This is a text that I wrote as a kind of blog response or commentary on the highly esteemed writer Aléa Torik. On the question of how a writer or a writer can live on her writing. I would like to publish this text here, as I made a lot of effort. (Nonsense, I wrote down the text in one go and it took me no effort, just a little time and a bottle of beer.)
I know, it is only a side aspect of your text, standing in one of your commentary answers, you were essentially concerned with specific aspects of the literature: “The less the language carries a book, the more action it needs” . I should have gone into this title better, and as to the content of it, but took up another passage in one of your commentary answers: There you lamented the insecure material existence of the author, the writer. As for the monetary aspect, I see it a little differently, and I want to contradict you. Apart from the fact that the complaints of the writers about their precarious way of being gets on my nerves and that I am not interested in the bean (and probably many others as well), this criticism seems to elude me. I want to clarify that with some aspects. (Actually, I intended to use this term under the term precarity scenes, but this seemed to me too drastic. “Precarious”, however, meant in various connotations.)
Firstly, I mean less you than the self-overriding scribal-pragmatics, who – mostly living in Berlin – imagine being poets or poets, because somehow from the Lamäng, from the association two or three lines were written, at some point Once the mood turned out particularly lyrical or prosaic and for in between a text was made, which then spread somewhere in the vastness of the digital or even made it on a sheet of paper. Karen-Köhlerisierung of the literature. We both equally complain. All the self-proclaimed poets, writers, and writers abound in Berlin. But also elsewhere. Self-empowerment law of literacy. I, the poet, I, the poetess. Narcissus and Echo have recently joined the poet as spirit companions. Apollo, Dionysus and the Maenads’ train have had their day. At best, as Literaturgroupies or Salonleseboxenluder these Maenads emerge. The Bacchae of the Culture Salon. The density of poets in Kreuzberg, Friedrichshain, Prenzlauer Berg and, more recently, probably Lichtenberg and Pankow is extremely high. By contrast, Friedenau was densely populated in the 1960s. (Herta Müller still lives there today.) I regularly get agitations of aggression when the rancid of the random is pimped up as a seal. (You can do it all in blogs, but I still do not think so.) It has something stale, something presumptuous, something repulsive, all this writing, all these many-to-many.) From the association, I make you all such 3 -Second texts in two-second intervals:
After the night // And out of the pussy the vaginal discharge // in the pelvic floor // Stitched, weighted, too light // Hair down in the Abfickzone // secretions discretion.
I mean, that’s really a great title for a poetry book: “hair down in the Abfickzone”. Me, the fan of pussy-hairing. As written: I can associate here the whole evening and the morning and the afternoon and the day and beyond. But as a poet, I would not dare to call myself or let anyone name me. What a hubris! And that brings me to the point: there are too many of you writers! Reduce yourself! (One of the beautiful exceptions was your blog and it is also summacumlaudes blog, in places also the observations at Kreuzbergsüdost, as well as catharsis Fine sketches that can or could be more Of course, on a large scale, also many of the lyrics by Alban Nikolai Herbst in his blog, if only the moaning would not be The poet’s dearest child seems to be the complaint, no matter whether Marienbader or Berlin Elegy.On the other hand, in the good part of the elegy, complaining, moaning and gnashing of teeth is quite, if the material edited and was not left raw, when then the building bears and the power of expression works: “And when man is silenced in his torment, // Gave me a god to say how I suffer.” Goethe , Torquato Tasso)
That poetry was once an expression of the experience of suffering, objective suffering, suffering objectifying in the textual mode of the subject: this circumstance now seems forgotten. The companions of the poet are Narcissus and Echo.
The cities are full of poetry and prose. Well. And for the performances of the poetry slams, this may work if language is presented in a witty way. Does that, of course, benefit the poetry as a whole? This factor of multiplication, this too-much of rapid form: that is why I consider poetry and prose poetry (in many cases) the most obscured form of poetry. Housewife writing for in between. No power and no breath for the long form of the novel or just a complex composed poetry band, as Daniela Danz did with Pontus skilfully. A law would have to be enacted: anyone who never wrote a novel will be banned from producing poetry. Maybe you should also introduce it for the essays. Anyone who never gave in to a writing, thinking and theory project for at least 2 years is not allowed to produce any texts. In hora mortis – the stylus may rot in the dying hand. The journalism experiments together with the book writing of the Kreuzberger Medienbohème also concerns this.
No, I am less disturbed by writing itself, as an act, as an activity, as a will to design, but rather as a pretense. Poetry and prose are becoming inflationary. Now one can say: nice that there is so much poetry. Yes, fine, too, that there is so much that is lacking in this will to form. This phenomenon seems to exist in photography as well, which is why I feel less and less the desire to show my photographs at all.
“It may be that as we realize that one can not live from writing, we must realize that it is not a profession but a hobby. I can not imagine anything better as a job, but as a hobby I’m not interested in writing. If one does not live for writing, then usually hobby texts come out (with the large fictional forms, with bloggers and journalists other laws apply). I want to read texts by professional writers who vouch for their existence for the text. And I want to write such texts too. If that does not work, then I’ll have to orient myself otherwise. “
True and true: writing (and making art in the first place) is not a hobby; it is passion, wild mad action and action, a delirium, a compulsion, a must and a high art of composition. In this respect, the concept of the composer , as that of Adrian Leverkühn in the “Doctor Faustus” is called, meets the circumstance of this work of art very precisely. It’s a setting, a careful set, a bold set, a preemptive phrase, and it sounds like the typesetter’s work. Good old lead set, detail work when fishing for the right type. But, and here comes the great limitation, art does not guarantee that there is money. Nice would be a society in which everyone could be active according to his needs. (In this respect, the question of payment for writers: inside, beyond all selfishness or even the purely pragmatic, of having to live on anything, at the same time poses the question of the system.I write this in a nutshell, although this parenthesis touches the central: how we want to live.)
I too do not like to read hobby texts, writing takes time; In the blogs that make literature, we read again and again, where and to what kind of text the hobby writing, when soldered in the sound of sensibility or soldered.
Writer Ulla Hahn advised young authors to pursue gainful employment. I think that’s a good hint. Because it is like this: The operation is full. All push it to the pots, to the good or the less well-paid lectures, the writing posts in the Feuilleton editorship, because the sale of his books can (I suspect) hardly any of the writers live. There remains only the iron discipline to make his passion, this tremendous desire, central to the work of merit. Writing is not done by the way. But anyone who embarks on this tremendous venture to compose a novel needs one of the most precious things in the world: time. That probably means: I have to get rid of many things that distract me. Reduce friends. Restrict activities. I do not know a solution to this dilemma. In any case, it would be wrong if one of the most gifted female writers gives up writing. Byways may go? How did Franz Kafka, who all his life cursed his work in the hated office? He was saved by the illness. He was harmed by the women. No not really. They were the occasion for writing, the infinite escape reflex. Orpheus slaughters Eurydice, and he describes this empty, gaunt face that he regarded in September of 1912, sitting at a table by Brod, the pale, skinny one. He models and sketches out of this face the greatest novel of the 20th century. (But even this is just an assumption, not biography positivism, but itself a piece of this monstrous text Kafka, the blog operator is willing to continue.) Striking a face, a text that fragmented and extinguished itself, because the essence of a text is to disappear again and to go nowhere. To erase the illusion of textual persistence and omnipotence. If it were up to Kafka, his literary credits would have been burnt. (Unthinkable, absolutely unthinkable for a contemporary poet.) Kafka found happiness in writing shortly before his death, together with Dora Diamant. Also one of the forgotten women. Quitting is not an option for those who have added something to literature. That should be better done by others.