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HERMANN
BROCH
Speech
for His Fiftieth
Birthday
Vienna, November 1936
There
is something fine and
meaningful about using a man's fiftieth birthday to address him in
public, to
tear him almost violently from the dense network of his life and
present him-heightened
and visible on all sides and to all onlookers--as though he were all
alone,
condemned to a stony and unchangeable solitude, even though the actual,
the
secret solitude of his life, mellow and humble as it is, has certainly
caused
him sufficient pain. It is as though this address were saying to him:
Don't be
afraid, you have been afraid enough for us . . We all have to die; but
it is
still not certain whether you too have to die. Perhaps your very words
are what
must represent us to posterity. You have served us with loyalty and
honesty.
The age will not release you.
To give
these words their
full effect, like a spell, the seal of fifty years is pressed upon
them. For,
in our thinking, the past is divided into centuries; there is room for
nothing next
to the centuries. To the extent that men may care about the vast
context of
their memory, they stuff everything they consider important and
peculiar into
the sack of the centuries. The very word designating those periods has
gained a
venerable overtone. As though using a mysterious sacerdotal language,
people
speak of the secular. The magical
power that earlier, primitive nations gave to more modest numbers,
three, four,
five, seven, has now been transfered to the saeculum.
Why, even the many people who romp and frolic in the past to rediscover
their
dissatisfaction with the present, these people who are filled with the
bitterness of all known centuries-they like to demarcate the dreamt-of
future
in better centuries.
There
can be no doubt: a
century is exactly big enough for human desire. For if a man is very
lucky, he
will grow that old. It does happen now and then, but it is unlikely.
The few
who have really managed to achieve it are surrounded with amazement and
many
stories. Old chronicles will quite studiously list them by name and
station.
They receive even more attention than the rich. The fierce desire to
conquer
that much life may have raised the century to a high rank after the
introduction of the decimal system.
Time,
however, which
celebrates its fifty-year-old, meets him half way. It hands him over to
later
people, as worth preserving. It makes him, perhaps against his will,
distinctly
visible in the scattered host of the few who existed more for them than
for
themselves. It enjoys the round height to which it has raised him, and
links
this to a quiet hope: perhaps he, who cannot lie, has seen a Promised
Land, and
perhaps he will speak about it, time would believe him.
Today,
Hermann Broch is
standing 'on that height, and so, to speak frankly, let us dare to
maintain
that we can honor him as one of the very few representative writers of
our
time. This statement would carry its full weight only if I could list
the many
who are not great writers even though they are regarded as such. But
more important
than this job of executioner is, I think, finding the characteristics
that must
lie close together in a great writer for us to consider him
representative of
his time. If we embark conscientiously on this enterprise, we will not
come
upon any convenient, much less harmonious picture.
The
utter and dreadful
tension in which we live, and from which none of the yearned-for
thunderstorms
can redeem us, has seized hold of all spheres, even the freer and purer
sphere
of astonishment. Indeed, if we had to sum up our time very briefly, we
would
have to describe it as one in which we can be amazed at the most
contrasting
things: For instance at a book that has been affecting us for thousands
of
years, and also at the fact that not all books can affect us any
longer. At the
faith in gods and also at the fact that we do not kneel down to new
gods every
hour. At the sexuality we are afflicted with and also at the fact that
this
split does not reach any deeper. At death, which we do not wish, and
also at
the fact that we do not already die in the womb, out of grief over
coming
things. Astonishment used to be the mirror people would talk about, the
mirror
that brought phenomena to a smoother and calmer surface. Today, this
mirror is
shattered, and the splinters of astonishment have become small. But no
phenomenon is reflected by itself in even the tiniest splinter.
Ruthlessly,
each phenomenon pulls its opposite along. Whatever you see and how
little you
see, it cancels itself out when you see it.
Thus we
will not expect the
poet to be any different from the tortured gravel of everyday life when
we try
to capture him in that mirror. From the very start, we oppose the
widespread
erroneous idea that a great writer is above his time. No one is, in
himself,
above his time. Those who are above it all simply do not exist. They
may live
in ancient Greece
or among some barbarians. Let them; many blind-nesses are part of being
so far
away, and no one can be denied the right to close off all his senses.
But such
a man is not above us, merely above the sum of memory-the memory of
ancient Greece,
for
example--that we carry inside us. He is, so to speak, an experimental
cultural
historian, ingeniously testing on himself what must be correct
according to his
reliable report. The man above it all is even more powerless than the
experimental physicist, who merely busies himself in one part of his
discipline
but always retains the possibility of verification. The man above it
all makes
more than a scientific claim, he makes a downright cultic claim.
Usually, he is
not even the founder of a sect, he is a priest for himself alone; he
celebrates
himself for himself alone, he is the only believer.
However,
the true writer, as
we see him, is the thrall of his time, its serf and bondsman, its
lowest slave.
He is fettered to it on a short, unbreakable chain, shackled to it as
tight as
can be. His lack of freedom must be so great that he could not be
transplanted
anywhere else. In fact, if it did not sound a bit ludicrous, I would
simply
say: he is the dog of his time. He runs across its grounds, stops here
and
there; seemingly at random, yet tireless, receptive to whistles from
above, but
not always, easily roused to a fury, harder to call back, driven by
some
inexplicable viciousness. Indeed, he sticks his damp nose into
everything,
nothing is left out, he also returns, he starts all over again, he is
insatiable. Otherwise, he sleeps and eats, bur that does not
distinguish him
from other creatures. What distinguishes him is the uncanny persistence
in his
vice, that heartfelt and thorough enjoyment, interrupted by running. He
never
gets enough, and likewise, he never gets it fast enough; why, it is as
though
he had learned to run especially for the vice of his nose.
I ask
you to excuse me for an
image that must seem highly unworthy of the topic at hand. But there
are three
attributes suitable for the representative writer of this age, and my
aim is to
top them with the one attribute that is never talked about, the one
from which
the others take their start, the very concrete and peculiar vice, which
I
demand for him, without which he would be like a dismal premature baby,
very
arduously nursed for something that he never really becomes.
This
vice connects the writer
as immediately to his environment as the nose connects the dog to his
preserve.
The vice is different in each writer, unique and new in the new
situation of
the age. It should not be confused with the normal cooperation of the
senses,
which all people have anyway. On the contrary, a disbalance in this
cooperation, for instance the failure of anyone sense or the
overdevelopment of
another can trigger the formation of the necessary vice. It is always
recognizable, vehement, and primitive. It expresses itself clearly in
the shape
and the physiognomy. The writer who allows himself to be obsessed by it
owes it
the essentials of his experience.
Even
the problem of
originality, which has been more fought about than talked about, has a
different light shed upon it. Originality, as we all know, must not be
demanded. The man who wants to have it will never have it. And the
conceited
and well-contrived clowneries that some people have served up in order
to count
as original are certainly still in our embarrassed memories. However,
there is
a huge step from the rejection of straining for originality to the
awkward
claim that a writer does not have to be original. A writer is original,
or he
is not a writer. He is original in a very deep and simple way, through
that
which we have called his vice. He is so original that he does not even
realize
it. His vice drives him to exhaust the world, something that no one
else could
de for him. Immediacy and inexhaustibility, the two characteristics
that people
have always demanded of the genius and that he always has, are the
offspring of
this vice. We will have an opportunity to test a case and to see what
kind of
vice there is in Broch.
The
second characteristic
that one must demand of the representative writer today is an earnest
desire to
sum up his age, an urge for universality, un-intimidated by any single
task,
ignoring nothing, forgetting nothing, omitting nothing, making nothing
easy for
himself.
Broch
himself has dealt
thoroughly and repeatedly with this universalness. Even more: one may
say that
his creative will was actually kindled by the demand for universality.
At
first, and for long years, a man of rigorous philosophy, he did not
permit
himself to truly take seriously what a writer accomplishes. Too many
concrete
and isolated things seemed to be there, piecework and subterfuge, the
whole was
never present. Philosophy, at the moment he began philosophizing,
sometimes
still indulged in its old demand for universality, timidly to be sure,
for this
demand was long out of date. But having a magnanimous mind, oriented
towards
all infinite things, Broch was willingly taken in by this demand. It
was joined
by the deep impression made on him by the universal intellectual and
spiritual
closure of the Middle Ages, an impression that he has never fully
shaken off.
He feels that a closed intellectual value-system existed in that
period. And he
has devoted much of his life to investigating the "decay of values,"
which, for him, began in the Renaissance, reaching its catastrophic end
with
the World War.
During
this work, the
creative writer gradually got the upper hand in him. On close
inspection, his
first comprehensive opus, the trilogy of novels entitled The
Sleepwalkers is
the literary realization of his philosophy of history, though limited
to his
own period, 1888-1918. The "decay of values" materializes in distinct
and highly literary figures. One cannot help feeling that their full
validity,
even occasional ambivalence arose against the author's will or at least
with
his embarrassed reluctance. It will always be strange to see that here
a man
tried to conceal what was his very own under a mountain of acquired
thought.
With
The Sleepwalkers,
Broch
found a possibility for universalness where he least expected it, in
the
piecework and subterfuge of the novel, and he talks about this in
various
places: "The novel has to be the mirror of all other images of the
world," he once said. "The literary work must, in its unity, embrace
the entire world." Or: "The modern novel has become poly-historical."
Or: "Creative writing is always an impatience of knowledge." His new
insight is probably
formulated most clearly in his speech "James Joyce and the Present":
Philosophy
itself terminated
its age of universality, the age of the great compendiums; it had to
remove its
most urgent questions from its logical space or, as Wittgenstein says,
expel
them into mysticism. And
this is the point at
which the mission of literature begins, the mission of a knowledge that
embraces totality, that remains beyond any empirical or social
contingency, and
that is indifferent to whether man lives in a feudal, a bourgeois, or a
proletarian age--the duty of literature to the absoluteness of
knowledge per
se. The
third demand one has to
make on a writer would be that he stand against his time. Against his
entire
time, not merely against this or that; against the comprehensive and
unified
image that he alone has of his time, against its specific smell,
against its
face, against its law. His opposition should be loud and take shape; he
cannot
simply freeze or silently resign himself. He has to kick and scream
like an
infant; but no milk of the world, not even from the kindest breast, may
quench
his opposition and lull him to sleep. He may wish for sleep, but he
must never
attain it. If he forgets his opposition, he has become an apostate, the
way an
entire nation abandoned its god in earlier, religious times. This is
a cruel and radical
demand, cruel in its so powerful contrast to all that came earlier. For
the
writer is in no wise a hero who ought to overcome and subjugate his
time. On
the contrary, we saw that he is its thrall, its lowest slave, its dog.
And this
selfsame dog, running after his nose all his life, an epicure and meek
victim,
a sensualist and consumed prey at once, this same creature should, in
the same
breath, be against all that, oppose himself and his vice, never being
freed of
it, keeping on and waxing indignant and knowing about his own dichotomy
to
boot! It is a cruel demand, truly, and it is as cruel and radical as
death itself. For
this demand evolves from
the fact of death. Death is the first and oldest, one would even be
tempted to
say: the only fact. It is of a monstrous age and yet new every hour.
Its degree
of hardness is ten, and it also cuts like a diamond. It has the
absolute cold
of outer space, minus 273°. It has the wind speed of a hurricane, the
highest.
It is the very real superlative, of everything; but it is not infinite,
for it
is reached by every path. So long as death exists, any utterance is an
utterance against it. So long as death exists, any light is a
will-of-the-wisp,
for it leads to it. So long as death exists, no beauty is beautiful, no
goodness is good. The
attempts at coming to
terms with death (and what else are the religions?) have all failed.
The
realization that there is nothing after death--a dreadful and fully
inexhaustible realization-has shed a new and desperate holiness on
life. The
writer who, by virtue of what we, a bit summarily, have called his
vice, is
able to take part in many lives must also take part in all the deaths
that
threaten those lives. His own fear (and who is not afraid of death?)
must
become everybody's fear of death. His own hatred (and who does not hate
death?)
must become everybody's hatred of death. This and nothing else is his
opposition to the time, which is filled with myriad deaths. Thus, a
legacy of religion
has fallen to the writer's lot, and certainly the best part of the
legacy. He
has no small number of legacies to carry-Philosophy, as we have seen,
has
willed him its demand for a universalness of knowledge; religion has
willed him
the settled problems of death. Life itself, life as it was prior to all
religion and philosophy, animal life unaware of itself or its end, gave
him, in
the concentrated and happily channeled form of passion, his insatiable
greed. It will
now be our task to
investigate the makeup of these legacies in a single man, in Hermann
Broch.
Only their togetherness gives them meaning, after all. Their harmony is
what
makes him representative. The very concrete passion with which he is
possessed
must offer him the material that he composes into a universal and
binding
picture of his time. His very concrete passion must, however, in each
one of
its vibrations, also reveal death, naturally and unambiguously. For
that is how
it nourishes the incessant and relentless opposition to the time, which
mollycoddles death. Permit
me now to change the
topic to something that will hence-forth occupy us almost exclusively: air. It may astonish you to hear about
something so very ordinary. You expect something about the peculiarity
of our
writer, about the vice he addicted to, his terrible passion. You expect
something embarrassing behind it, or, insofar as you are more trusting,
at
least something very mysterious. I have to disappoint you. Broch's vice
is quite
an ordinary thing, more ordinary than smoking, drinking, or cards, for
it is
older. Broch's vice is: breathing. He passionately loves to breathe,
and he
never breathes enough. He has an unmistakable way of sitting about, no
matter
where; seemingly absent, because he seldom and unwillingly responds
with the
normal means of language; actually present like no other man, for he is
always
concentrated on the wholeness of the space he finds himself in, on a
kind of
atmospheric unity. Thus,
it is not enough to
know that there is a stove here and a closet there; to hear what one
man says
and what the other sensibly answers, as though the two of them had
harmoniously
discussed it beforehand. Nor is it enough to register the passage and
the
extent of time, when one man comes, when another stands up, whe9 the
third
leaves; the clocks can t~e care of that for us. There is far more to
sense
wherever people are together in a room and are breathing. After all,
the room
can be full of good air and the windows open. It may have rained. The
stove may
be spreading warm air, and this warmth may reach the people unequally.
The
closet may have been shut for a good while; the different air, suddenly
pouring
from it now that it's opened, may change the people's behavior towards
one
another. They speak, certainly; and they have things to say; but they
form
their words out of air and, by speaking them, they suddenly fill the
room with
new and strange vibrations, catastrophic changes in the earlier status.
And
time, true mental time, is the last thing in the world to go by the
clock; it
is actually and to a very great extent a function of the atmosphere in
which it
passes. Hence, it is awfully difficult to even approximate when someone
really
entered, when someone else stood up, and when the third really left. Of
course, all this sounds
very simple-minded, and an experienced master like Broch can smile at
such examples.
But I only mean to indicate how essential these things have become for
him, all
the things belonging to his breath metabolism. I mean to indicate how
he made
the atmospheric conditions all his own, so that, for him, they often
stand
directly for the relations between people. How he hears by breathing,
how he touches by
breathing, how he subordinates all his senses to his sense of
breathing. And
thus he occasionally seems like a big, beautiful bird whose wings have
been
clipped but whose freedom is otherwise intact. Instead of cruelly
locking him
in a single cage, his tormentors have opened all the cages in the world
to him.
He is still driven by the insatiable air-hunger of that fast, exalted
time; to
sate it, he dashes from cage to cage. From each he takes a sample of
air, which
fills him and he carries it away. Previously, he was a dangerous
predator; in
his hunger, he pounced upon any living thing; now, air is the only prey
he
lusts for. He stays nowhere long; as swiftly as he comes, he leaves. He
eludes
the actual masters and inmates of the cages. He knows that even after
all the cages
in the world, he will never gather all the air he had before. He always
keeps
his yearning for that great coherence, the freedom over all cages. Thus
he
remains the big, beautiful bird he once was, recognizable to others by
the air
fragments he gets from them, recognizable to himself by his
restlessness.
But the
matter isn't settled
for Broch with the hunger for air and the frequent change of
breathing-space.
His abilities go further; he carefully retains what he has acquired by
breathing; he retains it in the unique, precisely experienced form. And
no
matter how many new and perhaps more powerful things may come along,
the danger
of mixing atmospheric impressions---something quite natural for the
rest of
us-never exists with him. Nothing is blurred for him, nothing loses its
clarity. His is a rich and well-ordered experience in breathing-spaces.
It is
his wish to make use of this experience. One
must therefore assume
that Broch is gifted with something that I can only call a memory for
breath.
Next comes the question of what this breath-memory really is, how it
works, and
where it has its seat. I will be asked this question and I will have
nothing
precise to answer. And, at the risk of being scorned as a bungler by
the appropriate
science, I must point to certain otherwise inexplicable effects as
demonstrating the existence of such a breath-memory. To make its scorn
not so
easy for that science, one would have to remind it how far Western
civilization
has drifted from all the more subtle problems of breathing and its
experience.
The oldest exact, nay, almost experimental psychology that we know
of-which
rightfully ought to be called a psychology of self-observation and
inner
experience-an achievement of India, had this very area as its subject.
Science,
that parvenu of mankind, has enriched itself shamelessly and at
everyone's
expense during the past few centuries. And one cannot be amazed enough
that in
the area of breathing, science has forgotten what was once, as we all
know, the
daily practice of countless adepts in India. Of
course, in Broch too, an
unconscious technique is involved, facilitating his grasp, retention,
and
ultimate processing of atmospheric impressions. The naive observer can
probably
notice certain things in him that are connected to that technique. For
instance, conversations with him have a very peculiar and unforgettable
punctuation.
He tends not to answer yes or no, that might be too violent a caesura.
He
arbitrarily divides the other person's speech into apparently
meaningless
sections. They are designated by a characteristic sound, which one
would have
to faithfully render with a phonograph, and which is taken as agreement
by the
other person, but actually only indicates the registration of what is
said. One
scarcely ever hears a negative. The other speaker is grasped not so
much in the
way he thinks and speaks; Brach is far more interested in finding out
in what
specific way the man makes the air shake. He himself yields little
breath and,
when reticent with words, he seems obstinate and absent. But let
us leave these
personal matters, which would require a more thorough treatment to be
of any
real value. Let us, instead, ask ourselves what Broch undertakes in his
art
with his rich store of breathing experience. Does it give him the
possibility
of expressing something that could not otherwise be expressed? Does an
art drawing
upon it offer a new and different picture of the world? Indeed, can we
actually
conceive of a literature that stems from the experience of breathing?
And what
means does it employ in the medium of the word? We
would have to reply, above
all, that the multiplicity in our world consists to a large extent in
the
multiplicity of our breathing-spaces. The room you are sitting in here,
in a
very definite arrangement, almost totally cut off from the world around
us, the
way each person's breath mixes into an air common to all of you and
then
collides with my words, the noises disturbing you, and the silence into
which
these noises relapse, your suppressed movements, rebuff or
agreement--all those
things, from the breather's standpoint, are a totally unique,
unrepeatable,
self-contained, and precisely delimited situation.
But then, go a few
steps further and you will find the completely different situation of
another
breathing-space, in a kitchen perhaps or a bedroom, in a pub, in a
tram,
whereby we always have to think of a concrete and unrepeatable
constellation of
breathing beings in a kitchen, bedroom, pub, or tram. The big city is
as full
of such breathing-spaces as of individual people. Now none of these
people is
like the next, each is a kind of cul-de-sac; and just as their
splintering
makes up the chief attraction and chief distress of life, so too one
could also
lament the splintering of the atmosphere. The
diversity in the world,
its individual splintering, the true material of artistic creation, is
thus
also a given for the breathing man. To what extent was earlier art
aware of this?
One
cannot say that the
atmospheric was neglected in the older contemplation of human beings.
The winds
are among the most ancient figures in myth. Every nation paid heed to
them; few
spirits or gods are as popular as they. The oracles of the Chinese were
very
much oriented by the winds. Storms, tempests, tornadoes are basic plot
elements
in. the earliest heroic epics. They are a recurrent prop later as well
and even
today; they of all things are popularly brought out from the lumber
rooms of
kitsch. A science coming on today with a very serious claim, for it
makes
forecasts, i.e. meteorology, deals to a great extent with the currents
of the
air. But all this is basically very rough, for the crux in all these
things is
always the dynamic quality of the atmosphere, the changes that nearly
kill us,
murder and manslaughter in the air, great cold, great heat, furious
velocities,
raging records.
Imagine
if modern painting
consisted merely in a gross and simple depiction of the sun or a
rainbow! The
feeling of an unparallelled barbarism would seize us in front of such
pictures.
We would want to punch holes in them. They would be altogether
worthless. One
would absolutely deny them the attribute "painting." For a long
practice has taught people to draw on the diversity and changeability
of colors
as they experience them in order to abstract static, closed
surface-works,
endlessly refined in their repose--surface-works that they call
pictures.
The
literature of the
atmospheric as a static thing is only just beginning its development.
The
static breathing-space has scarcely been treated. Let us call that
which ought
to be created here a "breath-picture" in contrast to the painter's
color-picture. And let us presume, given the deep relationship between
breath
and speech, that language is an appropriate medium for achieving the
breath-picture. We also have to realize that Hermann Broch is the
founder of
this new art, its first conscious representative, who has likewise
succeeded in
making the classic model of his genre. One has to use the adjectives
"classical" and "grand" for "The Homecoming," a
tale of some thirty pages about a man arriving in a city, coming out to
its
railroad station square, and renting a room in the home of an old woman
and her
daughter. That is the content in terms of the old narrative art, the
plot. But
what is actually depicted are the square and the old lady's home.
Broch's
technique here is as new as it is perfect. Its study would require a
whole
treatise, and since it would have to be very detailed, it would
certainly be
out of place here.
His
characters are not
prisons for him. He floats away from them often. He has to float away
from
them; but he remains near them much of the time. They are bedded in
air, he has
breathed for them. His caution is timidity towards his own breathing,
which
affects the repose of others.
Yet his
sensitivity also
separates him from the people of his time, who, all in all, dwell in an
illusion
of security. Now, they too are not exactly insensitive. The sum total
of
sensitivity in culture has become very great. Yet this sensitivity too,
odd as
it may seem, has its orderly and unshakable tradition. It is determined
by the
things one already knows well. Tortures that have come down to us,
which have
been told about frequently, and told about in the same way as those of
the
martyrs for instance, arouse our deepest loathing. The effect of the
stories
and pictures is so powerful that whole ages have gotten the stamp of
cruelty impressed
on them. Thus, for the huge majority of readers and writers, the Middle
Ages
was the time of tortures, of witch burnings. Even the authentic
information
that the witch-hunts were actually the invention and practice of a
later period
can do little to change that notion. The average man thinks back to the
Middle
Ages with horror, he pictures the carefully preserved execution tower
in a
medieval town, which he has visited-perhaps on his honeymoon. The
average man
feels all in all, more horror for the remote Middle Ages than for the
World War,
which he has experienced personally. One can sum up this insight in a
single
shattering sentence:
Today
it would be harder to
condemn one man publicly to be burnt at the stake than to unleash a
world war.
Thus,
people are defenseless
only when they have no experience or memory. New dangers may loom as
vast as
they like, but people will be only poorly and at most outwardly
prepared.
However, the greatest of all dangers ever to emerge in the history of
mankind
has chosen our generation as its victim.
It is
the defenselessness of
breathing, which I would like to talk about in conclusion. One can
hardly form
too great a notion of it. To nothing is man so open as to air. He moves
in it
as Adam did in Paradise, pure and
innocent and
unaware of any evil beasts. Air is the last common property. It belongs
to all
people collectively. It is not doled out in advance, even the poorest
may
partake of it. And if a man should starve to death, then at least he
has
breathed until the end-small as that comfort may be.
And
this last thing, which
has belonged to all of us collectively, shall poison all of us
collectively. We
know it, but we do not yet sense it, for breathing is not our art.
Hermann
Broch's work stands
between war and war, gas war and gas war. It could be that he still
somewhere
feels the poisonous particles of the last war. But that is unlikely.
What is
certain, however, is that he, who knows how to breathe better than we
do, is
already choking on the gas that shall claim our breath-who knows when!
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