1/25/2021

Ironic Little Nazis by John Steppling


The Ironic Little Nazis

Guillaume Burger (Studio for Manfredo Tafuri).

“As states have hastily emulated measures adopted elsewhere, in particular through the imposition of curfews, nationwide lockdowns and travel bans, and escalation of citizen surveillance, a wave of authoritarian governance has swept the globe with profound, worldwide implications for democracy, the rule of law, and human rights, dignity, and autonomy. Reinforced by threats of criminal sanction, from fines to imprisonment, states have exerted tremendous vertical, paternalist power on citizens, despite serious questions as to the efficacy, sustainability, and proportionality of adopted measures. Day-to-day life was essentially suspended worldwide, with borders closed, social gatherings banned, business operations ceased, sports events canceled, and religious services suspended; no less than 1.5 billion students in 188 countries were globally affected by school closures.”
Stephen Thomson (COVID-19 emergency measures and the impending authoritarian pandemic, Journal of Law and Biosciences, Sept. 2020)

“But we must be completely clear…if nationalism is truly the hallmark of a people in the prime of its youth and energies, how does it happen that under its aegis morality decays, ancient customs die out—that men are uprooted, the steadfast derided, the thoughtful branded, the rivers poisoned, and the forests destroyed? Why, if this is a high watermark of our national life, has our speech been vulgarized in this unprecedented way?”
Friedrich Reck-Malleczewen (Diary of a Man in Despair)

“Ah! Our nice little ego is back again!”
Jacques Lacan (Seminar II)

“When wrong, we mistake for objective verification the selection and solicitation (more or less deliberate) of the evidence, which is forced to confirm the presuppositions (more or less
explicit) of the research itself. The dog thinks it is biting the bone and is
instead biting its own tail.”

Carlo Ginzburg and Adriano Prosperi (A Seminar on the Benefit of Christ, 1975)

I wanted to try to assemble a few random, or somewhat random, thoughts here. Many have written on the Reset and at Aesthetic Resistance ( https://soundcloud.com/aestheticresistance )

we have done several podcasts on this subject, so this time I want to touch on less discussed implications of what is going on globally. Psychological implications, but also psychological precursors. And several things have come to mind. One is contemporary architecture , and the legacy of Philip Johnson. The second is the misreading of Freud and psychoanalysis altogether.

“Indeed, for him ( Lacan) the ego is no less a “historic result,” which is to say, a product of modernity, than it was for Marx. At the beginning of the Seminar on the ego, he warns his students against retrospectively projecting our modern conception of the ego into the past when we attempt, for example, to understand the Greeks{  } ‘It is very difficult for us to imagine that the whole of this psychology isn’t eternal.'”
Joel Whitebook (Perversion and Utopia )

Chidinma Nnoli

Whitebook quotes Lacan again on the formation of ego…“a product of our industrial age { } his relationship to this machine is so very intimate that it is almost as if the two were actually conjoined.” This is a fascinating observation in the context of psychoanalysis. And in terms of later mis-readings of Lacan. And Lacan also notes the intense emotional attachment that people have to machines. For the machine, as he put it, ‘exteriorizes the protective shell of his ego’. The machine is the reflection of the reified self. And this then brings us to Philip Johnson.

Johnson came from a wealthy Cleveland family. He was charming and witty, so accounts have it, and was decidedly a social climber. Today he would be called an influencer.

The Vanity Fair piece on Johnson (Marc Wortman, 2016) notes…” he used his personal funds to establish the new Museum of Modern Art’s Department of Architecture, making it the first major American museum to exhibit contemporary architecture and design. At age 26, he collaborated in curating MoMA’s landmark 1932 show, “The International Style: Architecture Since 1922.” This groundbreaking exhibition introduced Americans to masters of modern European architectural style, such as Walter Gropius and Berlin’s Bauhaus school and the French master Le Corbusier, along with a few American practitioners, including Frank Lloyd Wright, Richard Neutra, and Raymond Hood. The exhibition and the accompanying book would set the course of world architecture for the next 40 years.”

Philip Johnson, at his desk in the Seagam’s bldg.

Johnson was to hold an enormous amount of influence on architecture in the U.S. And he was deeply enamoured of the Third Reich and Hitler himself. He recounts the erotic charge of attending a rally in Potsdam in 1932. All those blond boys in black leather. So here we have wealth, privilege, and a mythos of fascism, the same blond Aryan volkish seductiveness that is still be marketed today.

“Sharing the Protestant social elite’s then common disdain for Jews and its fear of organized labor, he had no problem with the Nazis’ scapegoating of Jews or excoriation of Communists. He wrote of a visit to Paris, “Lack of leadership and direction in the [French] state has let the one group get control who always gain power in a nation’s time of weakness—the Jews.” To his bigotry he added a personal snobbery toward mass democratic society. In an age of social collapse, Germany had figured out solutions he thought right for the crisis of democracy. He was sure Fascism could transform America, if perhaps occasioning some temporary dislocations for certain “alien” groups, much as it had in Germany. He felt ready to embark on an effort to import Fascism to America.”
Marc Wortman (Ibid)

Plan for Palace of the Soviets, Boris Iofan, architect.

And racism, anti-semitism. Johnson first looked to Huey Long as an American Hitler, but Long was shot dead. No matter, he moved on the Roman Catholic ‘Radio Priest’ Father Charles Edward Coughlin. And Coughlin was invested deeply in classical antisemitism. It was the usual Jewish banker cabal mixed with anti communism. Johnson was to champion Coughlin and quote him often. Johnson was to eventually, as it became clear the U.S. would enter the war, try to change his image. The FBI followed him and raided his New York apartment (finding books by leading fascists and Nazis, some autographed).

“How did Johnson, virtually alone among his Fascist associates, manage to avoid indictment? The answer may lie in the influence of powerful friends. One man in particular could well have been influential: Washington’s powerful Latin-American intelligence-and-propaganda czar Nelson Rockefeller, who knew Johnson well from his New York days. Rockefeller’s mother, Abby Aldrich Rockefeller, was the force behind the Museum of Modern Art. Rockefeller regarded himself as a connoisseur of art, particularly architecture, and had helped his father develop the monumental Rockefeller Center. He was a leading patron of modern art in America and served as president of the Museum of Modern Art, where he had taken a particular interest in Johnson’s Department of Architecture.”
Marc Wortman (Ibid)

Centro Direzionale e Commerciale Fontivegge. Aldo Rossi, architect.


Ah, Rockefeller. The name is always somewhere close to fascist ideals and American power. But to focus more aesthetics here, Johnson was to become the cheerleader and prime exponent of the ‘International Style’ in architecture. Wortman quotes Robert Hughes’ interview with Albert Speer (which I believe I quoted here in the blog several years ago as I have long hated Johnson’s work):

“Suppose a new Führer were to appear tomorrow. Perhaps he would need a state architect? You, Herr Speer, are too old for the job. Whom would you pick? “Well,” Speer said with a half-smile, “I hope Philip Johnson will not mind if I mention his name. Johnson understands what the small man thinks of as grandeur. The fine materials, the size of the space.”
Albert Speer (Guardian, 2003)

There is a sort of tepid backlash now, finally, against Johnson. Twenty years after his death almost. Its hard, though, to overestimate his influence on architecture in the 20th century. And, it is interesting to see the links to Mies Van der Rohe, and Le Corbusier.
https://www.theguardian.com/artanddesign/2002/nov/30/architecture.artsfeatures

Van der Rohe occupies a curious and conflicted position in this discussion. He was both the anti-Johnson, and an unwitting (I think) accomplice to this sense of architecture as a reified protective shell. Le Corbusier was pretty openly a fascist. And an anti semite. He was also a vastly superior architect to Johnson. And maybe simply a great architect. But therein lies the heart of this discussion in a sense. Was there a quality of the fascistic in Corbusier’s work? I don’t know if I can answer that. I certainly think in his case this becomes a complex question and many leftists I know simply will not look at fascist art. That such a thing as great fascist art is an impossibility. I think its possible, but with qualifications, some of which feel, even to me, as labyrinthine and obtuse. Corbusier was also an opportunist who sought employment in Soviet Russia. He self identified as socialist, only to change that a year later and identify as fascist (well, conservative, but this was amid the rise of European fascism). Le Corbusier’s work is also conflicted in general. I have always rather loved Villa Savoye. Many don’t, and I understand the criticisms of it, but for me, like much of his work, there is something beautiful in all that is not there. Still, it is not hard to imagine his work seeming less impressive in another fifty years. And I admit, from certain perspectives, or angles, the Villa Savoye can resemble a beach front restaurant in Pattaya as much as a cherished architectural masterpiece.

Emily Mason

“In 1943, Le Corbusier created “The Modulor” as a physical (anthropometry) system of measurement based on the height of the average man (183 cm) that he promoted through a book he wrote entitled The Modulor: A Harmonious Measure to the Human Scale, Universally Applicable to Architecture and Mechanics, that was published in 1950. The Nazis would rely on anthropometric measurements to distinguish Aryans from Jews. Like anthropology, Le Corbusier’s theory of proportion was presented as a philosophical, mathematical, and historical truth. It imposed on the world a supposed “universal body”: an inane geometrical standard that, in the words of the architect, “constructed beings.” Yes, “The Modulor” constructed machine bodies for his “machine for living” houses. But living how, one might ask? “
Joseph Nechvatal (Hyperallergic 2015)

In a sense Le Corbusier is the more apt precursor to the AI fantasies and post post modernism of many of today’s *stararchitects* . For he was building not for the human, and rarely at a human scale. It is sort of interesting to compare Villa Savoye with the house Wittgenstein designed for his sister. Which she described as unliveable, a house for a god. Perhaps, but both remain difficult to fully grasp, and maybe that is in part because they were expressions of something anti-human, even if only partly in the case of Wittgenstein. They were also Utopian, in an odd way, and aspirations to something transcendent. They were metaphorical.

I am reminded of a quote I have used before…

“If before the 1970s (roughly speaking) buildings were primarily regarded as (public) expenditure, after the 1970s buildings became mostly a means of revenue – which fact ironically only contributed to further downward pressure on construction budgets. Once discovered as a form of capital, there is no choice for buildings but to operate according to the logic of capital. In that sense there may ultimately be no such thing as Modern or Postmodern architecture, but simply architecture before and after its annexation by capital.”
Rainier de Graaf

550 Madison Ave. Philip Johnson, architect


There are several registers of meaning when examining architecture. And certainly if one wants to dissect the contemporary erasure of citation, because there is the simultaneous erasure of history, one is going to have to dissect the industrial age ego as it has evolved.

“Among the more radical implications of the CCA’s show is its repositioning of Stalinist architecture as a precursor to the architectural postmodernism that emerged in Western Europe and North America several decades later. It would have been inconceivable a decade ago to see an image of the 1934 Boris Iofan–designed Palace of Soviets, a hallmark project of the Stalin era, emblazoned on an architecture museum’s facade. Critics and historians in the West have long dismissed the building as tasteless kitsch, “wedding-cake architecture,” and the conservative expression of a repressive regime. The CCA’s gesture, as well as Cohen’s inclusion of Iofan’s original drawings for the project and his photographs of New York skyscrapers from a 1934 visit, documents the architect’s fondness for the eclecticism of American prewar high-rises and acknowledges the period’s complex mechanisms of citation. Elsewhere in the gallery, a contemporary model of Lev Rudnev’s 1953 building for Moscow State University and original drawings for Vyacheslav Oltarzhevsky’s 1957 Hotel Ukraina building in Moscow underscore the Stalin era’s inventive reconstitution of Italian sources. With their flagrant disregard for the rules of proportion and order that traditionally governed Renaissance architectural ornament, both projects show the affinity for decontextualized historical imagery, the urbanistic organization around grand avenues, and the “decorated shed” fetishization of facade and surface that would later manifest in the work of Aldo Rossi, Robert Venturi, and their postmodern sympathizers. Indeed, Rossi first traveled to the Soviet Union during the ’50s, later writing about his profound experience of Stalinist architecture and his admiration for its scale and ability to communicate in an emotional register. “I am proud that I have always defended the great architecture of the Stalinist period,” reflected Rossi in his 1981 Scientific Autobiography, “which could have been transformed into an important alternative for modern architecture but was abandoned.””
Anna Kats (Missed Connections, Artforum, 2020)

Roadside architecture. California. Date unknown, Photographer unknown.

It is unsurprising that Rossi was an admirer of Soviet design and architecture. Rossi’s work in infused with exactly opposite qualities to that of a Johnson. I have written before about my admiration for the San Cataldo Cemetery in Moderna. It is among the greatest architectural works of the last century. And today, more than ever, it feels like the corrective to the architecture of capital. And a corrective or answer to the annexed-by-capital architecture of Johnson, or Hadid, or Meier et al.

A very good photo portrait of the San Caltaldo cemetery here https://www.inessabinenbaum.com/aldo-rossi

I use another quote I have used before from Hilton Kramer..

“In the period that saw Andy Warhol emerge as the very model of the new artist-celebrity, moreover, sheer corniness was no longer looked upon as a failure of sensibility, nor was superficiality—or even vulgarity—regarded as a fault. Bad taste might even be taken as a sign of energy and vitality, and “stupid art”—as its champions cheerfully characterized some of the newer styles that began to flourish in the late Seventies and early Eighties—could be cherished for its happy repudiation of cerebration, profundity, and critical stringency. Try to imagine Arshile Gorky or Mark Rothko or Robert Motherwell countenancing such a turnabout in attitudes and you have a vivid sense of the differences separating the last stages of modernist orthodoxy from the very different moral climate of postmodernist art.”
Hilton Kramer (Postmodern: Art and Culture in the 1980s)

Kim Inbai

Kramer also notes perceptively that ironic camp, while mocked, is never really disparaged. That mocking encloses a good deal of validation and appreciation. And like so much else, this change in cultural taste began in the early 80s. The eighties marked, I suspect anyway, the beginning of the current phase of ironic kitsch conservatism. And the front edges of psychic breakdown. The fascist leaning bourgeois taste for triviality was gaining traction. For what today’s Elon Musks or Jeff Bezos represent are ironic little Nazis, little prancing empty holograms of elitism and white supremacism. But it is mock elitism. And this post modern , or post post modern irony encloses and normalizes Hitler by rendering kitsch ironic Hitlers. Hitler and the Third Reich become ironic style codes. It is interesting that Prince Harry dressed as a Nazi for some costume party is treated with mock approbation, but Harry clearly doesn’t know where the joke begins or ends. And running beneath it is a sadistic eroticism. Or as Philip Johnson wrote a friend after attending the Potsdam rally…breathless in tone….“all those blond boys in black leather”.

I was thinking of Friedrich Reck-Malleczewen’s description of Hitler as a Machiavelli for the chambermaids. And it is worth noting that Reck Malleczewen’s book Diary of a Man in Despair is absolute essential reading today.

“For Lacan, Freud’s “Copernican Revolution” consists in the “subversion” of the “pre-analytical notion of the ego,” which is to say, the centered, self-present, and transparent ego more or less shared by common sense, Cartesian philosophy, and academic psychology.’ This subversion consists, according to Lacan, in the decentering of the ego vis-a-vis the unconscious, that is, the demonstration that the unconscious, or the “subject of the unconscious,” as he calls it, and not the ego, constitutes “the core of our being” [derKern unseres Wesens}.”
Joel Whitebook (Ibid)

Now Lacan saw the idea of human’s premature birth as critical. That homosapiens are born far earlier than other animals in terms of the infant’s helplessness.

Alberto Garcia Alix, phtography.

“During the mirror stage, the child anticipates a future situation in which its helplessness would have been overcome. In contradiction to its actually fragmented and uncoordinated state, in the mirror-or, more precisely, in the mirroring experience-the child perceives a synthesized image of himself or herself as already integrated and no longer helpless…”
Joel Whitebook (Ibid)

The ego is formed with this fictional image of a unified self. This fiction is both alienating and rigid. The ego is always struggling to maintain a fiction. So, for Lacan, the ego is not testing reality but is refusing to address reality in its entirety. Whatever one thinks regards Lacan, this fundamental observation seems relevant today. Certainly volumes have been devoted to tweezing apart all aspects of the mirror phase and its endless implications. But this denial of the de centered self seems hugely important for the Spectacle, for the waning days of Capitalism. Now the Covid lockdowns have created an opportunity for more transference of wealth to the top few billionaires and their friends. It is almost by definition delusional. And I suspect it cannot work as they imagine, for many reasons, some of them to do with the fiction of AI. But, the fact remains that the lockdowns have already thrown millions into destitution and desperation. That anyone can accept the official narrative speaks to this basic fiction in the maturation of the self.

The loss of the unconscious has meant an ever drier and more repressed and repressing Ego. Now its interesting in the Covid discussion that the embrace of the official narrative has played well with the haute bourgeosie, but far less well with the blue collar working class. Perhaps they have had more experience in the betrayal that is embedded in screen manipulation. And it may be that the lumpen classes, having been less directly plugged into the apparatus, simply exist more directly in the material world. But I want to return to this at the end.

The loss of what Adorno called the non-identical is critical to now evaluating the forces that oppress and disorient contemporary thought. The idea of the self is always in a struggle to find something in the constant assault of the Spectacle, of media, which is not in a sense a reflection of him or herself.

Adolph Gottlieb

Now, that the reflection is also an illusion should be evident. But that does negate the suffering of the struggle for a self. The lockdowns are taking a far more destructive quality the longer they go on for it is the accrued losses, however small, however seemingly minimal, that are now coming to haunt people’s emotions.

“Adorno perceives that compulsive identity, the sacrifice of the moment for the future, was necessary at a certain stage of history, in order for human beings to liberate themselves from blind subjugation to nature. To this extent such identity already contains a moment of freedom. Accordingly, the ‘spell of selfhood’ cannot be seen simply as an extension of natural coercion; rather, it is an illusion which could, in principle, be reflectively
broken through by the subject which it generates although the full realization of this process would be inseparable from a transformation of social relations.”

Peter Dews (The Limits of Disenchantment)

Social revolution is the path toward a liberation from suffering. I am often struck by the realization of just how many people are watching images on a screen, the identical images I am watching at that moment. There are vast implications that are rarely addressed.

Santa Maria del Priorato, (1765) Giovanni Piranesi architect.

But then, how does the fascist aesthetic of Philip Johnson intersect here? The answer is that as the unwelcoming reflective front of 550 Madison avenue implies the superiority of those in the penthouse, and denies any dialectical relationship to the people on the street– so does fascist theorizing deny any dialectical relationship. The pure mythos of the fascist leader is one of rejection. It is an ideology of erasure. And so the manufacturing of the world must erase, and this erasure is partly entwined with the narcissism of the golden reflections. The silver, the metal of the coin.

“The absolute void, the silence of the “things by themselves,” the tautological affirmation of the pure sign, turned solely back onto itself:in the Campo Marzio we have already glimpsed the demonstration ad absurdium of this necessary nullification of the signified. In the church of the Priorato that semantic void is no longer hinted at. Now it is finally spoken of as it is, in all its brutal nakedness. The authentic horrid of Piranesi is here, and not in the still ambiguous metaphors of the Carceri. Precisely because Piranesi has to demonstrate that the silence of architecture, the reduction to zero of its symbolic and communicative attributes, is the inevitable consequence of the “constraint” to variation-here once again we have the theme of the Parere–the two faces of the altar cannot be separated. The destruction of the symbolic universe is seen to be closely linked to the last, pathetic triumph of the allegory, which unfolds itself on the side facing the faithful.”
Manfredo Tafuri (The Sphere and the Labyrinth)

Peter Peryer, photography.


Tafuri saw Piranesi as the creator of Ur-theatre. At least for the modern world. As he wrote… “The Carceri are theatres in which are staged the acrobatics performed by an apostate anxious to drag his own spectators into the universe of “virtuous wickedness. ” (Ibid). There is a chapter in The Sphere and The Labyrinth that is crucial to understanding the unconscious of architecture, as it were, of a Piranesi, or a Rossi for that matter. An unconscious that is the only pathway to collectivism and the only way to use the back door to the Johnson skyscraper. And when I say unconscious, I mean the non identical of Adorno (and Lacan), the Dionysian that was rejected and denied by the greek rationalists, and the myth that the Enlightenment attempted to correct. Which they DID correct, only to eventually realize it contained within itself the seeds of its opposite, of that which was corrected.

The chapter though is more about theatre. And there is an interesting quote of Lukacs, one which speaks to a basic confusion about the stage, about both drama and theatre overall.

Statue of Piranesi, by Giuseppe Angelini. (Chuch of the Knights of Malta).

“The fact is that there no longer exists a real mass corresponding to the mass sentiments that determine dramatic form. The true modern theatre can be imposed on the mass public only by arriving at a compromise. It sometimes happens, in fact, that the audience of today accepts even the essential, but only when it is presented to it together with other things: this audience is incapable of accepting the essential by itself. In Elizabethan times-not to mention the tragic age of the Greeks-this distinction did not exist, because then the individual dramas could have varying degrees of success while the essential of their intentions was and remained always the same.”
Grygory Lukacs (Writings on Sociology)

This reminds me of Habermas saying modern art cannot provide moral inspiration. The difference being Habermas is an asshole and Lukacs is not. But Lukacs is wrong that mass sentiment was what drove Greek tragedy or any theatre. First off its impossible to know, or really even guess what the intention of Sophocles was, or John Ford or Christopher Marlowe. Tafuri grasps this in his remarks on Piranesi. The problem has been the text. Artaud and Fuchs both said theatre without words was possible. But its not. Or its not really theatre. But theatre can exist without anything BUT text. And audience. And here one would need a long dissertation on audiences. Still this is a digression. The issue is the Carceri of Piranesi are like the basement storage rooms for Trump tower or any Johnson bulding, or pretty much anyone in the International school. For that was the capitalist dream, or anti dream, ascendent for half a century, and it was a part of the instrumental thought serving as the currency for western consciousness and sense of self.

Capitalism has had an enormous effect on human perception. It is more than just a fascist aesthetics, though it is that, too. It is the incremental accrued strangulation of the non identical, it is the imposition of a policed world vision, the literal reflecting back of not just gold shiny surfaces, anonymous and cold, but increasingly now a sense of digitalization, of the world as if it were itself a screen. The world is increasingly experienced as if it were a screen, and exactly with the loss of dimension, and one that blurs at too close an inspection.

But the viewer does not posit a screen. This is natural for many people, now. The facade of the Santa Maria del Priorato, designed by Piranesi, works oppositionally to 550 Madison Avenue. The church welcomes one in, seduces one in, even for all its severity and austerity.

Tafuri always wrote within the shadow of fascism, Italian and German.

Stefan Banz, installation.


“Italian futurism thus furnishes a list of instruments and of problems, from which emerge the thematic of the grotesque; “the identification with the assassin” characteristic of the worship of the machine; the use of nonsense, of the “language of madness,” placed next to a language of the dreariest banality. We are, here, on the inside of a totally formal perception of the new metropolitan universe. Not the domination of it: if anything, a mimesis, a “wanting to dominate because of not being able to.”
Manfredo Tafuri (Ibid)

His was the architectural critique of the screen, which he anticipated. And the undeniable fascistic quality embedded in screens. He also noted the compulsion to repeat was constitutive of fascism.

“In other words, the exorcism of chaos can reconstruct the theatre as an institution.”
Manfredo Tafuri (Ibid)

The reliance today on selling AI is a defensive one. It smacks of desperation.

“Schlemmer writes: “Everything that is mechanizable becomes mechanized. Result: the recognition of what is not mechanizable.” The theatre thus becomes a search for the unfillable interstices that constitute the cracks in the technological universe. Given the loss of the authentic, “in the name of the ludic and of the marvelous,” the theatre can still occupy the entire domain that “lies between the religious cult and naive popular entertainment,” marking precisely the borders of legitimate meanings.”
Manfredo Tafuri (Ibid)

It is telling that Tafuri quotes Kleist’s essay on Marionettes. For it is in the sublime indifference of the marionette that one finds a divinity. Much Asian theatrical tradition samples this idea as well. Actor as marionette poses the question of what is lost or gained here. Tafuri adds the puppet is the metaphorical figure of dead labour. What (per Tafuri) Hitler called ‘neopathetic’. And connects the disjointed gestures of the marionette to the Benjamin and his descriptions of the assembly line.

But the unmechanized, the undigitalized, or rather the undigitalizable, is seen as subversive.

Juan Munoz

It is worth quoting the concluding paragraph of this chapter…

“In a place that refuses to present itself as space and that is destined to vanish like a circus tent, Mies gives life to a language composed of empty and The Stage as “Virtual City” isolated signifiers, in which things are portrayed as mute events. The sorcery of the theatre of the avant-garde dies out in the wandering without exits of the spectator of Mies’s pavilion, within the forest of pure “data .” The liberating laugh freezes at the perception of a new “duty.” The utopia no longer resides in the city, nor does its spectacular metaphor, except as a game or a productive structure disguised as the imaginary. “
Manfredo Tafuri (Ibid)

And here we return to Van der Rohe. Who Tafuri described as creating metaphoric cathedrals. He also created, within the grammar of Capital, theatre spaces. And the Seagram building, on which Philip Johnson worked also ( he designed the restaurant), remains so loved and loathed. Tafuri speaks of Mies ‘unio mystica’, a kind of sacred solipsism. And throughout there is (especially in the Seagram building) the emptiness of the space. For an office building this is a remarkable quality. But Van der Rohe had sublime taste, firstly. One can look at Stirling or Johnson, or an E.M. Pei and feel the anxious sense of insecurity. Not with Van der Rohe, whose austerity is confident and disturbing. But it is also the expression of western Capital, and it serves that master. But the service is that of a perfect butler, and it is never a complaint.

Friedrichstrasse office building entry, Mies Van der Rohe, 1922.

“…man himself has become, after God and nature, an anthropomorphism”.
Herbert Schnadelbach (The Face in the Sand; Foucault and the Anthropological Slumber)

Somewhere Brecht noted the strong desire in some to proclaim the truth when they do not know what is true. This feels like an intro to social media. Tafuri said Johnson’s style was self satisfied. It is also deeply and troublingly hierarchical. Not all tall buildings are. Johnson’s are. For Johnson (and later, Meier, and Hadid and Piano, and quite a few others) is purposefully keeping the architectural idea safely within the tradition of capitalist optimism. That is to say, they are about progress. So is Walt Disney of course. Rossi and Kahn or even Barragan, are not — progress is in fact excluded. The risk of a kind of nostalgia is always there, but I find none in Rossi or Kahn. Progress, in the case of Johnson is intwined with coercion. It is a false fake purity that Johnson expresses. And hence a dangerous expression.

Meier often (in his obsessive white) feels as if he designing a vernacular architecture for the Jetsons landscape. Or, as someone said about the Getty Center, ‘it looks like dental clinic’. But these are the worlds produced when the ineffable is discarded. There is a note in Tarfuri too, about James Stirling, and information theory. Again, this feels like an anticipation of the era of mass data mining, and of surveillance. That architects for big money projects were beginning to reflect something about mass meaninglessness.

Nicolas Grospierre, photography (ticket booth, Powisle station warsaw, 2004)

Brutalism was the last architectural movement, if that’s what it was, that was made up of working class architects, by and large. Architects from lesser schools. It may account for the durability of its appeal. In fact a half dozen new books are out on Brutalism. It photographs well for one thing, but its more, it is the sense of connection with this de centered Ego. One responds to Brutalism because of its ineffability — its uncanniness often.Without digressing too far into Brutalism, I only mention it because of its class characteristics. The ticket booth above is one familiar to me, as I road that number two line frequently on the way back to Lodz. But there is something unsettling about concrete structures. Owen Hatherley, of all people, noted the influence of Bernd and Hilla Becher, the husband and wife photography team that made black and white de-contextualized portraits of abandoned industrial sites for this renewed interest and appreciation of Brutalism. The lack of context is important. One could also mention the new topographic photographers,perhaps especially the late and great Lewis Baltz. Except that Baltz was commenting on the context he left out. Perhaps the Becher’s were, too, to some degree.

“The architecture of Aldo Rossi { } excludes all justifications from outside. The distinctive features of architecture are inserted into a world of rigorously selected signs, within which the law of exclusion dominates. From the monument of Segrate (1965) to the projects for the cemetery in Modena (1971) and for student housing in Chieti (1976), Rossi elaborates an alphabet of forms that rejects all facile articulation. “
Manfredo Tafuri (Ibid)

Trent Parke, photography.

It is not enough to just leave it out. Exclusion is by itself, often, self conscious. In a sense one needs rigorous removal of that which might be loved. I used to have an exercise for playwrights (well, I still do) to rewrite a scene they were working on by eliminating every other line, regardless of who was speaking. It never failed to improve the scene. Rossi’s genius is to not have to comment on what is left out. In a sense nothing is actually left out.

But exclusion is also recognition.

“Freud’s “official position,” up to the 1920s at least, was that the ego’s primary job was defensive and that the main function of the psychic apparatus was to reduce tension.The ego used repression, isolation, and projection to exclude ,that is to say,“get rid of” excitation arising from inner nature.The ego was considered strong and rational to the extent it maintained its solid boundaries and prevented the stimuli of instinctual-unconscious life from penetrating its domain. Freud’s view of the ego, moreover, was tied up with his conviction that “scientific man,” that is, the rational subject -the individual who has renounced magical thinking and been purified of the subjective distortions (Entsellungen) of fantasy and affect – represented “the most advanced form of human development.”
Joel Whitebook (The Marriage of Marx and Freud, Psychoanalysis and the Frankfurt School)

Hans Loewald suggested that this official position was really a description of the obsessive neurotic. And to suggest it as anything more than pathological would result in confusion. There is truth in this, but not entirely. Kleinian psychoanalysis echoes the Freudian (and Horkheimer and Adorno) version of the ego. And while Loewald was partly correct, there is a danger in not examining the truths of this official position. But the point here is that the role of the excluded was critical for Adorno, and for Lacan. And really, for Marcuse, too. And the excluded, the absent, in artworks (from painting to theatre to even novels and films) is an expression of the non identical in a sense. Uncanniness rubs up against this, too. The removal of context (and this could also mean utilitarian didacticism, and even the moralising of identity prescriptions) does not mean the context is gone, it more means the context is replaced with that illusive scene of primal trauma, with the stage space of existential dread, of the recognition of human suffering. There is a paradox in this, wherein the artist who insists on representing the suffering in fact nearly always negates that suffering, or trivializes it. For the suffering is intimately bound up with the unconscious and with repression. With guilt, denial, and shame. With abjection. And even when such experiences of the (lets call it) excluding artwork are fleeting, or not fully made conscious, they leave a residue. A residue of the truth. And nearly everyone on some level shares this.

Marie-José Jongerius, photography.

“Glamour cannot exist without personal social envy being a common and widespread emotion. The industrial society which has moved towards democracy and then stopped half way is the ideal society for generating such an emotion. The pursuit of individual happiness has been acknowledged as a universal right. Yet the existing social conditions make the individual feel powerless. He lives in the contradiction between what he is and what he would like to be. Either he then becomes fully conscious of the contradiction and its causes, and so joins the political struggle for a full democracy which entails, amongst other things, the overthrow of capitalism; or else he lives, continually subject to an envy which compounded with his sense of powerlessness, dissolves into recurrent day-dreams.”
John Berger (Ways of Seeing)

The entire Covid narrative, as the mainstream media and world governments and health organizations have crafted it is absurd. And yet many huddle in their homes, terrified. Only leaving, mask on face, to buy more toilet paper. However, many people (half approximately given recent polls) reject the narrative. And I think one reason is that the educated classes (institutionally educated) are both more indoctrinated but also more invested in an idea of progress and society that demands repression and domination. It was Marcuse who wanted a regression of progress, a return to imagination and fantasy, to a register of the archaic. I think it is also, now, in the post Fordist world, where the very forms repression took were expressed in more inflexible bodies, more mechanical gestures and facial expressions, the gestures have become imprecise and often soft (or they become caricatures of heavy machinery). The human as a machine, a worker machine, unless you were of the ruling class and then you were not a machine but a divinity. That was the model.

The idea of civilization being predicated upon instinctual repression is a basic Freudian tenant. It is also grossly oversimplified, even in Freud. But certainly the tensions of class struggle will lessen under a system that demands equality. The so called ‘new normal’, which is simply a techno driven solution to market capitalism (a solution where a few hundred people own the planet) will do nothin to lessen tensions, but quite the opposite. This is why one cannot discount the death drive in such discourses, for that dynamic is at the heart of class struggle.

George Tooker (1971)


“The character structure of modern man, who reproduces a six-thousand-year-old patriarchal authoritarian culture is typified by characterological armoring against his inner nature and against the social misery which surrounds him. This characterolgical armoring of the character is the basis of isolation, indigence, craving for authority, fear of responsibility, mystic longing, sexual misery, and neurotically impotent rebelliousness.”
Wilhelm Reich (The Function of the Orgasm)

The conventional idea of progress is complacent, but also narcissistic. It is self congratulatory. And has been shaped for two hundred years by the ruling class. By the propertied class. Progress as an idea is already now being revised by those opinion shapers at mass media. For as the potential for an end to capitalism looms, there needs be a marketed version explaining what comes after.

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László Krasznahorkai /2021 The Paris Review

László Krasznahorkai, The Art of Fiction No. 240

Interviewed by Adam Thirlwell

Issue 225, Summer 2018

László Krasznahorkai was born in 1954 in Gyula, a provincial town in Hungary, in the Soviet era. He published his first novel, Satantango, in 1985, then The Melancholy of Resistance (1989), War and War (1999), and Baron Wenckheim’s Homecoming (2016). These novels, with their giant accretions of language, global ­erudition (he’s as familiar with the classics of Buddhist philosophy as he is with the European intellectual tradition), obsessive characters, and rain-sodden landscapes, might give an impression of hardened late-modernist hauteur, but they are also pointillist, elegant, and delicately funny. His gravity has panache—a collision of tones visible in other works he has produced alongside the novels, which ­include short fictions such as Animalinside (2010) and geographically vaster texts like Destruction and Sorrow Beneath the Heavens (2004) and Seiobo There Below (2008). 

Although Krasznahorkai still has a house in Hungary, he mainly lives in Berlin. The first time I tried to reach Berlin from London to begin this interview, in the winter of 2016, my plane was canceled due to fog. A few hours later, as my new flight was on the tarmac, we were told that technical difficulties would further delay our departure. Having at last arrived in Berlin and found a taxi—driving at unnervingly high speed because, the driver told me, he desperately needed to find a bathroom—I found Krasznahorkai in front of the U-Bahn entrance at Hermannplatz, twelve hours after I had left London. I might as well have met him in Beijing. This elongated contemporary travel farce, I thought, seemed incongruously comical. But then I reconsidered: Krasznahorkai’s art has always been hospitable to the absurd, to the ways the world will personify itself and become an implacable opponent. 

Krasznahorkai speaks English with a seductive Mitteleuropean ­inflection and the occasional American accent, the result of his time in the nineties living in Allen Ginsberg’s New York apartment. Krasznahorkai is a large, gentle man, often laughing or smiling and full of creaturely care. He loaned me a sweater when I looked cold, bought me Durs Grünbein’s poetry collection Una Storia Vera as a present, and offered recommendations of György Kurtág recordings. With his long hair and mournful eyes, he looks like a ­benign saint. He is also a man of absolute privacy; he never, therefore, wanted to meet in his apartment. Instead, we conducted long sessions in its general environs, in various cafés and restaurants around Kreuzberg.

—Adam Thirlwell

 

INTERVIEWER

Let’s talk about your beginning as a writer. 

KRASZNAHORKAI

I thought that real life, true life was elsewhere. Along with The Castle by Franz Kafka, my bible for a while was Malcolm Lowry’s Under the Volcano. This was the late sixties, early seventies. I didn’t want to accept the role of a writer. I wanted to write just one book—and after that, I wanted to do different things, especially with music. I wanted to live with the poorest people—I thought that was real life. I lived in very poor villages. I always had very bad jobs. I changed location very often, every three or four months, in an escape from mandatory military service. 

And then, as soon as I started to publish some small things, I received an invitation from the police. I was maybe a little bit too impertinent, because after every question I said, “Please believe me, I don’t deal with politics.” “But we know some things about you.” “No, I don’t write about contemporary politics.” “We don’t believe you.” After a while, I became a little angry and said, “Could you really imagine that I’d write anything about people like you?” And that enraged them, of course, and one of the police officers, or someone from the secret police, wanted to confiscate my passport. In the Communist system in the Soviet era, we had two different passports, blue and red, and I only had the red one. The red wasn’t so interesting because with it you could only go to socialist countries, whereas the blue one meant freedom. So I said, You really want the red one? But they still took it away, and I didn’t have any passport until 1987. 

That was the first story of my writing career—and could easily have been the last. Recently, in the documents of the secret police, I found notes where they discuss potential informers and spies. They had some chance with my brother, they wrote, but with László Krasznahorkai, it would be absolutely impossible because he was so anticommunist. This looks funny now, but at the time it wasn’t so funny. But I never made any political demonstrations. I just lived in small villages and towns and wrote my first novel. 

INTERVIEWER

How did you publish it? 

KRASZNAHORKAI

This was 1985. Nobody—myself included—could understand how it was possible to publish Satantango because it’s anything but an unproblematic novel for the Communist system. At that time, the director of one of the publishing houses for contemporary literature was a former secret-police chief, and maybe he wanted to prove that he still had power—power enough to show that he had the courage to publish this novel. I guess that was the only reason the book was published.

INTERVIEWER

What kind of jobs were you doing?

KRASZNAHORKAI

I was a miner for a while. That was almost comical—the real miners had to cover for me. Then I became a director of various culture houses in villages far from Budapest. Every village had a culture house where people could read the classics. This library was all they had in their everyday lives. And on Fridays or Saturdays, the director of the culture house organized a music party, or something like it, which was very good for young people. I was the director for six very small villages, which meant I always moved between them. It was a great job. I loved it because I was very far from my bourgeois family. 

What else? I was night watchman for three hundred cows. That was my favorite—a byre in no man’s land. There was no village, no city, no town nearby. I was a watchman for a few months, maybe. A poor life with Under the Volcano in one pocket and Dostoyevsky in the other.

And of course, in these Wanderjahre, I began to drink. There was a tradition in Hungarian literature that true geniuses were total drunks. And I was a crazed drunk, too. But then came a moment when I was sitting with a group of Hungarian writers who were sadly agreeing that this was inevitable, that any Hungarian genius had to be a crazed drunk. I refused to accept this and made a bet—for twelve bottles of champagne—that I would never drink again. 

INTERVIEWER

And you haven’t? 

KRASZNAHORKAI

And I haven’t. But still, at that time, among contemporary prose writers, there was one writer and drinker in particular—Péter Hajnóczy. He was a living legend and a total and profound alcoholic, like Malcolm Lowry. His death was the biggest event in Hungarian literature. He was very young, maybe forty. And that was the life I lived. I wasn’t worried about anything—it was a very adventurous life, always in transit between two cities, in train stations and bars at night, observing people, having small conversations with them. Slowly, I started to write the book in my head. 

It was good to be working like that because I had a strong feeling that literature was a spiritual field—that elsewhere, in the same era, Hajnóczy, János Pilinszky, Sándor Weöres, and many other wonderful poets lived and wrote. Prose literature was less powerful. We loved poetry much more because it was more interesting, more secret. Prose was a little too close to reality. The idea of a genius in prose was someone who stayed very close to real life. That’s why, traditionally, Hungarian prose writers, like Zsigmond Móricz, composed in short sentences. But not Krúdy, my only beloved writer from the ­history of Hungarian prose literature. Gyula Krúdy. A wonderful writer. Surely ­untranslatable. In Hungary, he was a Don Giovanni—two meters high, a huge man, a phenomenal man. He was so seductive that no one could resist.

INTERVIEWER

And his sentences? 

KRASZNAHORKAI

He used sentences differently from any other prose writer. He always sounded like a slightly drunk man who is very melancholy, who has no illusions about life, who is very strong but whose strength is entirely unnecessary. But Krúdy wasn’t a literary ideal for me. Krúdy was a person for me, a legend who gave me some power when I decided I would write something. János Pilinszky was my other legend. In a literary sense, Pilinszky was much more important for me because of his language, his way of talking. I’ll try to imitate. 

Dear Adam—we shouldn’t—wait—for an apocalypse, we are living—now—in an apocalypse.—My dear—Adam—please don’t go anywhere—anywhere . . .

Very high-pitched, slow, with all these pauses between words. And the last letters of every word were always expressed very clearly. Like a priest in a catacomb—without hope but with huge hope at the same time. But he was different from Gyula Krúdy. Pilinszky was like a lamb. Not a human being—a lamb.

INTERVIEWER

Was there much available in translation? 

KRASZNAHORKAI

There was a time, in the seventies, when we got a lot of Western literature. William Faulkner, Franz Kafka, Rilke, Arthur Miller, Joseph Heller, Marcel Proust, Samuel Beckett—almost every week there was a new masterwork. Because they couldn’t publish their own work under the Communist regime, the greatest writers and poets became translators. That’s why we had wonderful translations of Shakespeare, Dante, Homer, and of every great American writer, from Faulkner onward. The first translation of Pynchon’s Gravity’s Rainbow was really marvelous. 

INTERVIEWER

And Dostoyevsky? 

KRASZNAHORKAI

Yes. Dostoyevsky played a very important role for me—because of his ­heroes, not because of his style or his stories. Do you remember the narrator of “White Nights”? The main character is a little bit like Myshkin in The Idiot, a pre-Myshkin figure. I was a fanatical fan of this narrator and later of Myshkin—of their defenselessness. A defenseless, angelic figure. In every novel I’ve written you can find such a figure—like Estike in Satantango or Valuska in Melancholy, who are wounded by the world. They don’t deserve these wounds, and I love them because they believe in a universe where everything is wonderful, including human existence, and I honor very much the fact that they are believers. But their way of thinking about the universe, about the world, this belief in innocence, is not possible for me. 

For me, we belong more to the world of animals. We are animals, we are just the animals who won. Yet we live in a highly anthropomorphic world—we believe we live in a human world in which there is a part for animals, for plants, for stones. This is not the truth. 

INTERVIEWER

So you mean, your own philosophy would be pure materialism? 

KRASZNAHORKAI

Oh no, Myshkin is also real. Sorry.

INTERVIEWER

No, tell me more.

KRASZNAHORKAI

Franz Kafka is a person. He’s Franz Kafka, with his life story, with his books. But K. is there, in a heavenly space in the universe, and perhaps some characters from my novels live there, too. For example, Irimiás and the doctor from Satantango or Mr. Eszter and Valuska from Melancholy or, from my new novel, the Baron. They are absolute—they live. They exist in the eternal place.

Can you argue that Myshkin is only fictional? Of course. But it’s not the truth. Myshkin may have entered reality through someone else, through Dostoyevsky, but now, for us, he is a real person. Every character in so-called eternal fiction came through ordinary people. This is a secret process, but I’m entirely sure that it’s true. For example, a few years after I had written Satantango, I was in a bar, and somebody tapped my shoulder. It was Halics from Satantango. Really! I’m not joking! That’s why I’ve become more careful about what I write. For example, the original text of War and War was quite different from the version I published. The first hundred pages originally dealt with Korin’s self-destruction, but I was afraid that I would meet him in that condition later on and wouldn’t be able to help him. I was afraid of the possibility that he might never leave his small town. That’s why I chose to get him out of there—with his wish to go just once, at the end of his life, to the center of the world. I hadn’t decided that this would be New York, but that was how I freed myself of the story where he lived forever in this provincial place. 

INTERVIEWER

I’m just thinking about what you said about humans living in an anthropomorphic world. It sometimes occurs to me that novels are so blithely anthropocentric. Where are the octopi? Where are the algae? One of the things I love about your novels is that they’re trying not to be so, as it were, provincially human. But it also feels like an oxymoron. What else could they be? 

KRASZNAHORKAI

This is very important. The frame of the novel may be too anthropocentric. Which is why the problem of the narrator is the first problem, and it remains that way forever. How can you remove the narrator from a novel? In my most recent novel, on every page there are just people talking to each other—and that’s one way to avoid the narrator, but this is just a technique. Because I agree with you—the frame of the novel and of the world is anthropocentric. But if I have to choose between the universe without a frame and mankind with a frame, I would choose mankind. 

We don’t have any idea what the universe is. Wise people have always told us that this is proof you shouldn’t think, because thinking leads you nowhere. You just build over this huge construction of misunderstanding, which is culture. The history of culture is the history of the misunderstandings of great thinkers. So we always have to go back to zero and begin differently. And maybe in that way you have a chance not to understand but at least not to have further misunderstandings. Because this is the other side of this question—Am I really so brave to cancel all human culture? To stop admiring the beauty in human production? It’s very difficult to say no. 

INTERVIEWER

You still write novels, though. 

KRASZNAHORKAI

Yes, but maybe that’s a mistake. I respect our culture. I respect high ­human articulation in every form. But the root of this culture is false. And if we do nothing, everything continues anyway. And maybe this is the most ­important thing. Everything must go on without any thinking about essences, about what it is, and other such questions. 

INTERVIEWER

As if writing, and every art form, should become a ritual without a theology? 

KRASZNAHORKAI

Maybe it’s possible to think of writing as a ritual to be performed—­something repeated, word after word, sentence after sentence. Not in the sense of the classic avant-garde at the beginning of the twentieth century, like Dada, say, which led great artists nowhere because they neglected content and that was, poor geniuses, their mistake. But if you think of writing as a ritual you perform, and if you are able to see yourself at the same time, that you are down there on Earth and you write word after word after word . . . and then you have a book. You stop. You close the book. And you open another one, with empty pages. And you write again, write again, write again. Word after word. Sentence after sentence. Close the book. The next one . . . This is a ritual. Maybe it’s not how you think of your writing, but maybe it is what you do. 

But this is the point at which we should remember our readers. Because readers need, I hope, our writings. And in this small space—where we write books, novels, poems—there is also a place for our readers. This sympathy, this feeling is very important—finding a common essence between writers, who create form, and readers, who need what we do. This also makes some sense of this small space, which from the higher level we see is absolute nonsense. So maybe the universe is full of small spaces—each with their own time, essence, characters, creation, events, and so on. Different ideas of time for different spaces. Just as we are here, in the universe, inside our small human space. 

INTERVIEWER

How did you arrive at your style—these grand, vast sentences? 

KRASZNAHORKAI

Finding a style was never difficult for me because I never looked for it. I lived a secluded life. I always had friends, but just one at a time. And with each friend, I had a relationship in which we spoke to each other only in monologues. One day, one night, I spoke. The next day or night, he would speak. But the dialogue was different each time because we wanted to say something very ­important to the other person, and if you want to say something very ­important, and if you want to convince your partner that this is very important, you don’t need full stops or periods but breaths and rhythm—rhythm and tempo and melody. It isn’t a conscious choice. This kind of rhythm, melody, and sentence structure came rather from the wish to convince another person. 

INTERVIEWER

It was never literary? Never related to other styles, like Proust’s or Beckett’s? 

KRASZNAHORKAI

Maybe when I was a teenager, but that was more an imitation of their lives, not their language, not their styles. I have a special relationship to Kafka because I started reading him very early, so early that I couldn’t understand what, say, The Castle was about. I was too young. I had an older brother, and I wanted to be like him, so I stole his books and read them. That’s why Kafka was my first writer—a writer I couldn’t understand, but also one I wondered about as a person. One of my favorite books when I was twelve or thirteen was Conversations with Kafka, by Gustav Janouch. With this book, I had a special channel to Kafka. 

And maybe that’s why I studied law—to be like Kafka. My father was a little surprised. He wanted me to go to the law faculty but was sure I would say no because I was interested only in art—in literature, music, paintings, philosophy, everything except law. But I said okay partly, I think, because I wanted to deal with criminal psychology. At that time, the early seventies, it was a forbidden science in Hungary. It was Western and therefore suspect. But the main reason was, I think, Kafka. Of course, after three weeks I couldn’t bear the atmosphere, and I left—not just the law faculty but the city itself.  

INTERVIEWER

Where was this?

KRASZNAHORKAI

A town called Szeged. Because of the military-service system it wasn’t easy to leave. If I left, I had to go back into military service. Normally, military service was two years, but if you graduated, you only had to do one year. However, if you left university early, you had to go back for the second year. So I became a deferred student and lived for a while in Budapest, studying religion and philology. I continued my old Greek and Latin studies, but the exams were difficult because I wasn’t actually at university. Then finally, after four years, I had children. And with children, the military-service problem was solved, because if you had two children, you were free of this terrible obligation. 

Military service, for me, was almost a death. In the whole year, I never got permission to leave the camp. I wasn’t a hero or a pacifist, but if you were at a watch post, you had to stay there with a gun and do nothing. Sometimes an officer came to observe me, and if I was reading Kafka, I couldn’t stop because Kafka was more interesting than an idiotic officer, so I always received punishments in the camp prison. That wasn’t so terrible, but it also meant I couldn’t get permission to leave the camp. And that was terrible—to be there, always. 

The beginning of my service was the most difficult. When I went in on the night train, with other new military soldiers, I was completely destroyed. I couldn’t speak with anybody. Everybody wanted to make jokes, but me, no. I discovered another guy, a young guy, who was in the same state, so we spoke a little bit. We spoke about how, if we had the chance, we’d visit each other. And after about a week, when I got a little bit of free time, I went to the building where he worked and asked, Where can I find this guy? And somebody said, Third floor. At the third floor, I asked again, Where can I find this guy? And somebody said he was in the munitions store because of a punishment. He was cleaning the guns, and as I opened the door, he shot himself through the mouth. At exactly the same moment. I opened the door and my friend shot himself. I was a child. We were children. We were hardly eighteen years old. 

What was your question? 

INTERVIEWER

I’m just trying to sort out a rough chronology. You were born in Gyula, then followed your military service, your studies in Szeged, your Wanderjahre, and the publication of Satantango. You came to Berlin in 1987 and were back in Hungary in 1989. 

KRASZNAHORKAI

And always back and back to Germany.

In the early nineties, I started War and War. Originally, I wanted to know what the border meant for the Roman Empire. I went, for instance, to Denmark, to Great Britain, to France, to Italy, to Spain, to Crete—trying to find ruins, traces of military defenses. I was always on the road. It wasn’t until 1996, I think, that I really started to write down War and War, while in New York, in Allen Ginsberg’s flat.  

INTERVIEWER

How did you meet Ginsberg? 

KRASZNAHORKAI

We had a mutual friend. And Allen was a very friendly guy. In his apartment, the door and its lock were completely unnecessary. People came and went, came and went. It was fantastic to be there but also very disturbing to be part of Ginsberg’s circle. During the day, I could work, and at night, which was when Allen really came alive, I could take part in the parties and conversation and music making. I never told them I came from Gyula, but I could never forget it, you know? That I was actually the same provincial boy, just without any hair, and with some teeth missing, who was in shock when he sat in the kitchen beside Allen and in came these musicians, poets, painters—immortal people. 

INTERVIEWER

I remember you once talking about the sense of timelessness you always feel and relating it to growing up under the Soviet empire, which had done away with history. 

KRASZNAHORKAI

It was a timeless society because they wanted you to think that things would never change. Always the same gray sky and colorless trees and parks and streets and buildings and cities and towns, and the terrible drinks in the bars and the poverty and the things you were forbidden to say out loud. You were living in an eternity. It was very depressing. My generation was the first that not only didn’t believe in communist theory or Marxism but found it ridiculous, embarrassing. When I lived through the end of this political system, it was a wonder. I’ll never forget the taste of political freedom. That’s why I now have German citizenship, because for me the European Union means, above all, political freedom against the aggressive stupidity which is now the god of Eastern Europe. 

I came from a bourgeois world, where communist theory never played any role. We were social democrats, my family. My father was a lawyer, and he helped poor people. That was the reality of my life—that two or three evenings a week poor people came to us, and my father helped them for no fee. And the next day, early in the morning, they came and left something outside our door—two chickens, I don’t know what.

INTERVIEWER

And your parents were Jewish, yes? 

KRASZNAHORKAI

My father had Jewish roots. But he only told us this secret when I was about eleven. Before that, I had no idea. In the socialist era, it was forbidden to mention it. Well, I am half Jewish, but if things carry on in Hungary as they seem likely to do, I’ll soon be entirely Jewish. 

INTERVIEWER

How did your father survive the war?

KRASZNAHORKAI

Our original name was Korin, a Jewish name. With this name, he would never have survived. My grandfather was very wise, and he changed our name to Krasznahorkai. Krasznahorkai was an irredentist name. After the First World War, Hungary lost two-thirds of its territory, and the main line of politics after the war, of the conservative nationalist government, was to restore these lost territories. There was a very famous song, an unbearably sentimental song, about the Krasznahorka Castle. After the war, it became part of Czechoslovakia. The essence of the song is that the Krasznahorka Castle is very sad and dark and everything is hopeless. Maybe that’s why my grandfather chose it. I don’t know. Nobody knows, because he was a very silent man. This was in 1931, before the first Hungarian Jewish laws. 

INTERVIEWER

Let’s talk about your writing more. One thing that intrigues me is that you seem very clear that you’ve only written four novels. 

KRASZNAHORKAI

There is Satantango, The Melancholy of Resistance, War and War, Baron Wenckheim’s Homecoming.

INTERVIEWER

Where would you place, say, a text like Animalinside?

KRASZNAHORKAI

Animalinside is a novel, though not in the strict sense. But whether something is a novel or a short story doesn’t depend on the number of pages. I wrote some stories at the beginning of my career, in Relations of Grace (1986). These stories work in a very small space, in a very confined time span, in the middle of which is a single character. A novel contains a huge construction, like a bridge, an arch, from the beginning through to the end. In the case of a story, there is no need for an arch. Instead, a story is a black box, in which no one knows what happened. 

INTERVIEWER

And so what’s the new novel, Baron Wenckheim’s Homecoming, about? Is it a kind of odyssey? 

KRASZNAHORKAI

Yes. For this main character, this is a homecoming at the end of his life. He is a very old man who lives in Buenos Aires. He’s a very sensitive, very tall man, like Gyula Krúdy. But very unlucky—he always makes mistakes. 

INTERVIEWER

So he’s your Myshkin, your defenseless character? 

KRASZNAHORKAI

Yes, like Estike. Because this novel is my summary, actually, of all my ­novels—you can find a lot of parallels with other characters, other stories. I make jokes about the word satantango and so on. This is my finest novel, I think. 

INTERVIEWER

Your finest? 

KRASZNAHORKAI

Funniest. The funniest book. It isn’t full of apocalyptic messages. Instead, this is the apocalypse. It’s already come. 

INTERVIEWER

But then, I feel, in all of your books, that the apocalypse has already, secretly come. I wonder if there are two types of novelists. Those who see each novel as a separate object, and those who think they’ve written one novel, that all of their novels fit together. 

KRASZNAHORKAI

I’ve said a thousand times that I always wanted to write just one book. I wasn’t satisfied with the first, and that’s why I wrote the second. I wasn’t satisfied with the second, so I wrote the third, and so on. Now, with Baron, I can close this story. With this novel I can prove that I really wrote just one book in my life. This is the book—Satantango, Melancholy, War and War, and Baron. This is my one book. 

INTERVIEWER

Do you ever long to write something completely outside the terms of these fictions? 

KRASZNAHORKAI

No. It doesn’t bother me if Johann Sebastian Bach stays the same his whole life. 

INTERVIEWER

You often return to Bach—and other Baroque composers, like Rameau. What’s the importance of the Baroque to you? 

KRASZNAHORKAI

Bach’s music is structurally complicated because of the harmony, which is why I can’t bear Romantic music. After the late Baroque, music became more and more vulgar, and the peak of this vulgarity was in the time of the Romantics. There are some exceptional composers, like Stravinsky or Shostakovich or Bartók or Kurtág, whom I love very much, but I think of them always as exceptions. For me, music history is a descent. And after two thousand years, this is also happening in literature. But it’s very difficult to analyze this process of vulgarization. The terrible revolution that was always going to happen in modern societies has in fact happened. Not that mass culture has won, but money. Occasionally a very high-level literary work happens to say something on the midrange level and reaches more readers—and maybe this is the fate of a lot of contemporary writers.

INTERVIEWER

What about your novels?

KRASZNAHORKAI

No, my novels absolutely don’t work on the middle level because I don’t ever compromise. Writing, for me, is a totally private act. I’m ashamed to speak about my literature—it’s the same as if you were to ask me about my most private secrets. I was never really part of literary life because I couldn’t ­accept being a writer in a social sense. No one can speak about literature with me—except you and a few other people. I’m not happy if I have to speak about literature, especially my literature. Literature is very private. 

When I write a book, the book is ready in my head. Ever since I was young, I worked like that. In my childhood, my memory was quite abnormal. I had a photographic memory. And so I would find the exact form, a sentence, some sentences, in my head, and when I was ready, I wrote it down. 

INTERVIEWER

You don’t revise? 

KRASZNAHORKAI

I work almost every minute, like a mill that keeps on turning. If I’m sick, I can’t. And if I were drunk, I couldn’t. But with these exceptions, I work and work, because a sentence starts and next to that sentence a hundred thousand other sentences, like very fine threads from a spider. And one of them is somehow a little bit more important than every other, and I extract it, enough so that I can work with the sentence, correct it. And that’s why, although there are wonderful translations of my books, I wish you could read them in the original, because when I’m working, the first thing I do with a sentence in my head is to make the rhythmic element perfect. When I work, I use the same mechanism that is common to music composition and literary composition. Music and literature and visual art have a common root—structures of rhythm and tempo—and I work from this root. The content is absolutely different in the case of music and in the case of novels. But the essence, for me, is really similar. 

INTERVIEWER

You were a kind of jazz prodigy, no? And played in jazz bands when you were young? 

KRASZNAHORKAI

I was a professional musician from fourteen until I turned eighteen.

INTERVIEWER

And Thelonious Monk was your great hero as a pianist. Why Monk? 

KRASZNAHORKAI

I often ask myself the same question. Looking back, it’s difficult to explain why our taste in music under the Soviet system was so perfect. I’m trying not to sound vain. I played not just in a jazz group but also in a rock group, regularly. Our concerts were parties for working-class people. I recently found a piece of paper with titles of songs we played, and we had absolutely the best taste. Not my taste, but our generation’s taste. At that time, the sources of jazz or rock music were very small. There were two radio stations—the Radio Free Europe, from Munich, and Radio Luxembourg. Our recordings were very bad quality, since we recorded directly from the radio—in secret, of course, because it was forbidden. I had an acquaintance, a doctor in a hospital in Gyula, who had a huge LP collection, and he allowed me to make recordings from his collection. But how I chose the best music, I don’t know. We played Cream, Them, Blind Faith, Jimi Hendrix, Aretha Franklin, Dusty Springfield. The most conventional group was the Kinks. What else? Troggs, Animals, Eric Burdon. The Rolling Stones, of course. No Beatles. I don’t know why, but no Beatles. And a lot of blues. 

In the jazz trio, I played with a drummer who was fifty and a bass player who was also maybe fifty. I was fourteen. We played everyone from Erroll Garner to Thelonious Monk. And I don’t have an explanation for why Monk was my favorite. Because I’m an old man now and I would still say the same thing. 

INTERVIEWER

And you sang, too? 

KRASZNAHORKAI

In the rock group, yes. I had a very high voice, like a counter tenor. So I only sang songs by women—Dusty Springfield and Aretha Franklin. 

INTERVIEWER

What about the art scene? Were you listening to Bowie, the Velvet Underground? 

KRASZNAHORKAI

I joined the Bowie fan club late, after I became friends with Béla Tarr. Béla lived in a wonderful small apartment in the middle of Budapest. He walked around in one room the whole day, always with music. David Bowie, Lou Reed, Nico . . .

INTERVIEWER

You began working with Tarr on the film Damnation shortly after publishing Satantango, in 1985—is that right? And then went on to make two adaptations of your novels, Satantango, in 1994, and Werckmeister Harmonies, which is a version of The Melancholy of Resistance, in 2000. 

KRASZNAHORKAI

At the beginning, we made Damnation because, under the Communists, we were forbidden from making Satantango. This whole story began in 1985, after that novel was published. Béla, his wife, Ágnes, and I—we wanted to make a film of Satantango, but Béla was a hated man in the Hungarian film world. He went to one film company and another. Finally somebody told us that it was forbidden to do Satantango. And I told Béla, Okay, you go home, I go home, it’s over. Maybe two weeks later, Ágnes came to me and begged me to write a new script, because otherwise Béla would commit suicide. I know him, she said. He will commit suicide if he can’t make a film with you. Of course, that was a trap, a story to make me work with him. 

INTERVIEWER

Is Tarr the only director you’ve worked with?

KRASZNAHORKAI

I only ever worked with Béla. With him, it was more than a collaboration. I gave everything to him, and he took away the whole. We always worked together after I wrote the scripts, but they were his movies. Cinema is an art without justice. If you are a writer and a film director wants to adapt your work, you should accept that he is the director. This movie will be his. Otherwise, you’re making a mistake. 

My scripts were always literary works. I used the form, I used dialogue, but when I wrote about a main character, “He thinks of a world without God,” Béla said, This isn’t a script. How can I show this? That’s why I was a little afraid during those projects. For example, when Estike goes up to heaven. Béla asked, How can I make a shot of that? In the end, the only possibility was to place the camera maybe eighty centimeters in front of Irimiás’s face. And if, in the movie, we could see on his face what happened to Estike, then okay, we win. If not, it’s a failure. Whereas, I can write it in a book and it’s interesting and has a philosophical background. What is reality? Is Estike’s ghost real? For the camera, no.

INTERVIEWER

But for language, yes.

KRASZNAHORKAI

Exactly. And it means that if you have a question about the universe, you always have a few possibilities—in particular through language. The power of the word is, for me, the only way to get closer to this hidden reality. Everyone is a fictional person and, at the same time, a real person. I belong to the fictive world and to the real world—I’m there in both empires. You too. And everyone in this restaurant. And also this object and everything we can perceive and also things we can’t perceive, because we know that with our five senses, some part of reality is imperceptible. I’m not being esoteric. Reality is so important to me that I always want to be aware of every possibility. 

INTERVIEWER

I wonder if this is why translation feels so uncanny. How can the reality invented by the Hungarian version of Satantango or Baron Wenckheim be the same as the reality invented by English or French words? There isn’t an equivalent problem for other art forms. Bach makes a cantata and it’s an ­attempt, for him, to express some kind of transcendent ideal—

KRASZNAHORKAI

No, no. Bach is just a musician. When he started his career and began to make his own cantatas, he dealt only with musical questions—structure, the fugue form, the prelude, the falsobordone. We listen to his music and we have a picture of Bach as a holy man, always looking to heaven. But in fact, all geniuses are only interested in the physical, in technique. If you look at Thuringia, where Bach was from, Thuringia was full of Bachs—musicians, generation after generation. Bach was really a synonym for a good musician. 

When I was in Japan, I went to a workshop where Buddha sculptures were being restored by specialists. They were incredible workers, geniuses, true artists, but they were entirely absorbed in the technical question—How can I repair this broken sculpture? Then, when the restored Buddha was ­returned to his location, he was now sacred, and someone could pray to him. You can say this is a contradiction, but there was no contradiction for them. The sculptor and the restorer are the same thing. And when someone is a true poet, it means they know that the word has power, and they can use words. If you have that ability, you only need to deal with technical questions. 

INTERVIEWER

So you mean, the only true artistic questions are questions of technique? 

KRASZNAHORKAI

An artist has only one task—to continue a ritual. And ritual is a pure technique.

INTERVIEWER

I feel that we should single out one particular work for more technical analysis . . .

KRASZNAHORKAI

I think this relates to another question. If we talk about Homer or Shakespeare or Dostoyevsky or Stendhal or Kafka, they are all in this heavenly empire. And once someone crosses this border, it’s forbidden to say, The Idiot is wonderful, but “White Nights” isn’t so good. Or Thelonious Monk—we are not allowed to say that his playing isn’t so good in one place, or in another is too dissonant. These are holy people! We shouldn’t speak about details but about the wholeness of the work or of the person. If you proved once, just once, with a work that you are a genius, after that, in my eyes, you are free. You can make shit. You will still remain absolutely the same holy person, and that shit is sacred shit, because having crossed this border, this person is invulnerable. 

I am convinced that Franz Kafka is a fact in an empire that I, from a distance, can only wonder at. I feel joy that this empire exists and that figures such as Dante and Goethe and Beckett and Homer existed, and exist now, for us. I’m sure that all thoughts about these figures, these holy figures, have something in common. My picture of Kafka won’t be so different from your picture of Kafka.

Does that answer your question? 

INTERVIEWER

Well, only in that it’s a refusal to answer my question! Can I put it differently? What you’re saying about Bach seems related to your idea that whatever meaning a work possesses will be reached through pure concentration on technique. You once wrote, “The world, should it exist, has to be in the details.” And maybe the work, should it exist, has to be in the details as well—as if they’re different aspects of the same thing?

KRASZNAHORKAI

For me, details are the most important, yes. The smallest details are a question of life and death. A mistake in a sentence kills me. That’s why I can’t bear to read my books, because it’s almost impossible to write a book, in three hundred ­pages, without one rhythmic mistake. And maybe this isn’t a question of perfection but a desire to care about the smallest details, because there’s no difference in importance between the smallest details and the whole. What’s the difference between one drop of the ocean, and the ocean as a whole? Nothing. Nothing.

INTERVIEWER

Is it also related to what you were saying before—that you almost have the whole book in your mind before you begin the actual process of writing?

KRASZNAHORKAI

Yes, but there is something else. Who writes the books? If you have a feeling that you can decide something in the middle of the work, then you are not in the work—you are outside it. If you have the feeling that you are writing the book, you are outside the work itself.

INTERVIEWER

Are there then implications for the interpretation of the work, for literary criticism? If I were to ask about the meaning of The Melancholy of Resistance, is that a stupid question? 

KRASZNAHORKAI

Stupid? No. It depends on who is asking. Speaking with you is a different kind of conversation. I honor what you do. It’s not an accident that we are sitting here, because normally I don’t sit down two or three times, for two or three days, with somebody. And of course, my assumption is that you also have your own interest in the answer to your question—this question about meaning. It always comes back to the problem of a whole and details, of how details become a whole. 

INTERVIEWER

Are you saying that the two things—the details and the whole—are so ­interdependent that you can’t think of one without thinking of the other? So that, in a way, a work is a third thing, neither the details nor the whole? 

KRASZNAHORKAI

Buddha never allowed a person to speak about wholeness because it was an abstraction—because wholeness lacks reality. We have to be very careful using the word wholeness. For instance, we believe that the world, the universe,
is infinite. This is a fiasco, because if the world really were infinite, then this object [pointing to a glass of tea] couldn’t exist. 

INTERVIEWER

Why not?

KRASZNAHORKAI

Because everything you can experience in existence is finite. In this glass, there are finite small parts, subatomic elements, and so on. Intangible to us but not infinite. 

INTERVIEWER

There’s the moment at the end of Satantango where we realize that the novel is on a loop—that the last lines are also the novel’s first lines, as written by one of its characters. I think it’s the only metafictional moment in your ­novels, the only absolute regression. Was it obvious to you from the beginning that the book would have that circular structure?

KRASZNAHORKAI

Not at all. When I work, I begin from the beginning, and I never know more than my characters. At the beginning of Satantango, I had no idea that at the end, this whole construction, like a musical form, would come back and begin again from the beginning—but on another level, because when you read this book again, you read it with the knowledge that it was written by somebody who is a character in the book. No, I never worked with that conception.

INTERVIEWER

Because it makes the novel infinite.

KRASZNAHORKAI

Oh, no. No, I don’t think so. Only the uncountable finite can exist.  

INTERVIEWER

What I mean is, theoretically, it’s capable of being read infinitely, or endlessly, in a kind of circle. 

KRASZNAHORKAI

Do you remember what Buddha told us about the circle?

INTERVIEWER

No. 

KRASZNAHORKAI

If you follow a circle, after a while you will understand that a circle doesn’t exist. It’s simply a point that doesn’t exist. There is a big difference between the infinite and the uncountable finite. After all, what do you think happens when the Sufi dancer dissolves into nothing? 

INTERVIEWER

But then, to finish with this question of endings. You said that Baron Wenckheim would be your last novel. But I know you’re still writing. Does that mean that what you’re writing now isn’t a novel? 

KRASZNAHORKAI

Small things, not a big construction. I’ve already written three small books since the last novel. The first, The Manhattan Project (2017), is a prologue to the second work, my New York book. A provisional title could be something like “Spadework for a Palace.” And I also finished a book I’ve wanted to write from the very beginning, because I’ve adored Homer ever since my youth. I made a trip last autumn to Dalmatia, on the Adriatic Coast. This journey led me to an island in the Adriatic, and one myth of the Odyssey suddenly came back, and I wrote a book about it. A small book, like a novella.

INTERVIEWER

You really don’t think you’ll write another novel after Baron Wenckheim?

KRASZNAHORKAI

Novel? No. When you read it, you’ll understand. Baron Wenckheim’s Homecoming must be the last. 

 

 

 

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