): daß sie statt dessen am Fleck trete. Sie komme trotz der vielen Kilometer, die sie mit ihrem Postkarren zurücklege, aus Wien nicht hinaus, nicht einmal aus dem dreizehnten Bezirk. (EG, 275)

47 Raymond Klibansky, Erwin Panofsky and Fritz Saxl, Saturn and Melancholy: Studies in the History of  Natural Philosophy, Religion and Art (London: Nelson, 1964), p. 320. 48 Demandt, Endzeit?, p. 168.

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[He tells her, while strenuously calculating, that she, instead of going around the earth, for which, at ten kilometres a day, she would need little more than ten years (then she would be in her late thirties): that instead of  that she is moving on the spot. Despite the many kilometres that she covers with her postbike she doesn’t get out of  Vienna, not even out of  the thirteenth district.]

Another significant feature of posthistory is its changed relationship to time – there is no longer the sense that time is moving chronologically from the past into the future but is rather expressed in a simultaneity which af fects all things: Das geschichtslose Denken befreit sich vom Zeitgefühl und von der Zeitrechnung. Es kommt zur Gleichzeitigkeit alles irgendwann Möglichen […] Das geschichtslose Handeln löst sich von Vorbildern und Fernzielen. Die Lebenden haben von den Verstorbenen nichts zu lernen, den Ungeborenen nichts mitzuteilen.49 [Ahistorical thinking frees itself  from a sense of  time and from the calculation of  time. It leads to the simultaneity of everything that was at any time possible. Ahistorical actions lead to a disconnection from past ideals and long-term objectives. The living have nothing to learn from the dead, and nothing to pass on to the unborn.]

This lack of connection to either the past or the future is ref lected in Philipp, who is reluctant to see himself as part of a lineage.

Heimat Discourse and the House as a Spectral Motif The concept of  Heimat has had widespread appeal in all German-speaking regions but particularly within the German states. As Celia Applegate has shown, ‘for almost two centuries, Heimat has been at the centre of a German moral – and by extension political – discourse about place, belonging, and

49 Demandt, Endzeit?, pp. 166–167.

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identity’.50 The word ‘Heimat’ was rescued from archaic German in the late eighteenth century and gathered political and emotional resonance through the first half of  the nineteenth century.51 However, it was in the second half of  the nineteenth century that the notion of  Heimat attained great significance through the popularity of  the Heimat movement, which can be seen as a response to Germany’s rapid modernization. As Boa and Palfreyman point out: ‘Key oppositions in the discourse of  Heimat set country against city, province against metropolis, tradition against modernity, nature against artificiality, organic culture against civilization, fixed, familiar, rooted identity against cosmopolitanism, hybridity, alien otherness, or the faceless mass’.52 Within the context of  German nationalism, the idea of  Heimat allowed ‘Catholics and Protestants, liberals and socialists, Prussians and Bavarians to remain themselves, yet to form together a transcendent national community’.53 The idea of  the nation as Heimat was employed during the First World War in reference to the Heimatfront and was appropriated in nationalist ideology during the 1920s.54 During this time the concept was dangerously emptied of concrete meaning: Heimat, already tinged with myth in its local sense, becomes ‘a formless, unstable, nebulous condensation’, to use Barthes’s terms, signified by a few mythic figures such as the Scholle or clod of earth or the peasant, not actual peasants but a vacuously ideal peasant spirit of  the German race.55

Despite the strong tradition of anti-Heimat literature in Germany, undif ferentiated conceptions of  Heimat have had continuing resonance. The

Celia Applegate, A Nation of  Provincials: The German Idea of  Heimat (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of  California Press, 1990), p. 4. 51 Applegate, A Nation of  Provincials, p. 4. 52 Elizabeth Boa and Rachel Palfreyman, Heimat – A German Dream: Regional Loyalties and National Identity in German Culture 1890–1990 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000), p. 2. 53 Alon Confino, Germany as a Culture of  Remembrance: Promises and Limits of  Writing History (Chapel Hill: University of  North Carolina Press, 2006), p. 35. 54 Boa and Palfreyman, Heimat – A German Dream, pp. 3–4. 55 Boa and Palfreyman, Heimat – A German Dream, p. 4. 50

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Federation of  Expellees (Bund der Vertriebenen), set up to promote the interests of  those expelled from their homes in the former Eastern territories after the war, called in their Charter for the right to a home (Heimat) to be made a fundamental human right. They also declared the plight of expellees and refugees to be a world problem, for which all peoples must find a solution.56 Their focus on such suf fering was at the expense of any reference to the incomparable suf fering and death caused by the Holocaust. Yet the sentiments of  the expellees were uncritically supported in a publication of  the ‘Konrad Adenauer Stiftung’ from the 1980s: Die deutschen Heimatvertriebenen, bereits unmittelbar nachdem ihnen alles genommen war, [hatten] die unglaubliche Kraft, auf  Rache und Vergeltung zu verzichten und sich in den Dienst des Friedens zu stellen. Sie hatten alles verloren und doch konnten sie von dieser ihrer Situation absehen, den umfassenden Zusammenhang ihrer Lage herausstellen und auf die allgemeine, weltweite Tragik der Heimatlosigkeit hinweisen. Das ist ein einzigartiges, das deutsche Volk ehrendes Ereignis.57 [The German Expellees, even straight after everything had been taken from them, had the unbelievable strength to abstain from revenge and retribution and put themselves in the service of peace. They had lost everything and still they could turn away from their own particular situation to highlight the wider context of  their position, the universal, worldwide tragedy of  homelessness. That is a unique occurrence, one that brings honour to the German people.]

In the Austrian context, Robert Menasse judges the country’s ideological ‘Heimatlosigkeit’ to be the result of its unwillingness to face up to the mistakes of  the past. He regards ‘Heimatlosigkeit’ as a phenomenon that has shaped Austrian identity and the reception of domestic literature.58 In Es geht uns gut the house which Philipp has inherited forms the setting for an understanding of  the link between posthistoire and Heimat within an Austrian context. Although he never leaves the house or grounds, there is 56 57 58

Quoted in Heimat und Nation: Zur Geschichte und Identität der Deutschen, ed. by Klaus Weigelt (Mainz: v. Hase & Koehler, 1984), p. 18. Heimat und Nation: Zur Geschichte und Identität der Deutschen, p. 18. Robert Menasse, Die sozialpartnerschaftliche Ästhetik (Vienna: Sonderzahl, 1990), p. 127.

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no sense that it is a place of stability for him, a place to which he can form a real attachment. Rather the setting of  the house highlights his lack of  ‘Heimat’. Yet more significant for the present discussion is Menasse’s assertion that there exists a special preference in Austria for literature dealing with the end of  time, or the end of specific periods in time: Wenn man bei der Lektüre der österreichischen Literatur feststellen muß, daß Österreich eine Nation ohne Heimat ist, dann setzt sich in der allgemeinen Rezeption dieser Literatur deren Heimatlosigkeit noch fort. Wir haben schon gesehen, daß in der Zweiten Republik nationale Repräsentanz im Sinn von Nationalliteratur im wesentlichen nur ‘historischen Größen’ zuerkannt wird, und daß hierbei eine besondere Vorliebe für jene Literatur bemerkbar ist, die Endzeiten beschreibt. Erst hier zeigt sich auf sehr vermittelte Weise ein stimmiger Bezug zur realen Befindlichkeit der österreichischen Identität.59 [If one must ascertain, while reading Austrian literature, that Austria is a nation without a home, then this homelessness is carried through in the general reception of  this literature. We have already seen that, in the Second Republic, national representation in the sense of national literature was granted primarily to the ‘historical greats’, and that, in this connection, a special preference is noticeable for the kind of  literature that describes end times. Here, for the first time, a coherent reference to the real existential orientation of  the Austrian identity becomes apparent in a very mediated way.]

Geiger’s novel can be understood to be perpetuating this tendency in Austrian literature to ref lect the ‘Heimatlosigkeit’ of  the nation through his depiction of a character incapable of making a connection with his ‘Heimat’, either in the broader sense of  his country or in the narrower sense of  his own home. This view is af firmed at the end of  the novel when Philipp decides to leave his house (which is still tellingly referred to as his grandparents’ house) and his country. However, the fantastical nature of  this account (see quotation above) leads one to assume that Philipp will not be roused from his inertia and that this journey will remain in the realm of  the imagination. 59

Robert Menasse, Das Land ohne Eigenschaften: Essay zur österreichischen Identität (Vienna: Sonderzahl, 1993), p. 127.

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Notwithstanding Philipp’s physical attachment to his new ‘Heimat’, a genuine emotional connection is not forthcoming. Indeed, the bond to his home is characterized by a pronounced physical and mental stasis. While, on the one hand, Philipp is determined to completely empty the house of all physical traces of  his grandparents and make no emotional connection with the memories left behind, on the other hand, he later regrets having thrown out all of  his grandparents’ possessions, in particular his grandmother’s letters, and persistently postpones plans to fully renovate the house. Philipp is neither capable of relating to the microcosm of  his domestic sphere nor to the macrocosm of  Austrian society. While Philipp’s ambivalent relationship with his ‘Heimat’ as a whole may be understood within the context of posthistoire, his connection to interior space may be compared with the nineteenth century obsession with interiors and their capacity to promote subjective inwardness. Whereas in the eighteenth century there still existed a symbiotic relationship between the inner and outer worlds, by the nineteenth century the interior came to represent an independent sphere sealed of f  from the outside: Im 19. Jahrhundert werden die Motive Einsamkeit und Weltf lucht eng verknüpft mit dem Bild des Interieurs: als nach außen abgeschotteter Bezirk, der von einer zunehmend autonomen Phantasie ausgestaltet oder gar als Ganzes entworfen ist.60 [In the nineteenth century the motifs of  loneliness and escape from the world are closely associated with the image of  the interior: as a domain that is sealed of f  from the outside, that is furnished by an increasingly autonomous imagination or even conceived as an independent whole.]

Philipp’s house is a place of refuge from the world for him. However, he does not invest it with meaning or project onto it his inner fantasies, as did the Romantics. Rather he wants to divest it of all memories and associations with the past. Nevertheless something holds him here, as he does not leave the house or grounds for the duration of  the novel. Philipp’s ambivalent relationship with the house is characterized by his habitual position on the front steps, a position which is neither enclosed within an interior 60 Fritz, ‘Innerlichkeit und Selbstreferenz’, pp. 89–110 (p. 92).

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space nor entirely open to the outside. It is the only place where he feels he belongs: ‘In gedrückter Stimmung, wie schon zuvor, setzt Philipp sich dorthin zurück, wo er derzeit als einziges hingehört und ihm das Leben am ehesten einen erträglichen Geschmack hinterläßt: auf der Vortreppe’ [In a depressed mood, as before, Philipp sits back down in the only place where he belongs at present, and where it is most likely that life will leave a bearable taste in the mouth: on the front steps] (EG, 230). The motif of  the threshold or border indicated something quite dif ferent in the nineteenth century to its present provisional connotations in that it sought to strengthen the notion of a hermetically sealed interior: Eng verbunden mit der Hermetik des Interieurs sind die Motive der Grenze und der Schwelle. Elemente dieser Metaphorik sind selbst in einem Werk wie Stifters ‘Nachsommer’ aufzufinden. Risachs Rosenhaus, ein abgegrenzter und kunstvoll arrangierter Bezirk, der den Status einer ästhetischen Enklave nirgends verleugnen kann, präsentiert sich dem Besucher unzugänglich, da der verborgene Eingang kaum zu finden ist.61 [Closely connected with the hermetics of  the interior are the motifs of  the boundary and the threshold. Elements of  these metaphors are even to be found in a work such as Stifter’s ‘Nachsommer’ (After-Summer). Risach’s Rose House, an isolated and artfully arranged domain, which cannot deny its status as an aesthetic enclave, presents itself  to the visitor as inaccessible, since the hidden entrance can hardly be found.]

The threshold in this narrative symbolizes an ambivalence and indecisiveness which characterizes the attitude of  the protagonist throughout; he can neither commit himself  to solitary confinement within the house nor to active participation in the world outside. The house also plays a very significant role in the narrative due to its spectral appearance. It functions as a vessel which stores traces of  the dead. Philipp’s communion with these spirits throughout the novel heightens his detachment from the present; in fact he uses this imaginative connection with the past as a way of escaping the present. Again the link with posthistoire is evident. The inhabitant of  the posthistorical present is an individualist

61

Fritz, ‘Innerlichkeit und Selbstreferenz’, p. 106.

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who sees little af filiation between him/herself and other members of society, as has been outlined above. Therefore a conjuring of spirits represents a conceivable means of relating intimately to a more hospitable past. This interpretation of  the house as a haunted house is established for the reader from the outset of  the novel. The first line of  the text reads: ‘Er hat nie darüber nachgedacht, was es heißt, daß die Toten uns überdauern’ [He has never thought about what it means, that the dead outlast us] (EG, 7). This is followed by a description of  Philipp’s first encounter with the pigeons in his attic. We are thus led to comprehend the pigeons as being, if not actual reincarnations of  the dead, then at least as carriers of  lost spirits and of  lost memories. They appear as a recurring motif and represent the dogged nature of phantoms that refuse to leave their former home, despite being culled on a grand scale by Phillip’s workers: Als Philipp zum Haus zurückkehrt, sind die Flügel des Dachbodenfensters aus den Angeln gehoben, die Öf fnung ist mit Schachtelkarton ausgeschlagen. Immer wieder f liegen Tauben gegen diesen Karton, immer wieder mit den Krallen voran, das Papier aufreißend, immer wieder ganz jämmerlich fiepend. Andere Tauben kratzen an den Ziegeln des Firsts, an der Regenrinne, überall wo sie sich niedergelassen haben. (EG, 140) [When Philipp returns to the house the leaves of  the attic window have been taken of f  their hinges and the opening lined with cardboard. Pigeons f ly against this cardboard again and again, always with their claws in front, tearing up the paper, always cheeping miserably. Other pigeons scratch at the tiles of  the roof ridge, at the gully, at everywhere they land.]

The constant presence of  the pigeons depresses and demoralizes Philipp; he even metaphorically associates them with the powers of darkness by implying that he could use the same apparatus in his battle with both: Philipp hingegen, obwohl er schwitzt und obwohl seine Sichtscheibe an den Rändern beschlagen ist, hat Maske und Brille nach wie vor auf, als wäre die Schlacht gegen die Mächte der Finsternis noch nicht geschlagen und er gewillt, weiterhin mit geschlossenem Visier zu kämpfen. (EG, 140)

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Chapter 4 [Philipp, on the other hand, although he is sweating, and although the lens has fogged up at the edges, still has his mask and goggles on, as if  the battle against the powers of darkness is not yet over and he is willing to keep on fighting, with a closed visor.]

Apart from the pigeons, which are banished from the inside of  the house, there is a pervasive sense that the house is haunted by spectres. Philipp is frightened by the creaking and groaning sounds in the old house at night, and imagines ghosts residing under the bathtub, albeit jokingly. These textual images represent a playful appropriation by Geiger of  the gothic as a trope. The house in its various guises, e.g. as a castle, monastery, etc., has a strong tradition as the structure within which a haunting takes place. According to Jacques Derrida the house is the only possible site of a haunting: ‘haunting implies places, a habitation, and always a haunted house’.62 Certainly this assertion is justified if one examines the German term ‘unheimlich’ as it is used by Freud and as it relates to the spectral: The Freudian uncanny relies on the literal meaning and the slippage of, and within, the German unheimlich, meaning literally ‘unhomely’. For Freud, that which is unhomely emerges in the homely. Haunting cannot take place without the possibility of its internal eruption and interruption within and as a condition of a familiar, everyday place and space.63

In addition to Philipp’s experience of  the house, the episodes in the narrative which deal with earlier periods also ref lect a melancholy atmosphere engendered by abandoned spirits and neglected memories which have been relegated to the attic. This atmosphere is most keenly conjured during Peter and Richard’s search for Ingrid’s old dolls’ kitchen: Es ist, als enthielte die Luft den schon fast schwerelosen, seiner Farben beraubten Abrieb der dahingegangenen Ereignisse, die graue Asche Erinnerung, die mit den Jahren ausgekühlt ist. […] Peter […] schiebt sich zwischen den Kaminen und dem ausrangierten Krempel hindurch, als könnten ihn die Dinge, die hier durch leere Tage wachsen, mit Tentakeln anfassen. […] ein Tintenfaß steht dort, als werde jeden

62 Quoted in Julian Wolfreys, Victorian Hauntings: Spectrality, Gothic, the Uncanny and Literature (Basingstoke: Palgrave, 2002), p. 5. 63 Wolfreys, Victorian Hauntings, p. 5.

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Moment jemand kommen, sich niedersetzen und aus der Luft die dadaistischen Gedichte abschreiben, zu denen sich der Staub zur Erheiterung der Hausgeister gruppiert. Draußen der feuchte Garten […]. Zwischen den Giebeln schlaf fe Telefondrähte, die von den verlorenen Substanzen der stets hohl eintref fenden Stimmen längst verstopft sein müßten wie sklerotische Arterien. (EG, 219) [It is as if  the air contained the wear debris of past events, already almost weightless and robbed of colour, the grey ash of memory, that, with the years, has cooled of f. Peter pushes his way in between the chimneys and the discarded junk as if  the things that grow here through the empty days could touch him with their tentacles. An inkpot is sitting there, as if somebody could come in at any moment, sit down and write, out of  the air, the dadaistic poems into which the dust has grouped itself  to exhilarate the resident ghosts. Outside is the damp garden. Between the gables drooping telephone wires, which must long be clogged up with the lost substances of  the incoming hollow voices, like sclerotic arteries.]

Here we do not see the ‘Hausgeister’ themselves but merely the traces they have left behind. This accords with the view of  Wolfreys: ‘that which is spectral is only ever perceived indirectly by the traces it has left. […] There is no ghost but only, to employ a somewhat awkward formula, the ghost of a ghost or, rather its trace’.64 The pigeons likewise carry traces of  the dead and of  lost memories rather than actually embodying the ghosts of  the dead. Besides Philipp, other characters feel themselves surrounded by ‘Hausgeister’ at various stages in the narrative. Philipp’s grandmother Alma is comforted in her dreams by the presence of  her two dead children, Ingrid and Otto. In fact her dream life seems more real to her than her waking life: Jetzt hingegen lebt Alma in einem Zustand, als ob all das, was gerade vorfällt, sich nur im Schlaf zutragen könne. Immer wieder glaubt sie, aufwachen zu müssen, aber es ist umsonst, denn ihre Träume spiegeln immer Wünsche wider und nicht Ängste. Daran erkennt sie im Zusammenleben mit Richard auch leicht, daß sie wach ist. […] Immerhin, nach der Begegnung mit dem jüngsten ihrer Geisterkinder [i.e. Ingrid] fühlt sie sich auch innerlich hinreichend wiederhergestellt, den Alltag mit Richard durchzustehen. (EG, 37)

64 Wolfreys, Victorian Hauntings, p. 3.

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Chapter 4 [Now, on the other hand, Alma inhabits a state in which everything that is presently happening appears to be possible only in sleep. Time and again she thinks that she must wake up, but it is to no avail, because her dreams always ref lect wishes and not fears. Through her life with Richard she recognizes easily that she is awake. All the same, after the encounter with the youngest of  her ghost children [i.e. Ingrid] she feels herself suf ficiently restored inwardly to get through the day with Richard.]

The condition of  Heimat as uncanny is portrayed as the outcome of an enduring failure to tackle the burden of past mistakes and shortcomings, as well as by deep personal loss. While the novel focuses on the inheritance of  this burden through three generations of a particular family, allusions are also made to the uncanny nature of  Austria’s relationship to its history, in particular through Alma’s monologue to her husband (EG, 349). She comments on the sense of a lack of  linear progression to Austrian history, and on the sense, as Menasse has described it, that past, present and future have collapsed into an unending Now.65 A similar temporal conf lation is experienced in a personal sense through the recurring appearance of ghostly revenants. In consequence, this family may be regarded as an allegory of  Austrian society as a whole.

Melancholy Motifs In Geiger’s narrative, transitoriness is again employed as a means of constructing a melancholy atmosphere. This is achieved quite comprehensively through the use of various structural devices and motifs. The ‘a day in the life’ approach is an ef fective method of introducing and situating the characters’ lives within a broader historical context. These snapshots of  their lives also produce a sense of  transience, which is intensified at the end of most of  the chapters dealing with the past; as the end of  the respective day is reached, there is an image of not only the day 65 Menasse, Überbau und Underground, p. 157.

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itself  fading away, but also of  the whole scene fading into the past and into oblivion. This is most poignantly realized at the end of  the chapter set in 1938: ‘Der Wind bläst langsam die Farbe aus den Dingen heraus. Auf der Mauer, auf der Mauer sitzt a dicke. Wie lange wird das irgendwann her sein? Richard geht davon aus, daß er sich erinnern wird’ [The wind slowly blows the colour out of  things. On the wall, on the wall sits a fat one. How long ago will that at some time have been? Richard assumes that he will remember] (EG, 91). We already know that Richard later develops Alzheimer’s disease and will not be able to remember this scene. Again in the chapter dealing with 1945 there appears a stark vision of a landscape being stripped of  light and colour: Dann liegt die Dunkelheit dichtgepackt auf der träge dahinrollenden Donau […] An manchen Stellen sind Himmel und Landschaft eine fest verklumpte Masse, es wirkt, als hätte der Krieg auch den Hügeln und dem Fluß eine Essenz entzogen, etwas Phosphoreszierendes, das ihnen in friedlichen Nächten Glanz verlieh. (EG, 123–124) [Then the darkness lies tightly packed on the languidly f lowing Danube. At some points the sky and the landscape form a firmly clumped mass; it seems as if  the war had also extracted an essence from the hills and the river, something phosphorescent that, in peaceful nights, lent them a glow.]

At the very end of  the chapter the transience of all things, even war, is emphasized again: ‘Auf der Donau, die gerade eine weite Biegung macht, beginnen die Spuren (des Krieges) sich bereits wieder zu verwischen. Das Kielwasser glättet sich. […] Die Donau rauscht vorüber, das Meer wird nicht voller. Letzten Endes’ [On the Danube, which is just turning a wide bend, the traces (of  the war) are already starting to wear away. The backwash is smoothing itself out. The Danube is rushing by, but the sea is not getting fuller. After all] (EG, 130). The chapter set in 1978 presents a spectacular sunset as its finale: Langsam vollzieht sich der Ablauf der Zeit. Die Sonne verglüht, die orangefarbene Scheibe sackt ab, tiefer und tiefer, verwaschen im Dunst […] Dann ein Sonnenuntergang wie ein Gemetzel. Die bewaldeten Hügel scheinen der Sonne hinterher unter die glitschige Horizontlinie zu stürzen. Und der Himmel reißt sich drachengleich los und löst sich in der Höhe in nichts auf. (EG, 324)

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Chapter 4 [Slowly the passage of  time is completed. The sun dies down, the orange-coloured disc sinks, deeper and deeper, washed-out in the haze. Then a sunset like a massacre. The wooded hills seem to collapse after the sun under the slippery horizon. And the sky tears itself away like a kite and dissolves, high above, into nothing.]

The motif of  the photograph is related to the above images of fading colour and is used a number of  times through the narrative. It is a common motif utilized to represent transience. However, the photographs described in the text are doubly expressive in this regard since they seek to capture the past rather than the present: Philipp is depicted as imagining grainy, faded photographs, and thus images that represent the distant past (EG, 141). A similar image emerges later in the novel, while Peter is filming his children: Peter filmt auch die T-Shirts. Er geht sehr nahe ran. Später einmal, wenn er zu Hause im Keller eine Vorführung gibt, werden die kräftigen Batikfarben blaß sein und etwas zusätzlich Körniges und Weiches haben, wie die Luft in der Früh, wie etwas, das seine Bedeutung erst in der Zukunft zugewiesen bekommt, wie etwas, das sich erst in der Zukunft begibt. (EG, 323) [Peter also films the t-shirts. He goes very close to them. Later, when he is giving a presentation at home in the cellar, the strong batik colours will be pale and will have something grainy and soft about them, like the air in the early morning, like something that will only be assigned meaning in the future, like something that will only come to pass in the future.]

Here again we have the impression that past, present and future are being absorbed into one. As in the previous quotation, the images are being relegated to the past as soon as they are produced. This is obviously the very nature of photography; the images which it captures already belong to the past by the time the photograph is developed. This is also true of  filming; when one views the film again the scene portrayed is part of  the past. However, in the above scenarios the pictures produced do not represent a true image of what they depict, but instead consign the scenes depicted to a distant past by robbing them of vibrancy and colour. By believing that they will only have meaning in the future, as in the last quotation, these images are deprived of a lasting relevance in the present.

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Dust is used as a motif  to capture the transient nature of memories in the text. This is apparent in the scene with Richard and Peter in the attic, which is cited above in relation to the appearance of spectres. The motif of dust again appears in the context of  Richard’s musings later in the scene, in which he reveals his recognition of  the state of relations within the family: ‘Vielleicht liefern sich die Sonnenstäubchen in der Luft tausend kleine Schlagabtausche und erzeugen statt Erinnerungsromantik eine Atmosphäre nervöser Feindseligkeit’ [Maybe the dust particles that appear in the sunlight are exchanging thousands of  little blows and are creating an atmosphere of nervous animosity instead of  the romance of memory] (EG, 221). Alma’s memories are also depicted as being reduced to dust: Die Namen dieser Kinder, die Alma einmal wußte, sind vergessen. Ihre Vorstadtakzente haben sich abgeschlif fen wie Steine in einem Gletscher. Das Knarren der längst verfaulten Fässer, das Wiehern der Pferde und der Nachhall der nackten Kinderfüße auf dem Boden geistern noch, jedes Geräusch isoliert in einem eigenen Gedanken, durch die allmählich austrocknenden Gehirne, Erinnerungsstaub, der sich zurück in die Substanz der Ereignisse setzt, weil weder Luft noch Zeit ihn allzulange tragen. (EG, 42) [The names of  these children, who Alma once knew, are forgotten. Their suburban accents have been worn down like stones in a glacier. The creaking of  the long decomposed barrels, the neighing of  the horses and the echo of  the children’s naked feet on the f loor continue to haunt the gradually dessicating brains, every noise isolated in a thought of its own, memory dust, that turns itself  back into the substance of events, because neither air nor time can carry it for long.]

The motif of  time is also central to the novel. As we have already seen, the impression of  time passing quickly and of  being unable to control the passing of  time is a concern for most of  the characters. This is most obvious in the case of  Richard, whose desire for power extends to the wish to control time: der Großvater, […] ein Graukopf, der jeden Samstagabend seine Uhren aufzog und dieses Ritual als Kunststück vorführte, dem die Enkel beiwohnen durften. Grad so, als sei es in der Macht des alten Mannes gestanden, der Zeit beim Rinnen behilf lich zu sein oder sie daran zu hindern. (EG, 9)

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Chapter 4 [The grandfather, a grey-haired man who wound his clocks every Saturday evening, and who presented this ritual as a feat that the grandchildren were allowed to be present at. Just as if it were in the power of  the old man to help time to f low or to prevent it from doing so.]

The connection between transience and repetition is conveyed via an understanding of  the pointlessness of our ef forts, which only appear even more meaningless through repetition, as seen previously in Philipp’s metaphor of  handwriting exercises. This connection is clearly made again later in the context of  Philipp’s relationship to Johanna, where he imagines how touching her breasts f leetingly can become something lasting, in that the moment can be endlessly repeated (EG, 329). The notion of  transience also has significance within the theory of posthistoire given that the idea of posthistoire is based on the sense that the present is without consequence, as it no longer implies a progression toward the future. Ludger Heidbrink’s assessment of  Schopenhauer’s philosophy invites a comparison with Philipp as the ‘mißlingende Existenz’: Die ‘resignierte Trauer’ Schopenhauers ist dabei weniger unmittelbarer Ausdruck eines historischen Leidens als einer mißlingenden Existenz, die unter der Herrschaft der Leere der Zeit steht. Die Nichtigkeit des Daseins ist im wesentlichen eine der ‘Vergänglichkeit der Dinge’, die entweder ohne Gegenwart bleiben oder in einer reinen Gegenwärtigkeit vergehen.66 [Schopenhauer’s ‘resigned sorrow’ is therefore less a direct expression of  historical suf fering than of a failed existence that is dominated by the emptiness of  time. The nothingness of  being is, to a large extent, due to the ‘transitoriness of  things’, which either exist outside of  the present or elapse in a pure reiteration of  the present.]

Finally, this particular family history is itself distinctly attributed a transitory nature through the loss of meaning: Es ist, als würde nach und nach mit der Feuchtigkeit auch die Bedeutung aus den Gegenständen gepreßt. Wohin man schaut, verklumpen sich die abgelegten Dinge zu einem Grundstof f, einer Materie, die Generationen vermengt, zu eingedickter, eingeschrumpfter, ihrer Farben beraubter Familiengeschichte. (EG, 362–363) 66 Heidbrink, Melancholie und Moderne, p. 267.

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[It is as if, little by little, the meaning has been pressed out of  the objects along with the moisture. Wherever one looks, the abandoned things clump together into a basic material, a material that mixes the generations together into condensed, shrunken family history, robbed of colour.]

This image also evokes the condition of dryness as well as a sense of neglect and abandonment. The weather appears as a significant theme in the context of  the discussion of posthistoire, as well as in relation to Philipp’s fantasies of power. This motif is introduced through the character of  Johanna, who is a meteorologist. It reinforces the sense of  historical detachment since the weather appears to represent an ahistorical replacement for political or social engagement. It is an unpredictable force which captures Philipp’s capricious imagination and prevents him from having to deal with more consequential issues. The weather is a phenomenon he can approach passively since it is outside his control. Early in the novel, in conversation with Johanna about his parents, Philipp says: ‘Ich finde es ausgesprochen sinnlos, hier etwas nachholen zu wollen. Da denke ich lieber über das Wetter nach.’ […] Über das Wetter vom Tag, das Johanna in ihren Haaren mitbringt, über das Wetter der kommenden Tage, das aus den Ausdrucken, den Tabellen und Computersimulationen in ihrer Tasche zu erschließen sein müßte. ‘Über das Wetter statt über die Liebe statt über das Vergessen statt über den Tod’. (EG, 10) [‘I find it downright meaningless, wanting to make up for something here. I would prefer to think about the weather.’ About the weather that day, that Johanna brought with her in her hair, about the weather of the coming days, which it should be possible to deduce from the print-outs, charts and computer simulations in her bag. ‘About the weather instead of about love instead of about forgetting instead of about death’.]

The weather appears only as a negative force in the novel, both in Philipp’s thoughts and in actuality. He uses the metaphor of clouds in regard to his relationship with Johanna, while he describes the heat of summer as like being slapped in the face (EG, 281). The sudden appearance of  hailstones later in the text provokes a feeling of  loneliness in him, as observed above.

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Conclusion In this chapter I have interpreted the protagonist’s passivity and detachment primarily by associating the manifestations of  his melancholy with the manifestations of a posthistorical existence. Debating posthistoire, I analysed Fukuyama’s narrowly-defined theory, which focuses on political systems and a short historical timespan, as well as other models which prof fer a more wide-ranging understanding of  historical progress. Most significant is the juxtaposition of  the concept of  history as a linear progression with the idea that history evolves through cycles. Those who oppose the idea that history has come, or is coming, to an end, nevertheless observe a sense of meaninglessness in contemporary society. These theories have come to the fore in the aftermath of  the fall of  the Iron Curtain and feed in to an interpretation of  the present narrative from a number of perspectives. It has been shown that the narrative’s posthistorical tone derives not only from the protagonist’s frame of mind but also from the narrative perspective, which contextualizes Philipp’s present circumstances within his family history. Furthermore, the repetitive circularity of  the narrative structure contributes to the sense of purposelessness and loss of progression. The protagonist’s inability to find any future direction is more concretely connected with his dif ficulty in coming to terms with the past. This is a legacy which has been inherited from his grandparents’ generation, when the immediate past was forgotten in favour of rebuilding the country. In fact varying conceptions of  history, both within and across the generations, have been a continual source of  tension in the family. However, it is the ghosts of  the family’s unresolved secrets and guilt that weigh heavily on the protagonist, as well as on other family members, leading to a sense of isolation and fragmentation. Philipp’s melancholy connection to the past is further elucidated through his writing, particularly in his attempts to erase the past by adopting a synchronic rather than diachronic perspective on the lives of various members of  the family, from distant ancestors to immediate relatives. His fantastical stories are shown to be a means of evading a true engagement with the past while also having the psychological function of

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substituting for the many gaps in the family history. These various ghostly imaginings are all examples of  the failure of present conditions to gain any hold on the protagonist’s life. The novel’s spectrality is further epitomized in the protagonist’s relationship to the house he has inherited from his grandparents and the allusion to Gothic tropes. It is quite stereotypically haunted by the family’s memories, the physical remnants of which Philipp immediately eliminates from the house. His later decision to retrieve his grandmother’s letters is evidence of  his ambivalent relationship to the house, as is his desire to spend his days on the threshold and in the garden rather than in the interior of  the house. The melancholy nature of  this stance is elucidated through theories on the relationship to interior spaces, as well as the boundary between interior and exterior space. Finally, the melancholy motif of  transience is shown to be employed through many manifestations in the novel, including photographic images as well as the images of dust and dryness. The associated motif of  time is shown to have a significant impact on the grandfather’s life; and lastly the weather is shown to lend a further element of melancholy to the portrayal of  the protagonist. All of  these motifs have the ef fect of compellingly intensifying the loss of connections to the past and the emptiness of  the present. In conclusion, an evaluation of  the narrative as a posthistoire narrative is justified by the fact that it does not attempt to claim that the end of  history has in actuality been reached but rather depicts the conditions of a posthistorical existence in its subjective realization. It is the experience of melancholy detachment which is of interest within these circumstances, since external matters are no longer of any consequence.

Chapter 5

Alois Hotschnig’s Ludwigs Zimmer: Evidence of a Pre-Psychological Melancholy Paradigm

Introduction The Austrian author Alois Hotschnig has published four prose narratives: Aus (Out), Eine Art Glück (A Kind of  Happiness), Leonardos Hände (Leonardo’s Hands) and Ludwigs Zimmer (Ludwig’s Room); a play entitled Absolution; and two books of short stories: Die Kinder beruhigte das nicht (That did not calm the children) and Im Sitzen läuft es sich besser davon (It’s easier to run away while sitting).1 Most of  his work is permeated by an almost overwhelming preoccupation with death. Its fatalistic portrayal, and in particular its association with the motif of  the earth, engenders a melancholy tone. In this chapter I will focus on the novel Ludwigs Zimmer, published in 2000. While Hotschnig’s previous work lacked any historical focus, this narrative introduces the historical context of  the Austrian Resistance during the Second World War; nevertheless, the specific events of  the past remain mysterious for much of  the novel. The central question pertaining to this narrative is how the relationship between melancholy and 1

Alois Hotschnig, Aus (Frankfurt am Main: Luchterhand, 1989); Alois Hotschnig, Eine Art Glück (Frankfurt am Main: Luchterhand, 1990); Alois Hotschnig, Leonardos Hände (Hamburg: Luchterhand, 1992); Alois Hotschnig, Absolution (Cologne: Kiepenheuer & Witsch, 1994); Alois Hotschnig, Ludwigs Zimmer (Cologne: Kiepenheuer & Witsch, 2000); Alois Hotschnig, Die Kinder beruhigte das nicht (Cologne: Kiepenheuer & Witsch, 2006); Alois Hotschnig, Im Sitzen läuft es sich besser davon (Cologne: Kiepenheuer & Witsch, 2009).

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history is to be defined, and how the function of melancholy discourse is to be conceived. Furthermore, this chapter attempts to reframe longstanding debates about melancholy in the context of current cultural discourses on genealogy and generational memory by addressing the question as to whether melancholy may be considered of  historical or biological origin in this narrative. Along with a textual analysis of  the novel itself, this chapter will also approach Hotschnig’s work from the point of view of  the writing process and what it reveals about the melancholy of  the author himself. Ludwigs Zimmer is set in Landskron, a provincial area of  Kärnten in Austria, near the town of  Villach. The main protagonist, Kurt Weber, has just inherited the house of  his grandaunt and granduncle, Anna and Georg, and proceeds to rid the house of all traces of  them. He also cuts down the trees which Georg had planted around the house to represent the members of  the extended family. In the course of  the novel Kurt comes into contact with Georg’s and Anna’s friends, in particular Inge and Herr Gärtner. It is Inge who finally reveals to him the secret of  the room of  the title. It becomes clear that Ludwig, a brother of  Georg’s, was involved with the Resistance during the Second World War, along with Inge, and was captured and taken at first to the concentration camp at Mauthausen and subsequently to the Loibl Pass labour camp. Although he was later released, the incidence of  his capture has had a lasting impact on the family up to the present time. Those most directly af fected were Paul, his brother, and Inge, his then girlfriend. Paul’s innocent friendship with a Nazi led to Ludwig’s arrest, and, being unable to bear his guilt, Paul hanged himself. As Inge had inadvertently led the Nazis to Ludwig’s hiding place, she feels that a part of  her died that day. Herr Gärtner is similarly troubled by earlier events. However, the protagonist is able to help the older generation to make peace with the past, at least to some extent, through journeys to the places which were significant to them. These journeys are particularly important to the two former lovers, Inge and Ludwig; though they never actually meet again, each of  them travels to these places with Kurt. There is the sense that they are not really capable of physically facing each other again but that they can emotionally connect with each other and with their past selves through the memories evoked by the landscape. As for Kurt, he realizes by the end of  the novel that he belongs to the area, to Landskron,

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just as much as those who have lived there all their lives, even though he perceives every element of  the landscape here as marked by the past and the memories of others. The first section of  this chapter deals with the manifestations of melancholy in Ludwigs Zimmer in their relation to a baroque sensibility as well as from the point of view of classical humoral theories. The following section will deal with the nature of  family and other relationships, and with the concept of melancholy as a group phenomenon. The third section will focus on the relationship to place and to Heimat and also on the motif of  the house. It will also examine how this narrative contributes to the continuing Austrian tradition of  Heimat discourse. The next section will discuss the significance of  the historical background of  the novel and of  the central event in the past as a mysterious presence in the text. The idea of  the Holocaust as ‘Erbsünde’ will be examined in this context. I will then address the notion of writing as a ‘cure’ for or a means of counteracting the melancholy condition, as put forward by various authors, such as Robert Burton, and more recently Julia Kristeva and W.G. Sebald. A conclusion can then be reached as to whether the melancholy of  the narrative emanates from specific historical experiences or whether it is rather to be comprehended as a transhistorical and as such an anti-psychological or prepsychological phenomenon, which, in the case of  the Austrian tradition, is peculiarly connected with the relationship to Heimat and to landscape.

Representations of a Baroque Sensibility or a Pre-Psychological Conception of  Melancholy? This narrative is almost entirely taken over by the motif of the earth and the associated motifs of death and burial. Since antiquity earth, as one of  the four elements, has been linked to black bile, as one of  the four humours, and thus to the melancholy condition. It is the earliest and most fundamental of melancholy motifs, as was expressed most eloquently by the

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Renaissance humanist Marsilio Ficino: ‘It was the black bile which “obliges thought to penetrate and explore the centre of its objects, because the black bile is itself akin to the centre of  the earth. Likewise it raises thought to the comprehension of  the highest, because it corresponds to the highest of  the planets”.’ 2 While this motif is brought to the fore in Hotschnig’s prose, his view remains focused on melancholy as a pathological condition, and he never engages with the positive aspects of melancholy. In fact, his conception is more closely linked to the formal association made between melancholy and death in the Middle Ages through the relationship of  Saturn with Chronos: The association of melancholy with Saturn, and Saturn with the god Chronos, Chronos with time and universal death as well as harvest and the change of  the seasons, laid the foundation for an astonishing allegorical complexity attached to the original medical accounts of  the melancholy disposition.3

For an understanding of  the preoccupation with universal death within historical tradition one must look predominantly to the Baroque era. The most obvious text in this regard is Thomas Browne’s Urne Burial, in which he details at length the interment practices of various dif ferent peoples, and, particularly in the last chapter, contemplates the transitory nature of  human life, which is always lived in the shadow of death: If we begin to die when we live, and long life be but a prolongation of death, our life is a sad composition; We live with death, and die not in a moment. […] There is no antidote against the Opium of  time, which temporally considereth all things; Our Fathers finde their graves in our short memories, and sadly tell us how we may be buried in our Survivors. […] Generations passe while some trees stand, and old Families last not three Oaks.4

2 3 4

Klibansky, Panofsky and Saxl, Saturn and Melancholy, p. 259. Max Pensky, Melancholy Dialectics: Walter Benjamin and the Play of  Mourning (Amherst: Univ. of  Massachusetts Press, 1993), p. 30. Thomas Browne, Hydrotaphia, or Urne Buriall: A brief discourse of the sepulchrall urnes lately found in Norfolk, in The Works of  Sir Thomas Browne, ed. by Geof frey Keynes, 2nd edn, 4 vols (London: Faber & Faber, 1928), vol. 1, 129–172 (pp. 164–166).

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This concept of vanitas was dominant in the Baroque period: an awareness of  the hopelessness and meaninglessness of life in the face of the universality of death.5 Hotschnig also uses the metaphor of a living death and of  being buried alive in the novel to illustrate the inability to orient oneself in the world, which af fects all his characters. The evident desolation of the narrative in the face of  the endless and seemingly meaningless cycle of  birth and death is ref lected in the Baroque era in the realization of man’s inability to escape his fate, that of  being bound irrevocably to the earth and to natural history with no possibility of  transcendence. Benjamin has analysed this conception of  the world as it is expressed in the Baroque ‘Trauerspiel’: Der religiöse Mensch des Barock hält an der Welt so fest, weil er mit ihr sich einem Katarakt entgegen treiben fühlt. Es gibt keine barocke Eschatologie; und eben darum einen Mechanismus, der alles Erdgeborne häuft und exaltiert, bevor es sich dem Ende überliefert. Das Jenseits wird entleert von alledem, worin auch nur der leiseste Atem von Welt webt.6 [The religious man of  the baroque era clings so tightly to the world because of  the feeling that he is being driven along to a cataract with it. The baroque knows no eschatology; and for that very reason it possesses no mechanism by which all earthly things are gathered in together and exalted before being consigned to their end. The hereafter is emptied of everything which contains the slightest breath of  this world.]

However, the concomitant lack of  belief in transcendence in the postmodern age is not in any way thematized by Hotschnig in this novel; no hope of escape is of fered from the chains that bind these characters to the earth. In Ludwigs Zimmer melancholy is represented as a group phenomenon, almost as a universal phenomenon. This notion will be expanded on in the next section dealing with genealogy. A distinct association with the Baroque is therefore again evident in his work in this regard. We see for instance in the seminal work on melancholy by Robert Burton, entitled

5 Klibansky, Panofsky and Saxl, Saturn und Melancholie, pp. 540–544. 6 Benjamin, Ursprung des deutschen Trauerspiels, p. 56. Translation by John Osborne: The Origin of  German Tragic Drama (London: NLB, 1977), p. 66.

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The Anatomy of  Melancholy, that he believes melancholy to af fect not only individual human beings but entire states: But for as much as I undertooke at first, that Kingdomes, Provinces, Families, were melancholy as well as private men, I will examine them in particular, and that which I have hitherto dilated at randome, in more generall tearmes, I will now particularly insist in.7

Animals and vegetables are also considered to be af f licted by melancholy: This melancholy extends it selfe not to men onely, but even to vegetals and sensibles. I speake not of  those creatures which are Saturnine, Melancholy by nature, as Lead, and such like Minerals, or those Plants, Rue, Cypresse, &c. and Hellebor it selfe, of which Agrippa treats, Fishes, Birds, and Beasts, Hares, Conies, Dormice, &c. Owles, Battes, Nightbirds, but that artificiall, which is perceaved in them all.8

Burton based his own theories heavily on the ancient concepts of melancholy. According to the theory of  the four humours, each humour is to be found in each person in varying degrees; therefore, the ancients believed black bile, which comes from the Latin translation of  the Greek ‘melancholy’, to be present in everyone to a certain extent. It was only those with an excess of  the humour who would suf fer from melancholy; however, this excess could be produced in anyone through too much heat or cold or by digestive problems, albeit temporarily.9 Despite the obvious similarities with a Baroque sensibility evident in the novel, I believe that on the whole it represents an attempt to portray a purely physiological, pre-psychological conception of melancholy, dominated by the classical theory of  the four humours. While one may speculate on the psychological causes of  the characters’ melancholy, whether transgenerational traumatization due to historical events or a loss of  the belief in transcendence, such causes are not explored in the novel. The Robert Burton, ‘Democritus Junior to the Reader’, in The Anatomy of  Melancholy, ed. by Thomas C. Faulkner, Nicolas K. Kiessling and Rhonda L. Blair, 3 vols (Oxford: Clarendon, 1989), vol. 1, p. 60. 8 Burton, The Anatomy of  Melancholy, p. 66. 9 Klibansky, Panofsky and Saxl, Saturn and Melancholy, esp. pp. 25–31. 7

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Second World War and the Austrian Resistance do inform the historical backdrop of  the novel, but this historical context is thematized quite late in an already short text; furthermore, I consider the primary historical event, i.e. the capture of  Ludwig, as a prop which is employed to fuel melancholy sentiments in the narrative, but is itself not a suf ficient cause for the omnipresent melancholy af fecting all characters. This will be expanded on later in the chapter.

Melancholy and Genealogy The melancholy in this narrative is inherited through the generations; it is implied that each member of  the extended family is similarly af f licted. One is led in fact to the impression that the whole community is somehow in the grip of melancholy. The narrator sees it as something which is inherent in his family and in the people of  the area, as well as something which comes to the fore in our relationships with others. This all-encompassing concept is invoked in the motifs of death and burial and also those of entrapment and enchainment. On the one hand, then, it can be surmised that melancholy is conceived as a universal human condition in this narrative; on the other hand, however, it is insinuated that the people living in this area, including the narrator’s family, have something to hide, which may be considered the cause of  their melancholy. The question then is what relationship exists between these two possible sources of melancholy. The former may be deemed a biological determiner, the latter as a kind of  historical or cultural inheritance. In order to examine these legacies more closely one must consider the dif ferences between the concepts of genealogy and generation, as highlighted by Sigrid Weigel in Genea-Logik.10 Genealogy represents an inheritance of  family tradition and family traits in an unbroken lineage reaching back to the 10 Weigel, Genea-Logik, pp. 59–65.

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original progenitor; generation, at least since the early nineteenth century, is defined as encompassing a specific period in time, each successive generation representing a progressive advancement through history, and a continual iteration of  the new. Genealogy, therefore, can be equated with biological inheritance, as well as with family and tradition, while the concept of generation is linked more to the sense of a cultural and historical legacy; it provides also for a synchronic, societal perspective on those living within the same generation, whereas genealogy is based on a more narrowly diachronic, familial perception. These relationships have been characterized as horizontal and vertical respectively by Pierre Nora, who laments the fact that horizontal solidarity has taken over from an identification with genealogical connections with the family and the nation.11 As regards the novel, the sense that the characters’ melancholy is due to a purely natural inheritance is much more pervasive than the occasional references to any possible historical causes. The narrative begins with Kurt’s inheritance of  his granduncle’s house, a genealogical inheritance according to the above categorization, which he believes he should never have taken on, the house being the symbolic carrier of  the family’s melancholy: ‘Ich hätte die Erbschaft nicht antreten dürfen, damit fing es an, dieses Haus hat schon andere vor mir nicht glücklich gemacht’ [I shouldn’t have taken on the inheritance, that’s what started it; this house already made others before me unhappy].12 He has come here in order to f lee his own life. He is hiding here from something in his past, just as the people of  the area may be seen to be concealing their guilt. They are depicted by Kurt’s neighbour Herr Gärtner as living in a state of such stillness that it resembles rigor mortis, this stillness having been bred by the trees which cover everything: ‘Die Menschen hier haben einen Hang zur Verwilderung, müssen sie wissen, die geht still und schleichend vor sich und wächst alles zu. Diese Stille, diese 11

12

Pierre Nora, Realms of  Memory: Rethinking the French Past, ed. by Lawrence D. Kritzman, trans. by Arthur Goldhammer, 3 vols (New York: Columbia University Press, 1996), Vol. 1: ‘Conf licts & Divisions’, 499–531 (p. 527f.); also referenced in Sigrid Weigel, Genea-Logik, pp. 111–114. Alois Hotschnig, Ludwigs Zimmer, p. 7. The novel will hereafter be referenced as follows: (LZ, page number).

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Totenstille zu Lebzeiten, an der die Frau Reger erstickt ist, mit dieser Stille haben Sie Schluß gemacht’ [The people here have a penchant for wildness, you should know; it advances silently and stealthily and grows over everything. This silence, this silence of  the dead in life, on which Mrs. Reger choked, you have got rid of  this silence] (LZ, 39). While a sense of guilt is not manifestly expressed here, the propensity to live in such a state of silence indicates that there is something which cannot be exposed. The key secret which haunts much of  the narrative concerns Ludwig’s room and why Georg, Kurt’s granduncle, frequently locked himself into this room and would never allow Kurt to come in. His attempts throughout childhood to find out who Ludwig was and what had happened in this room were all in vain. No member of  the family was ever prepared to speak about the past, which means that Kurt is likewise unable to explore the reasons behind Paul’s suicide: ‘Im Totschweigen waren wir immer schon gut, und so war nun auch Schweigen die Antwort auf meine Fragen nach Paul’ [We were always good at hushing things up, and so silence was also the answer now to my questions about Paul] (LZ, 94). Silence was the principal mode of operation for the family as a whole: it was the means by which the past could be cancelled out and undesirable family members in the present could be easily eliminated from memory (LZ, 94–95). We later learn that the dead are actually spoken about during the family gatherings, but only by those who do not carry the baggage of  the principal characters in the narrative. However, the lives of  these deceased relatives are also somehow unpalatable to the living as they do not remember them as they really were but rather as they wish they had been: Die Toten lebten in den Erzählungen auf, in denen man sie sich zurechtlog, wie man sie immer schon hätte haben wollen. Über alles wurde gesprochen und über alle gelacht, doch von Georg kein Wort und von Ludwig und Anna und Paul, über die Landskroner Vergangenheit schwieg man sich aus, immer schon. (LZ, 160) [The dead came to life in the stories in which one lied about them in order to get them into the place where one always wanted to have them. Everything was spoken about and everyone laughed about, but there was no word about Georg, and one kept quiet about Ludwig and Anna and Paul, about the Landskron past, as always.]

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The past, therefore, in this family’s conception, is something which can be bent and manipulated at will. However, most interestingly, the narrator reveals that the present has always been suf ficient to fuel the family’s unhappiness: ‘Zum eigenen Unglück hatte ihnen die Gegenwart immer gereicht, es war seßhaft geworden in ihnen und wucherte weiter auf jeden, der sich einließ auf sie, dazu brauchte es diese Vergangenheit nicht’ [For their own unhappiness the present had always been suf ficient, it had settled in them and continued to run riot over everyone who got involved with them; it didn’t need this past for that] (LZ, 160). There is the sense that there exists a great store of melancholy within the family, with which each generation will become infected. This biological inheritance far outweighs the inf luence of any historical legacies, as can be recognized throughout the novel. Most powerful is the connection between birth and death as well as the literally deadly ef fect of all relationships, particularly familial ones. The sensation of  being dead from the moment of  birth is not only genealogically determined but is further reinforced by one’s ties to the next generation: Wir rutschen aus unseren Müttern heraus und sind tot, und mit diesem Tod hört es nicht auf, das ist erst der Anfang. Wir sterben an unseren Eltern, erst sterben wir an unseren Vätern und an den Müttern, dann sterben wir an unseren Männern und Frauen, dann sterben wir an unseren Kindern, und letztlich und in allem sterben wir immer nur an uns selbst. (LZ, 51) [We slip out of our mothers and are dead, and it doesn’t stop with this death, that is just the beginning. We die because of our parents, first we die because of our fathers and mothers, then we die because of our husbands and wives, then we die because of our children, and, lastly and in all cases, we die only because of ourselves.]

Paradoxically, these familial bonds merely hide from us the individual nature of our melancholy suf fering. The narrator realizes that he is trapped in a cage of  his own making, an escape from which is only ever an illusion (LZ, 42). Nevertheless, our weakness and fear of  being forever trapped in our cages disables us, and we need these bonds just as much as we despise them, as expressed by Herr Gärtner: ‘Zuf lucht, sagte er, Angst, mein Leben lang habe ich Zuf lucht gesucht, bei anderen, überall, und habe doch immer

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nur mich selbst vorgefunden dabei. Ablehnung, Ekel’ [Refuge, he said, fear, my whole life I have sought refuge, from others, everywhere, and have only ever found myself. Denial, disgust] (LZ, 51–52). Connections to family and others are both essential and lethal: one cannot live with them but neither can one live without them (LZ, 40). There is a strong tendency towards suicide within the family, and those who do not kill themselves face a lifelong yearning for death, living each day as if it were their last. Kurt’s grandfather, for example, believed every night to be his last, thus spent his life not in living, but in merely waiting for death (LZ, 92). Kurt’s parents are similarly obsessed with dying. During his childhood his mother continuously pronounced that she no longer wanted to live, and frequently retreated to a hiding place for indefinite periods of  time. His father often visits the graveyard and imagines himself soon lying in his own grave: ‘Ein Leben als Zukunft hat für mein Vater nie existiert, unsere Zukunft ist seit jeher seine Angst vor der Zukunft gewesen, sein Hinken, sein Auch-bald-dort-unten-im-Grab-Liegen’ [A life as the future never existed for my father, our future has always been his fear of  the future, his limping, his Also-soon-lying-down-there-in-the-grave] (LZ, 96). Kurt has osmotically absorbed this way of  thinking over the years and cannot now change it (LZ, 96). Besides, he knows that he is no dif ferent from any other member of  this family: he has always and will always belong with them since he is dead just as they are (LZ, 129). The impression of  the strength of genealogical, indeed deeply genetic connections is most accentuated here: the family relatives are not only alike but identical to each other. As seen above, birth and death are the only options open to the family, life itself  being unbearable for the family members. Indeed having children is employed as a hopeless method of  f leeing any dif ficulties, of which there were plenty (LZ, 92). However, this constant reproduction only increases the ties which bind them all to each other. Kurt provides us with a visceral image of  the pathological relationships within the family, in which birth and death are so closely interlinked:

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The association with the umbilical cord relates to another passage in the novel in which birth and death are similarly conceived, this time by Herr Gärtner. It is not, however, an image which evokes the natural cycle of  life: there is no comfort to be gained here from constant rebirth: Man sagt mir, ich stehe beim Tod in der Kreide. Was ist denn das Lebende, was ist denn das Sterbende, was, Geburtsbetten sind immer auch Sterbebetten gewesen, Geburtsorte und Sterbeorte zugleich, wie Geburtstage vorweggenommene Sterbetage sind. Und doch pf lanzen sie sich alle irgendwann fort, gnadenlos, ohne Rücksicht, sie zeugen und pf lanzen sich fort, sich wiederholen, heißt es, einmal genügt man sich nicht. So laufen sie vor sich und vor einander davon, indem sie sich wiederholen. Doch sie entkommen sich nicht. (LZ, 87–88) [It is said to me, I am deeply beholden to death. What is living then, what is dying, what, birth beds have always been death beds too, places of  birth and at the same time places of death, just as birth days are anticipated death days. And still they all reproduce at some point, mercilessly, without any consideration, they procreate and reproduce, it’s called repeating themselves; one of oneself is not enough. And thus they run ahead of  themselves and away from one another, by repeating themselves. Nevertheless they do not escape one another.]

There is a strong sense of desolation throughout the narrative in the face of  the endlessness of  this self-perpetuating cycle of  birth and death. Yet it is not only familial relationships which cause this despair, as already seen. The motif of enchainment is used throughout the narrative to characterize all personal relationships. The paradoxical nature of  these relationships means that a strong desire to be alone is matched by a longing for certain people

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to whom one is inextricably bound. Yet these binds evoke overwhelming negative connotations, such as the sensation of being on a leash, which is pulled ever tighter, resulting finally in death (LZ, 47, 64). Relationships outside the family are also bound into a birth and death cycle, in which melancholy despair can similarly be passed on. For Herr Gärtner every relationship represents a birth but also a death, since each person, although involuntarily, represents an abyss into which the loved one is lured (LZ, 131). Through the insights of  both Kurt, the narrator and Herr Gärtner melancholy is portrayed in the narrative as an unmistakably pathological condition, indeed a contagion. In the case of Herr Gärtner the reasons given for such a vehement standpoint are not suf ficient: we are provided with little information about his past apart from his apparently close relations with the other named characters, i.e. Georg, Ludwig, Paul, Anna and Inge; the incidences of  Ludwig’s capture and imprisonment and Paul’s suicide do not of fer a satisfactory explanation for such an all-encompassing view of mankind. As regards Kurt, we learn nothing at all about his past except that he has left it behind, including his girlfriend Vera. He has obviously had no direct involvement with the historical events cited, although he is preoccupied by them. The melancholy of  both protagonists must be recognized therefore as having a much more archaic, fundamental nature, carried genetically within the body and capable of  being transmitted osmotically through relations with others. Kurt is marked by the sign of  the melancholiac in another regard in that he experiences hallucinatory dreams. His strong connection with the lifeless world is further emphasized by these dreams in which he is haunted by death. Through these hallucinations he gains insight into the nature of  the family’s melancholy. In her analysis of melancholy Susan Sontag writes: Precisely because the melancholy character is haunted by death, it is melancholics who best know how to read the world. Or, rather, it is the world which yields itself  to the melancholic’s scrutiny, as it does to no one else’s. The more lifeless things are, the more potent and ingenious can be the mind which contemplates them.13

13

Susan Sontag, Under the Sign of  Saturn (London: Writers and Readers, 1983 [New York: Farrer, Straus & Giroux, 1980]), pp. 119–120.

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The most significant dream is one which depicts the repressed guilt of  his family, which he has been chosen to reveal. In the dream Kurt sees the dead bodies of many birds in the garden; in fact the ground is completely covered with them. Slowly he realizes that these are not in fact birds at all but humans. Other family members are present but none of  them can see these bodies apart from Kurt. This dream exposes a far more sinister, if indeterminate, secret than anything we have been directly informed about in the narrative, yet it is never referred to again. Further nightmares involve the rooms of  the house f looding with water except for Ludwig’s room, where an old woman is sitting; another depicts blood coming from the taps. A dream about eating cherries which turn out to be eyes connects directly to classical theories in which black bile was believed to be located in the liver and secreted through the eyes.14 Kurt also dreams constantly of  his own death, which is portrayed as a surreal experience of  teetering on the threshold between life and death. Meanwhile, his family stand over him like vultures, waiting for him to die. Other dreams have a clear association with the motif of earth and burial: for instance, Kurt dreams of  lying on the earth, which is covered with human hair instead of grass; next he notices that hills are forming under the earth, hills of  human bodies which move in waves away from him and then towards him again. The dream appears to echo other reminders in the text that the dead never leave the earth. The image of  human hair and bodies is also an obvious reference to the victims of  the Holocaust. Another dream similarly engages with the motifs of  the earth as well as entrapment. Kurt imagines himself  buried in a hill of moss that is surrounded by a fence. Near him is a woman lovingly caressing a child; she gradually covers the child in a cocoon of  hair, suf focating her and then proceeds to bury the child beside Kurt and suf focate him in the same fashion. The woman can be seen to represent the archetype of  Mother Earth, who exerts both negative and positive control over her children; this association highlights the archaic nature of  the narrator’s melancholy. One could in fact relate Kurt’s experiences to Freud’s concept of archaic, phylogenetic 14

Klibansky, Panofsky & Saxl, Saturn und Melancholie, p. 114.

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inheritance. Freud believed ‘daß im psychischen Leben des Individuums nicht nur selbsterlebte, sondern auch bei der Geburt mitgebrachte Inhalte wirksam sein mögen, Stücke von phylogenetischer Herkunft, eine archaische Erbschaft’ [that in the psychic life of  the individual it is not only one’s own experiences that have an ef fect but also contents that are already inherent at birth, pieces of phylogenetic origin, an archaic inheritance].15 He came to the conclusion that not only biological predispositions could be inherited but that the experiences of ancestors could also be passed on unconsciously: ‘daß die archaische Erbschaft des Menschen nicht nur Dispositionen, sondern auch Inhalte umfaßt, Erinnerungsspuren an das Erleben früherer Generationen’ [that the archaic inheritance of  the individual encompasses not only dispositions but also contents, memory traces pertaining to the experiences of earlier generations].16 Kurt’s dreams seem to relay elemental archaic experiences rather than any relatively recent historical occurences. They have been inherited in the same way as biological traits, as Freud has outlined. One has the impression of a haunting by something sinister that lies not in any particular historical events but in a deep biological legacy of melancholy. Besides this biological inheritance, the narrator is also left with a physical legacy. Late in the novel he discovers photographs and written material belonging to his granduncle. The photographs depict various villages in the area as well as elements of  the natural and built landscape. He changes around the position of  the pictures in relation to one another for so long until he eventually recognizes that they are landmarks along a route that began in Landskron and ended at the Loibl (LZ, 137–138). Kurt learns that political prisoners from Mauthausen were brought to an SS labour camp at the Loibl Pass, which was set up to build the Loibl tunnel connecting Austria to Slovenia. These photographs, as well as handwritten notes and newspaper cuttings, represent in part Georg’s attempt to come to terms with the

15 16

Sigmund Freud, ‘Der Mann Moses und die monotheistische Religion’, in Gesammelte Werke, Vol. XVI: Werke aus den Jahren 1932–1939 (London: Imago, 1950), 101–246 (pp. 204–205). Freud, ‘Der Mann Moses und die monotheistische Religion’, p. 206.

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past and his guilt regarding the capture of  Ludwig in his house, who may have been interned at this labour camp. However, most of  the material originates from the time after Georg’s death, which means that an unidentified person, possibly his wife Anna, also contributed to this legacy. Kurt’s realization that he will now have to bear this legacy provides a historical context to his melancholy. The connection to place and to the landscape is most significant for an examination of  these photographs and leads us to an analysis of  the association between landscape, place and melancholy.

Landscape and Place as Melancholy Topoi ‘Before it can ever be a repose for the senses, landscape is the work of  the mind. Its scenery is built up as much from strata of memory as from layers of rock.’17 The common, post-Romantic conception of  landscape, as articulated here by Simon Schama, is of a benign and peaceful place, a refuge from modern, industrial spaces. However, Schama sees our connection to the landscape as having much deeper roots: The evolution from Nordic tree worship through the Christian iconography of  the Tree of  Life and the wooden cross to images like Caspar David Friedrich’s explicit association between the evergreen fir and the architecture of resurrection may seem esoteric. But in fact it goes to the heart of one of our most powerful yearnings: the craving to find in nature a consolation for our mortality.18

Even so, our relationship to the landscape can be contaminated through human agency: through the negative ef fects we have on the landscape or through the ‘strata of memory’ which may be built up in a particular place over generations, which could as easily contain negative, as well as positive, memories. 17 Simon Schama, Landscape and Memory (London: Harper Collins, 1995), pp. 6–7. 18 Schama, Landscape and Memory, pp. 14–15.

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While landscape does play a role in the present narrative, it is the particular area in which this landscape is set that most informs the novel’s melancholy atmosphere. The area around Villach, in particular Landskron, is somewhere special – few of  the residents ever leave it and those who do are drawn back; its beauty also attracts outsiders. Its lure is dangerously deceptive, however: its native residents live solitary, melancholy lives, frequently committing suicide, and those who come from outside do not survive here long: Im Herbst gehen sie auf der Sonnseite in den See, die Einheimischen, von den Urlaubern rede ich nicht, sagte sie, und über den Winter werden sie unter dem Eis hierher angetrieben. Die suchen doch nur eine Heimat, hat die Frau Reger immer gesagt. Aber Heimat sind wir hier nicht, nicht für jeden, der anderswo keine Ruhe gefunden hat, wenn Sie verstehen. (LZ, 15–16) [In the autumn they go into the lake from the sunny side, the natives, I won’t talk about the holiday-makers, she said, and over the winter they are carried down here under the ice. They are only looking for a home, Mrs Reger always said. But we are not a home here, not for everyone who has not found peace elsewhere, if you understand.]

The landscape here is therefore portrayed as a site of death, but it is also a topos of memory: it immortalizes the memories of  the past, as we will see later. I will look firstly at the portrayal of  the deadly power of nature. We can see above that the lake is a major topos in the novel in this regard. It is depicted as claiming lives, as if it were an active agent of destruction, rather than those who have submitted themselves to its power. This sentiment is conveyed to Kurt through one of  his new neighbours: Auf dem See, in der Nähe des Ufers, im Schilf, das ihre Augen schon die ganze Zeit über abgesucht hatten, war eine Gruppe von Männern zu sehen, die mit Haken einen leblosen Körper aus dem Wasser zu ziehen versuchten. Ende Jänner geht der See zu, sagte sie jetzt, sie haben wieder einen gefunden, jedes Jahr treibt es hier einen an, mindestens einen, und immer bei uns, immer auf unserer Seite des Sees. Die Schattseite, heißt es immer, aber das stimmt nicht, es liegt an der Strömung. (LZ, 15)

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Chapter 5 [On the lake, near to the bank, in the reeds through which they were searching the whole time with their eyes, a group of men was to be seen, who were trying to pull a lifeless body from the water with a hook. At the end of  January the lake closes up, she said then, they have found another one, every year the lake carries one here, at least one, and always to us, always on our side of  the lake. The shadow side, it is always called, but that is not true, it’s because of  the current.]

During a later trip on the lake with Inge she tells him that, according to legend, there is a sunken town under the lake and its bells ring when the lake has claimed a life (LZ, 86). Later Kurt has a disturbing dream or hallucination in which he sees bodies under the ice of  the lake and is drawn to them and down into the lake himself. This is at first a disarmingly pleasant experience as the water is warm and comforting, but it becomes progressively colder and when he wants to escape he finds that he cannot as the hole in the ice has frozen over. During one of  his last meetings with Herr Gärtner, Kurt sees the former’s photo album which contains photographs depicting the various stages in the building of  the house he has inherited. There is a much more subtle sense here of nature’s supremacy over man. It may appear that it is man who has triumphed over nature, since in the first photo the men who are just beginning to strip the forest can hardly be seen whereas by the last photo a large part of  the forest is gone and most of  the earth has ended up in the lake. Yet there is the uncomfortable sense of a travesty being committed against nature, which will not go unpunished. Nobody who ever lived in the house which was built on the site had a happy life, and the central event in the novel, the capture of  Ludwig, took place in this house. Georg was also imprisoned for a time for having hidden Ludwig in his house. In his absence nature again reigned supreme, and, according to Herr Gärtner, those who tried to get on with their lives in the house after this period only degenerated there (LZ, 133–134). Even though Kurt has tried to take control over nature, there is a feeling of desertedness here which cannot be erased (LZ, 134). The topos of  the house as a part of  the landscape is significant. It is suggested that man-made structures can never become independent of  the landscape that has been disturbed in order to build them. Consequently the lives of  those who inhabit these buildings are inextricably linked to the landscape.

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An abiding sentiment in the narrative is that humanity’s downfall is very much constituted by our relationship to Heimat; the idea that ‘Unsere Herkunft ist unser Untergang’ [Our heritage is our downfall] (LZ, 142) is articulated by Inge but is also very much the sentiment of  Herr Gärtner. In fact this line is actually also used in ‘Der Anfang von etwas’, one of  the short stories from Hotschnig’s collection entitled Die Kinder beruhigte das nicht, which indicates that it is an underlying viewpoint of  the author.19 Earlier we saw examples of  the visceral genealogical connections between birth and death. In relation to landscape and place, the most disturbing image depicts a very direct, physical connection between body and place: Herr Gärtner sees the place existing within him as a place of death: ‘Sehen Sie mir in die Augen, das Leben der Toten, studieren Sie es, schneiden Sie in mich hinein wie in ein of fenes Fleisch, und Sie haben Landskron vor sich’ [Look into my eyes, the life of  the dead, study it, cut into me as into open f lesh and you have Landskron in front of you] (LZ, 136). This view is ref lected, though in a much less primal sense, in the work of  Eduard Spranger: One of  the leading theoreticians of  Heimat in the 1920s, Eduard Spranger, makes the distinction between milieu or environment as the surroundings into which any human individual is born and Heimat which is the outcome of a process of growing together with the land.20

This process of growing together with the land has obviously gone too far in the present case and has developed into something poisonous and incestuous. The interrelations between the family and people of  the area generally, on the one hand, and their relationship to their Heimat on the other, have become devoid of any positive connotations. A negative interpretation of  Heimat has a long tradition within Austrian literature, going back to the early nineteenth century. W.G. Sebald has described the relationship of many Austrian authors to their Heimat as ‘unheimlich’ [uncanny]21 – it

19 Hotschnig, Die Kinder beruhigte das nicht, pp. 83–90. 20 Boa & Palfreyman, Heimat – A German Dream, p. 6. 21 W.G. Sebald, Unheimliche Heimat: Essays zur österreichischen Literatur (Vienna: Residenz, 1991; repr. Frankfurt am Main: Fischer, 1995).

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has been a place of suf fering, but especially in the case of  those in exile, also engenders a sense of  longing. Indeed the protagonists of almost all the texts dealt with by Sebald are wanderers of one sort or another and therefore adopt an outside perspective on their homeland, a place at the same time both familiar and strange to them. In Ludwigs Zimmer we are confronted with characters who have developed an incestuous relationship to their Heimat due to the fact that they have never left it, have never felt able to break free from the bonds tying them to this place. It has become contaminated through the inhabitants’ intense identification with it, as seen above in the case of  Herr Gärtner. This contamination may also be due to historical ef fects, as thematized in the work of  Elfriede Jelinek. This aspect will be developed in the next section. In relation to the landscape as a site of memory, a significant motif is that of  the mountain as the site of  the dead, who hold memories through time and watch over the living, waking them up and out of  their forgetfulness (LZ, 102). This forgetting is immediately linked back to the war, as we learn that the Nazi Sicherheitsdienst had its training centre on the mountain and watched over the whole countryside from there. Georg was consequently obsessed with staring at the mountain, believing it represented his guilt (LZ, 102). The theme of  burial is prominent here, it being related to the desire to hide from one’s guilt. While one may surmise that the guilt of  Georg and Herr Gärtner originates from their failure to protect Ludwig as well as their failure to get involved in the Resistance themselves, these connections are never directly thematized. Guilt is rather portrayed as an insidious mindset, marked by a paradoxical relationship to others: Ich klage nicht. Ich verteidige mich nicht, ich bin schuld. Wir sind schuld und wollen abgelenkt sein von dieser Schuld. Ein Leben lang, man sucht Übereinstimmung und stößt auf  Entsetzen, wo immer man ihr begegnet. Wir wollen dazugehören, und gehören wir wirklich einmal dazu irgendwo, ist es eine Verzweif lung, jede Übereinstimmung ist eine Verzweif lung, jede Verschiedenheit eine Irritation. (LZ, 102–103) [I am not complaining. I am not defending myself, I am guilty. We are guilty and want to be distracted from this guilt. All our lives we search for harmony but wherever we happen to find it we also encounter horror. We want to belong, and whenever

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we do really belong somewhere it brings about despair, every instance of  harmony is despair, every disparity is an irritation.]

This contradictory stance informs all relationships in the narrative: those with oneself and with others, with the past and with Heimat. There is simultaneously, or in juxtaposition, the desire to be alone or in company; to confront one’s guilt regarding past deeds (or the failure to act) or to f lee from it; and the need for a bond to one’s Heimat opposed with repulsion in the face of  the claustrophobia this creates. I will return to the question of  historical guilt in the following section. The more important association here in the context of  the landscape is the motif of  burial. This motif, as well as that of  the earth, forms an immediate association between the human and the natural realms. By entering the subterranean sphere one can f lee from the problems and dif ficulties of  life above the earth and can become one who haunts rather than one who is haunted. Psychoanalytically speaking, burial represents a return to the maternal womb, but it is also depicted in the narrative as being a comforting experience due to the fact that one can connect with others, perhaps with past generations, as Kurt’s father articulates: Unter der Erde lebt es sich gut, hat mein Vater gesagt, als man den Sarg seines Vaters in die Erde versenkte, da lebt es sich wie unter Menschen, man ist unter sich, es ist gut. Damals habe ich als Kind, das ich war, an diesem Ort in die Erde gelegt, meinen Großvater hatte ich geliebt, und zu ihm legte ich mich jetzt in die Erde, ins Grab, und er ließ es geschehen. (LZ, 54) [Under the earth is a good place to live, my father said, as the cof fin of  his father was lowered into the ground, there you can live as if among people, you are among your own, it is good. At the time, as the child that I was, I lay down in the earth at this spot, I had loved my grandfather and I lay myself down beside him now in the earth, in the grave, and he let it happen.]

This sentiment is also illustrated by Herr Gärtner, who at this time is close to death: ‘Der Himmel liegt tief in der Erde. Ich bin auf dem Weg dorthin’ [Heaven lies deep in the earth. I am on the way there] (LZ, 163). Nevertheless, there is also an obvious ambivalence in Kurt’s father’s assessment. Following on immediately from the above quotation he says: ‘Unter

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der Erde, da lebt es sich gut, und doch, ein Grab ist der falsche Ort, einen Himmel zu suchen, habe ich den Vater gehört, als sich die Erde schon über mich häufte’ [Under the earth is a good place to live, but still, a grave is the wrong place to look for heaven, I heard Father saying, as the earth was already being piled on top of me] (LZ, 54). This is obviously an avowal of  the ultimate futility and the deceptiveness of escape. Besides, even in death one does not really leave the earth, at least in a spiritual sense. The dead remain in the consciousness of  the living and have a powerful inf luence over them (LZ, 56–57). Despite the claustrophobic nature of this arrangement, Kurt concludes towards the end of  the narrative that he is happy to stay in Landskron, with both the living and the dead: in fact he sees no alternative since he has become rooted to the place, knows that he belongs here in a way that he could not belong anywhere else; besides, he is incapable of  being alone (LZ, 90). In this context I would like to highlight the use of nature and place as mnemonic devices in the narrative. Firstly, the wood is symbolized as a physical family tree. Georg has planted a tree near the house to represent each member of  the family, which over the years have grown into a wood; thus the garden has become a single family tree (LZ, 31). Georg seems to need his family at least symbolically present to him at all times and their actual presence is requested at the house once or twice a year. During these visits Georg takes photographs of all the children at various places around the house, using them as a means of deciding who will become his heir. These ef forts could be seen as a way of compensating for the family members he has lost – his brothers Ludwig and Paul. However, Kurt has been felling the trees constantly since moving in to the house and thus has overturned Georg’s desire to remember by removing all traces and reminders of  his family. Nonetheless, he finds that it is not so easy to erase them from his conscience. At night he dreams that all the trees have grown back: ‘Am Tag fielen die Bäume, die wurden zersägt und zerhackt und zerschnitten, ich kam gut voran, in den Nächten richteten sie sich wieder auf und wuchsen mir nach in den Schlaf und standen als Wald um das Haus und im Haus, und ich verlief mich darin wie als Kind’ [During the day the trees fell, they were sawed down and chopped and cut up, I made good progress, in the night they became upright again and grew in my sleep and stood as a

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wood around the house and in the house, and I got lost in it like a child] (LZ, 31–32). The house itself is also a carrier of memories, from which Kurt has rigorously tried to remove all remnants of  the former inhabitants; yet he knows that he has only whitewashed over them (LZ, 110). In his urge to rid the house of all memories he barely manages to save Georg’s photos and the other documentary material regarding the Loibl labour camp. He realizes that he was chosen to find this evidence, although he is not sure what to do with it. One is reminded of  the situation of  the protagonist in Arno Geiger’s novel. Philipp similarly inherits a house which is filled with memories he is determined to destroy; he likewise retrieves some of  his grandmother’s letters at the last minute, having changed his mind about deleting the past entirely from his life. However, in Es geht uns gut the house does not hold any secrets; Philipp is only too well aware of what happened in the past, but is not yet able to face it. The locations which Kurt visits around the area with Inge and Ludwig may also be read as memory markers for those who once had a strong connection to the place. The power of places as carriers of memory was already recognized by Cicero, as Aleida Assmann points out in Erinnerungsräume.22 Assmann argues that what endows certain places with a particular power of memory is, above all, their strong, long-term connection with family stories.23 In this context she cites the American author Nathaniel Hawthorne: Through this long connection of a family with a particular place, the place of  birth and burial, a kind of relationship between a locality and its people is created, which is entirely independent of  the allure of  landscape or moral import. This relationship is not based on love but rather on instinct.24

Hawthorne goes on to denounce the modern, functionalistic perspective, which sees rootedness to a particular place as archaic and instinctual. Instead he argues that one cannot ignore ‘the bonding force of memory-laden

22 Aleida Assmann, Erinnerungsräume (Munich: Beck, 1999), p. 298. 23 Assmann, Erinnerungsräume, p. 301. 24 Assmann, Erinnerungsräume, p. 301.

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places’ and that ‘ancestral ghosts are not mobile’.25 Hawthorne’s insight is very illuminating from the point of view of  the narrative under discussion: it appears that it really is a kind of degenerate instinctual drive which binds the family to this place. Perhaps it is necessary for them to break away from the ties of  family and Heimat in order to gain a clearer understanding of  these relationships. Hotschnig’s characters are, however, destined to live and to die in one place, as all the generations which have gone before them. As Simon Schama writes: ‘The sum of our pasts, generation laid over generation, like the slow mold of  the seasons, forms the compost of our future. We live of f it’.26 While this is a wholly positive metaphor as used by Schama, the sense of decay and degeneration which it evokes cannot be overlooked and is most pertinent to an interpretation of  the poisonous ef fects which the landscape has on the characters of  Alois Hotschnig’s novel. In considering the function of  the sites visited by Kurt with Inge and Ludwig as carriers of memory, one must also consider the function of their actual journeys to these sites. It appears that their primary function is psychotherapeutic, since both have a deep connection to the places visited. Both Inge and Ludwig have avoided returning to the area since the time of  Ludwig’s arrest. Now Kurt has facilitated both of  them in their return and in their visits to the places they once frequented together. While they return separately to the area and never meet each other, their journeys to the places along the route to the Loibl Pass and to the labour camp there help them in some way to make their peace with the past. This is especially the case for Ludwig as he visits these places some time after Inge and can feel her presence, particularly at the bench in Feistritz where they used to sit and at the labour camp, where he leaves his ring – perhaps a symbolic gesture indicating that he is now ready to leave the past behind. Returning to the topos of  the house, I would like to expand on its connection to the houses of  Gothic literature. This is most apparent in the use of a secret room, which was a staple of  the Gothic house. In analysing the Gothic elements in the pre-Gothic tale of  ‘Bluebeard’, Anne Williams

25 Assmann, Erinnerungsräume, p. 302. 26 Schama, Landscape and Memory, p. 574.

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identifies the house of sinister secrets as most significant: ‘And the setting – Bluebeard’s house with its secret room – seems the most important of  these, the element that transmutes the others unmistakably into Gothic’.27 A further key factor is the connection between house and family. Gothic stories were always family stories, and the family house inevitably bore the marks of  the generations which had gone before: Most important, this structure is marked, haunted by ‘history’ – the events of its own development. The ghosts – whether real or imaginary – derive from the past passions, past deeds, past crimes of  the family identified with this structure. […] The latent pun on ‘house’ as ‘structure’ and as ‘family line’ is a crucial link between Gothic conventions of setting and those of plot. Occurring in spaces associated with particular families, Gothic plots are also structured according to the ramifications of  the family tree. Resolution of  the conventional Gothic mystery coincides with the revelation of a particular family secret.28

The house of  Hotschnig’s narrative is a very dif ferent kind of structure to the ancient mansions and castles of  the Gothic, as it was built only circa fifty years before. Although there is an air of mystery around the secret it holds, this secret turns out to be far less sinister than any which a Gothic house might possess. This is in fact an essential problem in the narrative: the secret is used to hold the reader’s attention, but when it is finally revealed, it is not suf ficient to rationalize the mental state of  the extended family or the characterization of melancholy as a group phenomenon. Hotschnig’s staging of elements of  the Gothic can be seen as an attempt to promote melancholy sentiments in the narrative without having to deal explicitly with past events. This issue will be revisited in the next section, in the context of  the narrative’s historical background.

Anne Williams, Art of  Darkness: A Poetics of  Gothic (Chicago: University of  Chicago Press, 1995), pp. 38–39. 28 Williams, Art of  Darkness, p. 45. 27

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The Relationship between Melancholy and Historical Events The main historical events of  the narrative have already been outlined. The question is whether these incidents and the larger context of  the war and of  Austria’s role in it are the driving force for melancholy sentiments or whether these in fact precede a cause and ef fect chain. The historical background does not come to the fore until the second half of  the narrative, although the secrets of  the past naturally colour the preceding text. The guilt felt by Georg and Herr Gärtner is entirely understandable in light of  the fact that they, particularly Georg, tried to save Ludwig and Inge from being caught but did not succeed in Ludwig’s case. Their guilt is compounded by the fact that they themselves did not become involved in the Resistance: Herr Gärtner deutete mit dem Kopf nach Tref fen zu dem Steinbruch hinüber. Jeder Ort ist der Ort eines Verbrechens, sagte er, vor dieser Wand standen wir an dem Tag, als man Ludwig geholt hat, Georg und ich. […] Georg war auf der anderen Seite, verstehen Sie mich, und ich auch. Für das, was wirklich vorging damals, hatten wir keine Augen, zu diesem Zeitpunkt noch nicht. Georg hat die beiden davon abbringen wollen, er hat sie gewarnt, immer wieder, denn daß man ihnen auf der Spur war, hatte man ihm hintertragen. Er hat alles getan, sie zu decken, ohne daß sie erfahren hätten davon. Auch für ihn ist es eng geworden dadurch, aus den Warnungen sind Drohungen geworden, und die gab er weiter an sie, doch sie haben weitergemacht, zu einer Zeit, als es längst ausweglos war. (LZ, 156) [Mr Gärtner pointed with his head towards Tref fen, to the quarry over there. Every place is the place of a crime, he said; we stood in front of  this wall on the day that Ludwig was taken, Georg and I. Georg was on the other side, you understand me, and I was too. We had no eyes for what was really happening back then, not at that point in time. Georg wanted to dissuade them both from what they were doing; he warned them again and again, because it had been secretly revealed to him that they were being watched. For him it was also getting close, because of  the warnings and threats, which he passed on to them; but they kept going, at a time when it was long since hopeless.]

We learn earlier in the novel that Herr Gärtner had tried to kill himself at this same quarry a few years after Ludwig’s capture, but was saved by Georg:

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‘Er wußte, er wäre der Nächste gewesen, nach Paul und nach mir wäre er an der Reihe gewesen, das hat er gewußt. Mit mir hat er sich selbst aus dieser Wand geholt damals’ [He knew that he would have been the next, after Paul and after me it would have been his turn, he knew that. With me he got himself out of  the wall that time] (LZ, 82). The horror of  the Loibl camp to which Ludwig was sent is made clear from the documents inherited by Kurt. Georg, and presumably the others also, were thus aware, if  belatedly, of  the fate which awaited Ludwig. This generation is inextricably bound up in the scenario surrounding Ludwig, as well as the later suicide of  Paul. The melancholy of  the narrative is not restricted to this generation, however; it is presented as a transgenerational, or even an entire group phenomenon. Such a pervasive condition cannot have originated in the narrative’s background historical events. While it is entirely possible for trauma which cannot be dealt with by the first generation to be passed through to the next generations,29 the trauma of  the main characters here is not suf ficient to justify such an insidious progression through not only the succeeding generations but also the people of  the district generally, since these protagonists were neither perpetrators nor victims. Another possible historical explanation may come from the idea that the Holocaust can be considered as an ‘Erbsünde’ (original sin), as Sigrid Weigel has claimed. However, this notion attaches to the children and further descendants of perpetrators only, who, while not guilty themselves, have inherited a sense of guilt for the deeds of  their parents: Ein Indikator für diese Art Kontamination der ‘Geschichte’ stellt die verbreitete zeitliche Ordnung der Nachgeschichte von Krieg und Shoah im Muster von Generationen dar. Die Rede von der zweiten und dritten Generation hat tradierte Zeitkonzepte (sowohl der Ereignis- als auch der Sozialgeschichte) abgelöst und die Geschichte nach 1945 gleichsam biblischen Zeitvorstellungen wieder angenähert.

29

Sigrid Weigel, ‘Télescopage im Unbewußten: Zum Verhältnis von Trauma, Geschichts­ begrif f und Literatur’, in Trauma: Zwischen Psychoanalyse und kulturellem Deutungs­ muster, ed. by Elizabeth Bronfen, Birgit R. Erdle & Sigrid Weigel (Cologne: Böhlau, 1999), pp. 51–76 (pp. 65–70).

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Chapter 5 Damit verbunden ist, auf  Seiten der ‘Täter’ durchaus auch eine Wiederkehr von Schuldvorstellungen, die – mit einer von den Eltern ererbten Schuld – dem Begrif f der ‘Erbsünde’ nahekommen.30 [The prevalent temporal order of  the aftermath of  the war and the Shoah, as seen in the paradigm of  the generations, constitutes an indicator for this type of contamination of  ‘history’. Talk of  the second and third generations has replaced established concepts of  time (within not only political history but also social history) and history after 1945 has again approached quasi-biblical notions of  time. Also connected with this is definitely a return of conceptions of guilt on the part of  the ‘perpetrators’, conceptions which – with a guilt inherited from the parents – approximate the concept of  ‘original sin’.]

The contamination of  history has been a universal experience in the wake of  the Holocaust, although Weigel is referring here only to those who have been af fected by the guilt of  their parents and grandparents. In Ludwigs Zimmer it is the place itself which is contaminated rather than history. One could certainly interpret this contamination as being the result of  the proximity of  Landskron to Mauthausen and to the Loibl labour camp. Through Georg’s photographs Kurt was able to establish a direct route from Landskron to the labour camp; the area is therefore closely linked to this place of  terror. While this brings us nearer to an understanding of  the interconnections between genealogy, place and history it does not elucidate the sense of universal melancholy manifest throughout the narrative. The notion is expressed that one is only really at home where a close relative is buried; thus the proximity to death is inherent in our relationships to Heimat and to the family (LZ, 16). Such universal statements are made throughout the text, particularly by Herr Gärtner. We see this in his assessment of  the impact of our relationships with others: ‘Es sind Menschen, die haben einen zerstört. Es sind Menschen, ohne die wäre man nicht. Es sind Menschen, an denen ist man krepiert’ [They are people who have destroyed one. They are people without whom one would not exist. They are people through whom one has perished] (LZ, 56). This is again evident when he and Kurt come across a wedding party: ‘Hochzeitsgäste, lachte er jetzt, 30 Weigel, ‘Télescopage im Unbewußten’, p. 66.

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vorweggenommene Trauergäste’ [Wedding guests, he laughed now, anticipated funeral guests] (LZ, 58). Relationships with others are also closely allied to relationships to Heimat, and particularly to the search for a home: Wir suchen Heimat in einem Menschen und finden sie nicht, wir hören nicht auf mit dem Suchen und gehen von einem zum anderen und suchen und finden sie nicht, […] denn Heimat ist nicht zu finden, in keinem anderen und nicht in uns selbst, sagte er, weil es sie in Wahrheit nicht gibt. […] Doch wir geben nicht auf und vertauschen das Ziel unserer Sehnsucht mit der Suche danach, wir vertauschen die Heimat, die nicht und nicht auf findbar ist, mit der Sehnsucht danach, mit der Sucht danach, um wenigstens etwas zu haben, ein Irrtum. (LZ, 58–59) [We search for home in a person and do not find it; we do not stop searching and go from one to the other and search and do not find it, since home is not to be found, in no other person and not in ourselves, he said, because in truth it doesn’t exist. Still we don’t give up and exchange the goal of our longing with the search for it, we exchange home, which is not and not to be found, with the longing for it, with the dependence on it, in order to at least have something, a falsity.]

The inability to fulfil one’s longing is also a central tenet of  Monika Maron’s work. Maron believes that once we have what it is we have longed for, such as freedom, we long for its opposite. If, by some chance, we have everything we think we want then we long for something we cannot put our finger on. The object of  longing is replaced by longing itself.31 This sentiment is echoed later by Inge and also gives added meaning to one of  the central phrases of  the narrative: ‘Unsere Herkunft ist unser Untergang’ [Our family heritage is our downfall] (LZ, 142). ‘Herkunft’ can be comprehended as the physical place that we come from as well as relating to the psychological search for a home in others. We have already seen the detrimental ef fects of one’s connections to people and to place. The powerful portrayal of  these elements leads one to conclude that they are the true catalyst for melancholy in the narrative. Their archaic nature means that they precede the cause and ef fect chain of  historical experience. As mentioned previously, the function of  historical events appears to be primarily to create an air 31

Monika Maron, Wie ich ein Buch nicht schreiben kann und es trotzdem versuche, pp. 61–63.

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of mystery in the novel and thus hold the reader’s attention. While these events are not dealt with f lippantly, it is nevertheless problematic that the consequences of  National Socialism are being used as a prop to some extent. In his earlier fiction Hotschnig restricted himself  to an ahistorical depiction of melancholy, and this is still the overriding impression in Ludwigs Zimmer. His inclusion of  historical detail has certainly led to a more complex plot, yet one is left with the feeling that it is somewhat contrived, that the historical background is being used to intensify the melancholy tone which has already been produced through the characters’ connections to the landscape, to the place and to each other. As a melancholy tone and atmosphere is prevalent in Hotschnig’s work this leads one to consider whether in fact it is the driving force behind his will to write.

The Melancholy Writer In both Die Beschreibung des Unglücks32 and Unheimliche Heimat, the melancholy writer par excellence, W.G. Sebald, has explored the overwhelming impact of  the melancholy condition in the work of several Austrian authors. In the former work he establishes this connection: Nicht weit ab von dem hier umrissenen Problembereich [the inf luence of  Heimat] liegt ein weiterer zentraler Gegenstand meiner Analysen: das Unglück des schreibenden Subjekts, das als ein charakteristischer Grundzug der österreichischen Literatur oft schon bemerkt worden ist. Nun rechnen diejenigen, die den Beruf des Schriftstellers ergreifen, in aller Regel nicht zu den unbeschwertesten Menschen. Wie kämen sie sonst dazu, sich auf das unmögliche Geschäft der Wahrheitsfindung einzulassen? Dennoch ist die Frequenz unglückseliger Lebensläufe in der Geschichte der österreichischen Literatur alles andere als geheuer.33

32 W.G. Sebald, Die Beschreibung des Unglücks (Vienna: Residenz, 1985). 33 Sebald, Die Beschreibung des Unglücks, p. 11.

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[Not far removed from the problem area outlined here [the inf luence of  Heimat] lies a further central object of my analyses: the unhappiness of  the writing subject, which has often been noted as a characteristic feature of  Austrian literature. Now those who take up the profession of writing do not, as a rule, count as the most easy-going people. How would they come to the idea of getting into the impossible business of  finding the truth otherwise? Nevertheless, the frequency of unfortunate résumés in the history of  Austrian literature is anything but normal or natural.]

In his Anatomy of  Melancholy, published in 1621, Robert Burton had already commented on writing as a means of overcoming, or at least avoiding melancholy: ‘If any man except against the matter or manner of  treating of  this my Subject, and will demand a reason of it, I can alleage more then one, I write of  Melancholy, by being busie to avoid Melancholy’.34 In regard to Hotschnig’s work, one develops the strong impression that his modus operandi is similar to that of  Burton; that perhaps in his case melancholy is likewise a mode of writing rather than a mode of contemplation. While Burton’s work is a factual treatise on melancholy, for the great literary writers their writing is motivated by melancholy and it is a means for them to work through their melancholy, yet it is never a mode of writing. The results of melancholy contemplation appear on the page only in sublimated form, as has been manifestly expressed by Julia Kristeva: Mood is a ‘generalised transference’ (E. Jacobson) that stamps the entire behavior and all the sign systems […] We are justified in believing that an archaic energy signal is involved, a phylogenetic inheritance, which, within the psychic space of  the human being, is immediately assumed by verbal representation and consciousness. Nevertheless […] representations germane to af fects, notably sadness, are f luctuat­ ing energy cathexes: insuf ficiently stabilised to coalesce as verbal or other signs […] Literary creation is that adventure of  the body and signs that bear witness to the af fect […] It transposes af fect into rhythms, signs, forms. The ‘semiotic’ and the ‘symbolic’ become the communicable imprints of an af fective reality, perceptible to the reader […] and yet dominated, set aside, vanquished.35

34 Burton, The Anatomy of  Melancholy, vol. 1, p. 6. 35 Kristeva, Black Sun, pp. 21–22.

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Kristeva harks back to Freud’s notion of phylogenetic inheritance, which reinforces the idea of melancholy as an archaic legacy. According to Kristeva then, these archaic af fects emerge immediately into consciousness but cannot be rendered as verbal signs except through a process of sublimation, literary creation being the prime example. Through the process of writing these af fects are vanquished, yet leave a perceptible trace in the text itself. In regard to Hotschnig’s work, one has the suspicion that this process of sublimation has not been successfully undergone. Although there is somewhat of a qualitative improvement evident through his work, the overriding tone remains a melancholy one, the motifs of  the earth, death and burial are prevalent through most narratives, and there is little variance in character types or in geographical setting. He appears also to be continually trapped within the thematic complex of guilt and absolution, or rather the lack thereof, at least until his collection of short stories Die Kinder beruhigte das nicht. It is significant to note that his only play is entitled Absolution. This thematic and stylistic continuity can be revealed through a brief analysis of  his previous fictional output. His first novella, entitled Aus, tells the story of a young man who has been deeply af fected by the tyranny of  his father, as have his mother and uncle. The motifs of  the earth, death, autumn, and of entrapment are very obvious here. There is no possibility of escape and no hope that the situation will ever change. The following quotation from the beginning of  the novella is matched by later examples of confinement and burial: Auf dem Hof  habe ich einmal als Ministrant den Vater vom Fürsten begraben, in die Gruft abgeseilt, in den Stein eingesargt wurde der, und dann kam da ein Gitter darauf, dieses Gitter ist unser Gatter gewesen, das zwischen den Bäumen die Welt zum Sperrgebiet machte. (Aus, 7) [In the yard I once, as an altar boy, buried the father of  the prince, he was let down into the grave, cof fined into the stone, and then the grate came on top, this grate has been our gate, which, between the trees, turned the world into a prohibited area.]

In Hotschnig’s next novella, Eine Art Glück, similar motifs are again in evidence. In this instance the protagonist has been born without legs and is thus at the mercy of  his parents. He is again a prisoner: of  his body, his family and ultimately of  himself:

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Das Gitterbett vergesse ich ihr nicht, meiner Mutter. Dort habt ihr mich den Verwandten und allen im Dorf in meinem Käfig gezeigt. Gitterbett. Ausgestellt, diese Krankheit, an der sie angeblich zerbrachen, das Kind, das hinter den Stäben das Atmen verweigert (Eine Art Glück, 9–10). [I won’t forget her for the cot, my mother. There ye showed me in my cage to the relatives and everyone in the village. Cot. Exhibited, this illness that supposedly shattered them; the child, who, behind the bars, refused to breathe.]

Both of  these novellas focus almost exclusively on the motifs of entrapment, burial and death, which will later reappear in Ludwigs Zimmer. The atavistic bonds of  family and place, which are the cause of melancholy in the latter narrative, already feature strongly in these texts. Indeed Ludwigs Zimmer appears to represent little more than an elaboration on these themes. The novel Leonardos Hände is certainly much more complex than the preceding novellas, as it introduces the rituals of  Catholicism, in particular of  the Mass, as thematic and stylistic modes. The protagonist, also named Kurt but with the surname Weyrath instead of  Weber, was the guilty party in a car accident which caused the deaths of  two people and resulted in another falling into a coma. He subsequently becomes an ambulance driver/ paramedic, and in addition leans on his faith in order to assuage his guilt. The coma patient, Anna Kainz, survives. Kurt tracks her down and a relationship develops. Yet his attempts to bring about his salvation through an appropriation of  Catholic rituals as well as through his relationship with Anna are doomed to failure. In her article on this novel Fatima Naqvi has emphasized the emptiness of  Catholic rhetoric as portrayed in the novel, and thus the futility of  Kurt’s ef forts to find meaning through it.36 The obsession with death and burial are again predominant in this narrative. This is facilitated through Kurt’s work with the sick: for instance, he imagines a coma patient calling to him: ‘Weyrath. Hörst du mich. Ich liege in der Erde. Hörst du mich. Kurt, hör mich an. Ich habe dich gesucht. Und gefunden. Ich liege hier in der Erde von meinem Bett’ [Weyrath. Can you hear me. I am lying in the earth. Can you hear me. Kurt, listen to me. 36

Fatima Naqvi, ‘Die Verzauberung der Welt: Tradierte Religion in Alois Hotschnigs Leonardos Hände’, Modern Austrian Literature, 33 (2000), 37–54.

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I have looked for you. And found you. I am lying here in the earth that is my bed] (Leonardos Hände, 63). It is also linked to Heimat, which is in fact represented by the same area as in Ludwigs Zimmer, and is similarly dangerous and seductive (Leonardos Hände, 209). While Kurt is bound to this place, Anna declares that she will not allow it to overpower her: ‘Ich lasse mich nicht mehr begraben, wofür auch. Für dich? Ich hole mich hier wieder heraus. Ich hole uns hier wieder heraus. Und vielleicht, ich bin sicher, sagen wir so, fängt es dadurch mit uns an.’ Aber es stimmte nicht. (Leonardos Hände, 232) [‘I won’t allow myself  be buried anymore, why should I? For you? I am going to get myself out of  here. I am going to get us out of  here. And perhaps, I’m sure, let’s put it like this: that’s how it will start with us.’ But it wasn’t true.]

The attempts to find redemption in the Christian doctrine of salvation as well as in the relationship to another or to Heimat have been found to be futile. The similarly named narrator and protagonist of  Hotschnig’s subsequent novel has rejected all of  these attachments but finds that the latter two cannot be so easily relinquished. In Ludwigs Zimmer Hotschnig thus reverts to his archaic conception of melancholy, which cannot be alleviated through a belief in transcendence. His first collection of short stories, entitled Die Kinder beruhigte das nicht, introduces some creative diversity, while maintaining the melancholy atmosphere of  his previous texts. One of  the stories – ‘In meinem Zimmer brennt Licht’ [In my Room the Light is on] – deals with the power and destructiveness of nature through an individual case, rather than in the more abstract manner of  Ludwigs Zimmer. It relates the lives of  two men, one of whom was involved, as a boy, in the loss of another young boy, who had been left on an island in the nearby lake; the other is the boy’s father, who has spent his life on the lake searching for his son. The silent pain of  the two men is very well conveyed: ‘Über den Vorfall verloren wir nicht ein Wort. Wir lebten weiter und trafen uns weiter, nur zur Insel fuhren wir nicht mehr hinaus’ [We didn’t say a word about the incident. We lived on and met one another again, we just didn’t go out to the island anymore] (DK, 105). The last story – ‘Du kennst sie nicht, es sind Fremde’ [You don’t know them, they are Strangers] – is an imaginative portrayal of  the

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loss of identity. The protagonist wakes up each day to a new identity, but is instantly recognized by his neighbours and acquaintances as the person he has become; he is a stranger only to himself. Some of  the stories still thematize the detrimental nature of relationships and of  the ties to one’s home place; one in particular, entitled ‘Der Anfang von etwas’ [The Start of  Something], constitutes in part almost a complete reproduction of passages from Ludwigs Zimmer. A dream of waking in a room in which the furniture is covered with sheets is relayed in almost exactly the same manner in both texts. Some words are also replicated, such as ‘Herkunft’ [ancestry] and ‘Untergang’ [downfall] (DK, 88), and phrases such as: ‘Sollen sie kommen’ [they should come], ‘man kann mich jetzt holen’ [they can get me now] (DK, 88), ‘finden wird man mich nicht’ [they won’t find me] (DK, 89), as well as ‘man entkommt sich nicht’ [one cannot escape oneself ] (DK, 89), which appears as ‘sie entkommen sich nicht’ [they cannot escape themselves] in Ludwigs Zimmer (LZ, 88). A view of  familial relations similar to Ludwigs Zimmer is also conveyed in the story ‘Vielleicht diesmal, vielleicht jetzt’ [Perhaps this Time, Perhaps Now]; it also contains a reproduction of a phrase used in the former: ‘nur die Abwesenheit wird registriert und zur Kenntnis genommen’ [only absence is registered and noticed] (LZ, 159) appears as ‘Die Abwesenden werden registriert und zur Kenntnis genommen’ [the absent ones are registered and noticed] (DK, 71). The weaknesses of  these narratives are, however, compensated for by the stories related above. It appears that, at least to some degree, Hotschnig has managed to escape the thematic confines of  his previous work.37 Yet the continuing theme of entrapment within family ties suggests that the author himself is still trapped within his own melancholy fixations.

37

His most recent publication, a collection of stories entitled Im Sitzen läuft es sich besser davon is quite disappointing. The six stories are all so slight as to be inconsequential, most of  them caught up in absurd linguistic repetition and the monotonous torpor of  lives lived in the shadow of death.

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Conclusion As regards the function of melancholy discourse in this narrative, we have seen that the central issue revolves around the relationship between melancholy and history. It appears that the author has sought to advance the historical incidents and background as catalysts of melancholy. However, through a close analysis of  the text it has been shown that in fact these events are not at all the primary source of melancholy sentiments or of a melancholy atmosphere in the narrative; rather the claustrophobic bonds to others, especially family members, and to Heimat have been demonstrated to be the real causes of melancholy. Since these bonds are of an archaic nature, the melancholy of  the narrative can be deemed to represent a pre-psychological paradigm, which precedes and transcends the cause and ef fect chain of  historical events. An analysis of melancholy as a group phenomenon in the narrative, along with the pathological relationship of  the characters to the landscape, resulted in the interpretation of  this melancholy not as an historical or cultural inheritance but rather as a phylogenetic inheritance, which is transmitted through the generations. The connection with the earth was also associated with the cycle of  birth and death, one which of fers no hope of  true renewal however. Apart from the landscape the house is also shown to be a carrier of memories and is portrayed in a Gothic light, though the secret it holds is proven not to be worthy of such associations. Finally, through an examination of  his other work, the author himself is interpreted as using writing as a means of  trying to overcome his own melancholy. In all, one can conclude that Hotschnig’s work is not as accomplished as the other authors examined. However, he of fers something that is scarcely to be encountered elsewhere: an alternative insight into the melancholy condition, which sees melancholy not as a psychological but a biological condition – a disease, in fact, which cannot be cured.

Conclusion

This study has shown that melancholy has become a dominant motif in contemporary Austrian and German literature. It has become apparent that the sociopolitical circumstances of  the post-1989 period as well as the burden of  the Nazi past function as catalysts for melancholy. However, on the level of  the individual, melancholy is often a response to the perception that the legacy of  historical events is often either the realization that the sense of a personal connection to history has been lost or the intuition that the end of  history has been reached. In the first instance the individual senses that history proceeds as before but that he/she can no longer relate to historical events; in the second instance history is understood as a teleological process, rather than a series of occurrences without obvious end. We have seen that some writers follow the end of  history trajectory while others have recovered transience and melancholy as transhistorical modes of writing, although the latter mode may arguably be regarded as a sublimated response to history. The historical caesura of  the fall of  the Berlin Wall has been a key factor in the increased occurrence of melancholy in German public and literary discourses, as is evident in the novels of  Monika Maron and Christoph Hein. Maron’s protagonist Johanna and her husband Achim both reacted euphorically to the fall of  the Wall. However, they have become increasingly disillusioned by the rampant materialism that capitalism has brought with it. In Hein’s novel the protagonist does not share the jubilation of others at the fall of  the Wall; rather she is bemused at their excitement. Nevertheless, the changing conditions also af fect her own life. Despite having always lived in isolation, she finds herself ever more alone in the post-unification East. The loss of  Communism also entails the loss of employment for those living in small towns and villages. Thus Paula’s village becomes increasingly deserted as the young are forced to move to the cities to find work.

236 Conclusion

Another theme of melancholic ref lection concerns the role of  the father or grandfather generations in the Second World War. In Hein’s novel the father figure exhibits feelings of  frustration and bitterness as a result of  his war experiences. His tyrannical control is shown to have a long-lasting ef fect on the life of  the protagonist. In Geiger’s Es geht uns gut, the burden of  history is shown to emanate from the grandfather’s collusion in the expulsion of  the Jews from Vienna following the Nazi takeover. However, neither Hein’s nor Geiger’s protagonists ref lect on their family legacies; in fact both avoid any attempt to deal with the family past. In the narratives examined in this study a preoccupation with historical events is not the sole focus of  the texts, but leads to a ref lection on the progress of  history and on the place of  the individual within it. In fact, it is the more abstract sense of  having become stranded ‘outside of  history’ that engenders melancholy in many of  the narratives analysed. This is particularly the case for the middle-aged female protagonists of  Hein’s and Maron’s novels. While these are very dif ferent characters, many similarities become apparent in their experiences of isolation and detachment from the nucleus of change in the post-Wende East. This sense of  being ‘outside of  history’ is caused not only by the inability to relate to the process of change but also by the experience of  historical loss. Maron’s Johanna is particularly af fected in this regard, since the loss of  the GDR has led to the loss of  her sense of purpose in life, which was closely bound up with her covert opposition to the regime. The notion of  historical loss also finds expression through the concept of posthistoire, which forms the basis for my interpretation of  Geiger’s novel. In this instance, as well as in all other narratives, the relationship to history is elucidated by the motifs of  time and transience. The experience of a distorted relationship to the passage of  time is shown to be the ef fect of sociopolitical developments, since it arises in those who feel that they cannot keep pace with the rate of change in the globalized world and thus find themselves left behind. The protagonists − such as Maron’s Johanna and Philipp, the protagonist of  Geiger’s novel − experience time as a repetitive present. The former two characters spend their days staring out at the world around them, maintaining an inert stance similar to that of  Dürer’s figure in Melencolia I but without the element of

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contemplation, since they pass the time with idle imaginings (in the case of  Philipp) or in a semi-vegetative state (in the case of  Johanna). However, the sense of  being caught in a moment of  time, which the Dürer engraving evokes, also characterizes the situation of  these characters. They each represent a dif ferent stage of  life and each has had dif ferent experiences, yet they are bound by their loss of a meaningful connection to the past and by the inability to make any forward progression. For Maron’s protagonist, an af finity with the historical past had always sustained her, as it af forded her an insight into her own place in the GDR. However, she cannot find a role for herself in post-unification Germany and feels that she never will, due to her age and lack of relevant qualifications and vocational experience. Philipp, the protagonist of  Es geht uns gut, is a character in his thirties who has become emotionally stranded due to his inability to come to terms with his mother’s death and consequent failure to develop any other close attachments. He has also become disconnected from a society in which no historical change is evident. Inertia is therefore the result of  the loss of a sense of chronological time. The linearity of  time is further distorted by the appearance of ghosts, in both this novel and in Endmoränen. In Geiger’s novel the protagonist imagines his mother and grandmother appearing to him, warning him to take control of  his life, while Maron’s Johanna appeals to the spirits for protection and advice. The appearance of ghosts is a phenomenon that allows the past to enter the present; furthermore, the individual who engages with spirits is shown to be tied to the past and thus prevented from moving forwards. The sense of  being stranded in a stagnating present is juxtaposed with motifs of  transience, which only serve to heighten the sense of  futility. Paradoxically, the realization that all things come to an end provides no hope of escape from a seemingly eternal present which is overwhelmed by the past. Many images are employed in Geiger’s novel to conjure oblivion: the fading away of  the sunset symbolizes the erasure of each day from memory, as does the fading of colours and photographs and the accumulation of dust on the forgotten objects in the attic of  the grandparents’ house. In the narrative present, Philipp’s inheritance of  the house triggers the attempt to obliterate the past by getting rid of  these objects. He also has no meaningful vision of  the future, while the only vision of  the future

238 Conclusion

that remains for Maron’s protagonist is of  her own death. Johanna’s assessment of  her ageing body provides physical evidence of her downward spiral towards death. A preoccupation with universal death, and thus with the transient nature of all things, is obvious in the work of  Alois Hotschnig, although he also employs the metaphors of  living death and of  being buried alive to thematize the characters’ inability to escape the earth. The motif of  the body is interconnected with the motifs of  time and transience in a number of ways. For instance, the protagonist’s ref lection on the ageing process in Maron’s novel is related to the coming of autumn, the season traditionally associated with melancholy. Furthermore, her disgust at the sight of  her naked body relates to a wider discourse on the way in which older citizens are viewed within both East German and postunification society: they are either ignored, since it is believed that they can no longer make a meaningful contribution to society, or are valued only as consumers. In Hein’s Frau Paula Trousseau the body expresses a gender-specific relationship to history. In her negative perception of  her own body, as well as in her physical reactions to male domination, Hein’s protagonist embodies the dialectical divide between the male and female realms and the relegation of women to the realm of irrationality, nature and the body, as opposed to the male-oriented realm of rationality, culture and the mind. The protagonist’s inability or unwillingness to assert her position within the male-dominated art world means that she remains tied to the realm of nature and excluded from cultural and historical discourse. In Geiger’s novel the image of  the grandfather’s ageing body is linked with his weekly ritual of winding the clocks, the ageing of  his body providing an objective measure of  the passage of  time as well as ref lecting his lack of control over the passage of  time. Finally, Hotschnig’s novella of fers a very dif ferent conception of  the body. The body is depicted as the site through which one is bound in a visceral relationship with others and with place, the ties that bind one to the other being described as an umbilical cord. The inhabitants cannot break free of  their locality nor of  their entrapment within a claustrophobic, repetitive present. Thus, in all of  the aforementioned narratives the concept of  the body expresses a (gendered) relationship to history, or more specifically to the sense of  being stranded outside of  history.

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The experience of  historical dislocation plays out against the backdrop of varying sociopolitical contexts in the analysed narratives. The historical background of  the Second World War still informs the present in the texts of  Geiger and Hotschnig, while the GDR maintains a strong inf luence over the contemporary East in the work of  Maron and Hein. The historical dislocation of  Maron’s protagonist is shown in Endmoränen to be the result of  her negative bond to the GDR, which, according to Freud’s conception of melancholy, is the result of a pathological failure to withdraw one’s libidinal attachments. Her inability to relate to the new society of  the post-Wende era and her retreat into nature are also the consequence of  her age and lack of  future employment prospects under capitalism. A continuing incapacity to truly find a new direction is evidenced in the sequel Ach Glück, in which a trip to Mexico represents an attempt to evade the reality of  her life and the course that it will take. In the case of  Hein’s Paula Trousseau, it is obvious that she has always lived at a remove from society. She decided early on to isolate herself  from the negative inf luence of  her family and of  the GDR’s cultural functionaries in order to pursue her own course, both personally and artistically. However, prolonged isolation has led both to monotony in her work and increasing emotional detachment. In Es geht uns gut the disconnection from history is portrayed as the result of  Austria’s distorted relationship to its past, which has led to the perception that the chronology of  historical events has become jumbled and fragmented and that history thus proceeds in a circular rather than linear fashion. While Philipp’s mother and grandmother both perceive such fragmentation in their own lives, Philipp himself sees no connection between his life and historical events. In fact, his complete detachment from external af fairs evokes the sense of a posthistorical world. This ef fect is compounded by the comparison of  Philipp’s life with the lives of  his parents and grandparents. The inf luence of  historical upheavals on individual lives, such as the Nazi occupation of  Austria and the rebellion of  the second generation against their parents in the late 1960s, are shown to diminish with each succeeding generation, resulting in the impression that history has come to an end with Philipp’s generation. The sense that no significant events are taking place in the world outside and that the

240 Conclusion

outside world in no way impinges on the life of  the individual is most strongly conveyed in this novel. The concept of posthistoire relates closely to the resurgence of melancholy in the post-1989 period. Both concepts have been shown to reemerge during periods of  historical upheaval, although the origins of melancholy reach back to antiquity while the notion of posthistoire was first formulated in the mid-nineteenth century. When examined in concert, these concepts articulate the overriding sense of  historical loss that has emerged since the fall of  the Berlin Wall, as seen in Maron’s and Hein’s work. However, they are also shown to be cultural constructs. Thus, while the melancholy and sense of  historical dislocation felt by the protagonists is genuine, the performative aspect of melancholy is also evident in the analysed narratives. The history of melancholy as a construction or imagined condition can be traced through its association with hypochondria. No anatomical proof of  the existence of  the hypochondrium could be found; hence the term hypochondria came to denote imaginary pains. In contemporary literature it is the rich cultural history of melancholy that is evoked, and which contributes to its depiction as a construction or performance, the condition of  the body representing only part of  this tradition. The motifs associated with melancholy, such as blackness or darkness, dryness, autumn, inertia and insomnia serve to strengthen depictions of  fragmentation, spectrality, abandonment and loss, as well as a subjective relationship to time and space. The house serves as a highly symbolic space in almost all narratives, since several of  the protagonists spend their time either confined within the house or in an ambivalent position on the threshold of  the house. It is perhaps the motif  that most keenly evokes the figurative nature of melancholy in contemporary discourse. This is most obviously the case in Hotschnig’s Ludwigs Zimmer, where the house is employed to create a Gothic ef fect, particularly through the central Gothic motif of a secret room. Finally, the creative process itself, and in particular the writing process, are closely interrelated with the concept of melancholy. Not only have the artist and scholar long been regarded as having an innate melancholy predisposition, which fuels their creative abilities, but the act of artistic creation serves as a means of sublimating melancholy sentiments. The portrayal of  the melancholy artist in Hein’s novel incorporates the former phenomenon,

Conclusion

241

while all of  the other narratives ref lect on the relationship between melancholy and the writing process, either within the discourse of  the narrative itself or on the meta-narrative level. Writing is represented variously as a means of connecting with others and asserting one’s place within the process of  history (in Endmoränen), and as an attempt to overcome the futility of  life and the emptiness of  the posthistorical present by escaping to an imagined past (in Es geht uns gut). In the case of  Hotschnig’s work the writing process is interpreted as a way for the author to deal with his own melancholy, an endeavour that cannot succeed in the form of a conscious objective but only through sublimation of such sentiments. The complex nature of  the discourse on melancholy in contemporary literature has been examined in this study through the analysis of a selection of diverse narratives. The argument that melancholy has reemerged in the post-1989 period has been supported through an illustration of its connection to the key concepts of  time, transience, historical dislocation and posthistoire. It has also been demonstrated that there is a close association between melancholy and current theoretical issues in German Studies, including Heimat discourse, genealogy, transgenerational memory and postmemory. Melancholy articulates the underlying sense of loss that binds all of  these various issues together. The loss of ideology caused by the fall of  the Wall led to a sense of  historical loss and loss of orientation, which is ref lected in contemporary texts; yet much writing since the Wende also demonstrates a re-engagement with family history and with place. The attempt to recover a sense of  belonging is, however, fraught with pitfalls – these pitfalls being the gaps in the family history which represent the repressed aspects of  the past. The inability to confront these elements means that the desire to connect with the past leads in many cases to further disconnection from it, which is manifested in a melancholy detachment from the world. Thus the sense of  historical loss is compounded by the loss of a personal connection to the past and to Heimat, which has been caused by the contamination of  family history and of place through implication in the crimes committed in the Nazi era and, to a lesser extent, in the GDR.

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Index

Abraham, Nicolas  168–170, 177 acedia  5, 6, 90 Anatomy of  Melancholy, The  10, 204, 229 antiquity  2, 3–4, 34, 50, 53, 64, 86, 171, 201 Applegate, Celia  181 Aristotle  4, 15, 29, 86 Assmann, Aleida  148, 152, 169, 221 Baroque  10–12, 31, 93, 177, 201–205 Baudelaire, Charles  62–64, 120 Becher, Johannes R.  101, 126 (59n) Benjamin, Walter  9, 11, 63, 202, 203 black bile  3, 4, 102, 201, 202, 204, 212 see also humours, the four Boa, Elizabeth  182 Böhme, Hartmut  8, 66, 89 Boll, Katharina  38 Brecht, Bertolt  100, 126 (59n, 60n) Browne, Thomas  202 Burton, Robert  10, 201, 203–204, 229 capitalism  2, 24–27, 36, 45, 61–62, 76, 81, 84, 85, 107, 128, 134–137 Caruth, Cathy  174–175 Chronos  5, 50, 202 Clarke, David  84–86 communism  21, 25–26, 44–45, 61, 68, 71, 79, 81, 121, 122, 134, 140, 165, 177 crystallization (cultural) 25 death cycle of  birth and  208–211, 217 drive (Thanatos)  117–119, 139 universality of  20, 31, 199, 201–203, 205, 230, 231

Demandt, Alexander  22, 27, 147, 180 Derrida, Jacques  51, 188 Dürer, Albrecht  7–9, 29, 49, 50, 52, 53, 67, 87–89, 93, 179 see also Melencolia I Eigler, Friederike  38, 148–151 Emmerich, Wolfgang  131 (65n) Enlightenment  12–14, 15, 52–54, 60, 127 family narratives  148–153, 169 Ficino, Marsilio  7, 10, 86–88, 91, 202 Fischer, Bernd  95 French Revolution  23–24 Freud, Sigmund  17–18, 25, 29, 30, 31, 34, 39, 57–59, 69, 75, 80, 149, 152, 188, 212–213, 230 Freytag, Julia  165 (35n) Friedrich, Caspar David  15, 214 Fritz, Horst  56 Fritzsche, Peter  23–24, 27 Fuchs, Anne  149, 151, 152, 169, 174 Fukuyama, Francis  21, 22, 196 GDR (German Democratic Republic)  19, 21, 33–38, 47, 71, 73, 77, 79, 106–111, 121–122, 133–134, 137 censorship  95, 125–132 critique of  81–85, 100–101 loss of  30, 41–44, 57–59, 68, 75 Gehlen, Arnold  25, 55 Geier, Andrea  37, 39 genealogy  152–153, 200, 203, 205, 206, 226 generation concept of  205–206, 225–226

252 Index generational narratives see family narratives ghosts/phantoms  1, 51, 53, 56, 60, 68, 75, 148, 153, 161, 167–170, 172, 175, 177, 187–189, 196, 222, 223 see also spectral Gilson, Elke  39, 48 Glatzel, Johann  54 Gothic  31, 175, 188, 197, 222–223, 234 Grass, Günter  9, 151, 153 Hammer, Klaus  109, 110 Hanke, Amala  60 Harbers, Henk  40, 41, 61 Hegel, G.W.F.  22 Heidbrink, Ludger  23, 26–28, 30, 49, 194 Heimat  31–32, 63, 143, 181–190, 201, 215, 217–222, 226–229, 232, 234 Hildegard von Bingen  5–7, 89–90 Hirsch, Marianne  173 historical dislocation/loss  20, 21, 23, 34, 45, 109 humours, the four  3–4, 20, 46, 171, 201, 204 see also black bile hypochondria  10, 13, 14 inwardness  12, 13, 26, 29, 30, 34, 46, 53, 56, 75, 146, 185 Klibansky, Raymond  89–90, 113, 180 Klötzer, Sylvia  38 Krauss, Hannes  83 Krieger, Verena  91 Kristeva, Julia  201, 229–230 Kronos 5 landscape art, in  83, 91, 95, 96, 98–99, 103–104, 110, 119, 129–130, 133, 138 topos of melancholy, as a  49, 80, 136, 191, 200–201, 213–214, 214–223, 228

Lepenies, Wolf  2, 10, 12–13, 26, 53 Lethen, Helmut  105 Long, J.J.  174 Loquai, Franz  15 Löwy, Michael  61 Lukács, Georg  122, 126 (59n, 60n) materialism  22, 31, 68, 137 melancholy passim; and autumn  20, 33, 46–47, 63–64, 76, 230 biological inheritance, as  19, 200, 205–208, 213 body, and the  16, 20, 29, 34, 46–47, 50, 80, 112, 113, 117–118, 217, 229 coldness, as motif of  5, 20, 46, 80, 112–114, 117–118 creativity/genius  4–7, 8, 14–15, 63, 66–67, 81, 86–93, 137–138 darkness, as motif of  5, 20, 80, 102, 162, 187, 188, 191 dog, as symbol of  8, 30, 35, 41, 49, 65–67, 69, 71–72, 76, 89 dryness, as motif of  3, 5, 20, 46, 171, 195, 197 earth, as motif of  3, 20, 124, 199, 201–203, 212, 219–220 genderization of  6–7, 30, 80, 89–95, 101, 111–112 group phenomenon, as a  12, 29, 201–203, 223, 225 inertia  30, 34–36, 46, 54–55, 75, 80, 112–113, 116, 179, 184 insomnia  30, 34, 46, 52 nature art, in  103–104 communion with  31, 48–49, 67, 136 culture/civilization, versus  34, 39–40, 46–48, 54, 56, 76, 80, 92, 112, 113, 123, 182 power of  47, 215–216, 232 psychic/psychopathological disorder, as  4, 5, 14, 16, 20, 52

253

Index topos of melancholy, as a  13, 15, 30, 53, 56–60, 80, 99, 214, 220 space  16, 20, 52, 54–56, 60, 75, 185–186, 197 time concept of  5, 8, 50, 179, 202 non-linearity of  162–164, 179–181 relationship with  52, 54–55, 60, 62, 68, 136, 155–157, 159–160, 165, 193–194, 197, 226 transience  5, 11, 20, 30, 41, 49, 50, 190, 194, 197 Melencolia I  7, 29, 49, 50, 52, 53, 67, 87–88, 179 memory, discourse on  148–152 Menasse, Eva  158n, 165n Menasse, Robert  145–147, 160, 173–175, 183–184, 190 Middle Ages  5–6, 52, 87, 202 Mitscherlich, Alexander and Margarete  106 modernism 40 Naqvi, Fatima  231 Nazi past  21, 84, 105–108, 154, 155, 161, 200, 218 Niethammer, Lutz  25–26, 28 Nora, Pierre  206 Ophelia motif  99–101, 138 Owen, Ruth J.  100 Palfreyman, Rachel  182 patriarchy  30, 80, 112, 121 posthistoire  21–28, 30, 31, 143, 147, 165–166, 180, 181, 183, 185, 186, 194–197 postmemory 174 postmodernism 40 phylogenetic inheritance  212–213, 229–230, 234

Radden, Jennifer  16, 18, 29 rationalism  15, 21, 22, 31, 40, 76, 112, 141 Reid, J.H.  125 religion  6, 11, 23, 26, 45, 73–75, 95 loss of  faith  54, 60, 203 religious fanaticism  12, 15 Renaissance  6, 7, 14, 15, 24, 29, 86–87, 92–93, 202 Romanticism  13, 14–16, 26, 30, 35, 40, 45, 46, 52, 56, 59–64, 75–76, 99, 127, 185, 214 Saturn  5, 7, 8, 49, 50, 86–88, 202, 204 Saxl, Fritz  89, 90, 113 Sayre, Robert  61 Schama, Simon  214, 222 Schings, Hans-Jürgen  12, 14–15 Sebald, W.G.  201, 217–218, 228 Seghers, Anna  126 (59n, 60n) Showalter, Elaine  90, 112 Sontag, Susan  211 spectral  1, 31, 69, 75, 181, 186–190, 197 see also ghosts/phantoms Stern, Fritz  21 Tate, Dennis  126 (59n, 60n) Thuswaldner, Anton  164 (34n) Torok, Maria  168–170, 177 transgenerational traumatization  152– 153, 204 utopia  10, 12, 27, 42, 84, 121, 151 vanitas  11, 20, 177, 203 Walther, Lutz  2, 28 Weigel, Sigrid  152, 153, 169, 205, 225, 226 Williams, Anne  222 Wittstock, Uwe  140 Wolfreys, Julian  189

CULTURAL HISTORY AND LITERARY IMAGINATION EDITED BY CHRISTIAN J. EMDEN & DAVID MIDGLEY This series promotes inquiry into the relationship between literary texts and their cultural and intellectual contexts, in theoretical, interpretative and historical perspectives. It has developed out of a research initiative of the German Department at ­Cambridge University, but its focus of interest is on the European tradition broadly perceived. Its purpose is to encourage comparative and interdisciplinary research into the connections between cultural history and the literary imagination generally. The editors are especially concerned to encourage the investigation of the role of the literary imagination in cultural history and the interpretation of cultural history through the literary text. Examples of the kind of issues in which they are particularly interested include the following: – The material conditions of culture and their representation in literature, e.g. responses to the impact of the sciences, technology, and industrialisation, the confrontation of ‘high’ culture with popular culture, and the impact of new media; – The construction of cultural meaning through literary texts, e.g. responses to cultural crisis, or paradigm shifts in cultural self-perception, including the establishment of cultural ‘foundation myths’; – History and cultural memory as mediated through the metaphors and models ­deployed in literary writing and other media; – The intermedial and intercultural practice of authors or literary movements in ­specific periods; – The methodology of cultural inquiry and the theoretical discussion of such issues as intermediality, text as a medium of cultural memory, and intercultural relations. Both theoretical reflection on and empirical investigation of these issues are welcome. The series is intended to include monographs, editions, and collections of papers based on recent research in this area. The main language of publication is English.

Vol. 1 Christian Emden & David Midgley (eds): Cultural Memory and Historical Consciousness in the German-Speaking World Since 1500. Papers from the ­Conference ‘The Fragile Tradition’, Cambridge 2002. Vol. 1. 316 pp., 2004. ISBN 3-03910-160-9 / US-ISBN 0-8204-6970-X Vol. 2 Christian Emden & David Midgley (eds): German Literature, History and the Nation. Papers from the C ­ onference ‘The Fragile Tradition’, Cambridge 2002. Vol. 2. 393 pp., 2004. ISBN 3-03910-169-2 / US-ISBN 0-8204-6979-3 Vol. 3 Christian Emden & David Midgley (eds): Science, Technology and the German Cultural Imagination. Papers from the ­Conference ‘The Fragile Tradition’, C ­ ambridge 2002. Vol. 3. 319 pp., 2005. ISBN 3-03910-170-6 / US-ISBN 0-8204-6980-7 Vol. 4 Anthony Fothergill: Secret Sharers. Joseph Conrad’s Cultural Reception in Germany. 274 pp., 2006. ISBN 3-03910-271-0 / US-ISBN 0-8204-7200-X Vol. 5 Silke Arnold-de Simine (ed.): Memory Traces. 1989 and the Question of German Cultural Identity. 343 pp., 2005. ISBN 3-03910-297-4 / US-ISBN 0-8204-7223-9 Vol. 6 Renata Tyszczuk: In Hope of a Better Age. Stanislas Leszczynski in Lorraine 1737-1766. 410 pp., 2007. ISBN 978-3-03910-324-9 Vol. 7 Christian Emden, Catherine Keen & David Midgley (eds): Imagining the City, Volume 1. The Art of Urban Living. 344 pp., 2006. ISBN 3-03910-532-9 / US-ISBN 0-8204-7536-X Vol. 8 Christian Emden, Catherine Keen & David Midgley (eds): Imagining the City, Volume 2. The Politics of Urban Space. 383 pp., 2006. ISBN 3-03910-533-7 / US-ISBN 0-8204-7537-8 Vol. 9 Christian J. Emden and Gabriele Rippl (eds): ImageScapes. Studies in Intermediality. 289 pp., 2010. ISBN 978-3-03910-573-1 Vol. 10 Alasdair King: Hans Magnus Enzensberger. Writing, Media, Democracy. 357 pp., 2007. ISBN 978-3-03910-902-9 Vol. 11 Ulrike Zitzlsperger: ZeitGeschichten: Die Berliner Übergangsjahre. Zur Verortung der Stadt nach der Mauer. 241 pp., 2007. ISBN 978-3-03911-087-2

Vol. 12 Alexandra Kolb: Performing Femininity. Dance and Literature in German Modernism. 330pp., 2009. ISBN 978-3-03911-351-4 Vol. 13 Carlo Salzani: Constellations of Reading. Walter Benjamin in Figures of Actuality. 388pp., 2009. ISBN 978-3-03911-860-1 Vol. 14 Monique Rinere: Transformations of the German Novel. Simplicissimus in Eighteenth-Century Adaptations. 273pp., 2009. ISBN 978-3-03911-896-0 Vol. 15 Katharina Hall and Kathryn N. Jones (eds): Constructions of Conflict. Transmitting Memories of the Past in European Historiography, Culture and Media. 282pp., 2011. ISBN 978-3-03911-923-3. Vol. 16 Ingo Cornils and Sarah Waters (eds): Memories of 1968. International Perspectives. 396pp., 2010. ISBN 978-3-03911-931-8 Vol. 17 Anna O’ Driscoll: Constructions of Melancholy in Contemporary German and Austrian Literature. 263pp., 2013. ISBN 978-3-0343-0733-8 Vol. 18 Martin Modlinger and Philipp Sonntag (eds): Other People’s Pain. Narratives of Trauma and the Question of Ethics. 252pp., 2011. ISBN 978-3-0343-0260-9