ALS: 'Nacht'

27.03 night

I don’t like dreams – I always have the feeling that I’m being taken for a ride. Last night I was lying on the sofa, half-asleep, half-awake, Philip Glass supplying the music, as usual. From there I looked down at a garden in the depths of which, and unrecognisable, a group of women were walking (always women). The images turned like a screw, spiralling up towards recognisability. I hoped that it would turn out to be my mother, my wife, my daughters, my granddaughters and my sisters. But I was punished for my scepticism – they were unknown women, I was alone – I wanted to complain, but remained silent. I got up and went outside.

Whenever I go out at night, the cats always appear from various directions. They walk along with me, normally not more than a hundred metres. This time they followed me through the wood to the low-lying wide pool where we could hear water birds in the reeds. After an hour I walked back towards the house, the cats disappeared to their own patch. I lay down on the sofa once more. To get ahead of the dream, I thought of old people doing exercises in a town park. The park was familiar to me, it was the one in the town where I was born. The old people had once been teachers at my primary school. I could hear them talking, I was glad that I was no longer dreaming.

Poem by the Flemish poet Guido Gezelle (1830-1899): 'Kerkhofblommen'

Kerhofblommen

Zoo daar ooit een blomke groeide

over ’t graf waarin gij ligt,

of het nog zoo schoone bloeide:

zuiver als liet zonnelicht,

blank gelijk een Lelie blank is,

vonklende als een roozenhert,

needrig als de needre rank is

van de winde daar ’m op terdt,

riekend, vol van honing, ende

geren van de bie bezocht,

nog en waar ’t voor die U kende,

geen dat U gelijken mocht!

Churchyard flowers

If some flower ever sought to grow

o’er the grave in which you lie,

though great beauty it might show –

pure as sunlight from on high,

gleaming as the lily’s gleam is,

as the rose-heart sparkling bright,

modest as each humble shoot is

by the wind that seeks to blight,

fragrant, filled with nectar, due to

be consorted by the bee –

even so, to one who knew you,

it like you could never be! 

Maarten Mourik: 'Wanneer ik dood ben'

When I am dead

When I am dead

do not inter me in a windmill,

not in an orange orchard

and absolutely not beneath the

sand of the arena, no,

when I am dead, inter me

in your heart; then I shall not

become the prey of some white beast

and not for ever be interred

but slowly shall evaporate.

ALS: Schwitters

08.03 schwitters

‘The kindling spark’, a very short story from 1926 by Kurt Schwitters, I read aloud in 1965 for Class Five of the Grotius Gymnasium School in Delft. It is a dialogue between Mr. Gross (a doctor) and Mr. Levy(the proprietor of a fashion shop). Gross is the acknowledged darling of all the ladies, he dances excellently, is good company, stylish and well-groomed. He has never had a sweetheart – in every woman he discovers something that displeases him. All this changes when he catches sight of a highly attractive young woman in the shop-window of a fashion shop. It is a mannequin, she is made of wax. He enters the shop and asks the proprietor if he may speak to the girl’s mother. The manager explains that she has no mother, she is a mannequin, he is her boss. Gross explains to him that he nevertheless wishes to marry her. Levy is not in favour of this, a discussion ensues, he loses the battle and says that in that case, they must marry in the shop-window. Gross agrees to this. Then the first sales assistant, who has been following the conversation says: ‘May I draw your attention to the fact that the lady in question writes shorthand using the Groote system?’ Gross says: ‘In that case, a marriage is completely out of the question, for I write shorthand using the Pont system. Good day to you!’

The next day I am rung up at school by the mother of a girl from Class Five. Her daughter is very upset because of the Schwitter’s story. I can understand that, on further consideration I regard it as a blunder on my part to have read the story aloud to children who are 17 years old. I offer my excuses.

Kurt Schwitters: 'Der zündende Funken' (1926)

The kindling spark

Doctor Gross was the acknowledged darling of all the ladies. He danced excellently, was good company, stylish and well-groomed, in short, he was the acknowledged darling of the ladies. He was well aware of this, but it did not kindle any fire in him, never, for he weighed up everything coolly and objectively and found much in the female sex that was worthy of reproach. A man such as he could give any lady the run-around, but for that very reason it gave him no pleasure. Much to the despair of his parents, who dearly wished to cradle grandchildren. And yet, he too proved one day to be capable of combustion.

For one day Dr. Gross was out walking and thinking about nothing in particular and looking into the shop-windows of fashion houses. Just as he was standing right in front of a shop with ladies’ wear, the spark ignited. In an artificial arbour of paper embellishments and electric light he had seen a young woman made of wax and clad in a light spring dress, a faithful imitation of nature and full of allure and charm. She was simply standing there in order to sell the spring dress, but he did not see the simple, tasteful dress – he saw the enchanting maiden. He saw her true nature, straight through the dress, and the nature of this woman, her fine, calm being, her lovely, graceful movements, her silken skin, her exceptional beauty – all of this so pleased him that he was unable to contain himself, entered the shop and demanded to speak to her mother.

His first great disappointment was that this young woman had no mother, only a proprietor. So he asked to see the head of the establishment. Mr Levy, the manager, was a man of fine character, without much poetry about him. He assumed that a fine, young man would want to buy his wife or bride a chic costume, and was utterly taken-aback when Dr. Gross began by saying: “I wish to ask for the hand in marriage of the lady who is offering the summer dress for sale in the third window for 29 Marks 98.” – “I’m very sorry, Sir,” the manager replied, “but the lady is not for sale.” When he noted that the lady must be extremely valuable, he presented himself. “Delighted to make your acquaintance, Sir, the name is Levy,” the manager said, and Dr. Gross began: “I do not, by the way, wish to purchase her, only to be permitted to ask for her hand in marriage.” – “I’m very sorry, Sir, but as I said, I cannot part with this lady.” – “Why ever not?” – “She is, as I said, not for sale.” – “But, Mr. Levy, ladies are by definition not for sale, are they not?” – “You are mistaken, doctor, ladies are often actually for sale, but I regret to say that this lady is my property, and I am unwilling to part with her.”

“But, dear Sir, you can only have a human right to this lady, for a right of ownership like that of the time of the slave trade no longer exists today, thank heavens.” – “So?” – “For that reason, it is not your business but that of the lady in question whether she wishes to stay with you or not.”

“I am genuinely sorry, but one can indeed have the right of ownership like that of the time of the slave trade over ladies made of wax.” – “I too am sorry, but I do not recognise your right. Please allow me to go into the window, to confer with young lady in question and to openly declare my feelings to her.” – “I am terribly sorry, but furthermore fear that the lady made of wax will give you no reply.” – “That would also greaten sadden me, yet if she were to show her satisfaction through silence, that would be far dearer to me than many words, for I dislike talkative women.”

“But Sir, this lady is not a living being – I fail to understand what you actually want from her.” – “To marry her.” –

“You will not find any registrar to carry this out, for the lady is not on any list. She is a non-person! You simply cannot marry a figure made of wax!” – “That is my affair. How is it you claim to know whether a wax figure is a person or not? Have you ever been a registrar? Are there not numerous persons with wax parts, artificial arms, legs, teeth, noses, hair – why shouldn’t there be persons who are completely artificial? I could prove to you that every form must have a corresponding content. Either this wax figure is a person like all other women, or all other women are non-persons. For the other difference between a wax doll and a random roman is that the doll is considerably calmer, finer and more elegant.” – At this, the manager was at a loss. Then he thought of a subterfuge. He said that he as legal guardian was prepared to give his approval, but the wedding would have to take place in the shop window. Then Dr. Gross said. ‘It is a matter of indifference to me – I am the humble servant of my admirers.” – “But I must ask you not to undertake anything that would cause a crowd to have reason to gather in front of my shop, for we are an old, respected firm.” – “That goes without saying, Mr. Levy.” – The manager was desperate, he had played his final trump card and lost. Furthermore, he was afraid of Dr. Gross, whom he suddenly felt was insane. It was then, all of a sudden, that the head sales assistant said: “May I perhaps draw your attention, Sir, to the fact that the lady in question writes shorthand using the Gabelsberger system?” In a twinkling of an eye, Dr. Gross abruptly took his leave, with the remark: “If that is the case, then marriage is of course completely out of the question, for I write standard shorthand. Good day to you!” –

Ingemann's famous poem 'Paa Sjølunds fagre sletter' (1816) in English

on sjølund’s plains so pleasing

On Sjølund’s plains so pleasing

down by the Baltic shore,

where woods with wreaths are friezing

the flower-strewn meadow-floor,

where silver streams now softly

glide past the ruin’s foot,

in ancient times a lofty

royal castle there once stood.

In golden halls so stately

a merry life was led,

where all did pleasure greatly

and jesting words were said:

King Valdemar had built there

his stronghold to defend

his life against all ill there

until the world should end.

With hunters he went riding,

upon his milk-white steed,

o’er hill and dale, fast striding

no danger did he heed;

but at the hounds’ loud baying,

the horn’s shrill calls far-flung,

they all forgot their praying

no holy mass heard sung.

Long since deep in the earth has

King Valdemar been laid,

in legends strange and terse has

his Hunt though been portrayed.

The farmer, poor man, crosses

himself aghast from fright

when hounds and hunters’ horses

tear past him late at night.

ALS: 'Sprookje'

15.11 fairytale

This week things were very busy at the cheesemonger’s market stall. I stood for some time behind two seasoned gentlemen who to my surprise were talking about the omnipotence or impotence of God. The weather was bleak, windless, a pale, weak sun. One of the men I knew vaguely – a GP. The other was unfamiliar, but I could see he was cultivated and wealthy. The GP said: ‘When in doubt, I choose God.’ The other one replied:

that was possible until 1945. It then emerged that millions of people had been annihilated. God had permitted this, the Almighty had not intervened. In 1945 it became clear that ever since his coming into being he had been a fairytale. Since then, I regard belief as a crime.

I was surprised that this was a topic of conversation in the thronging row of people at a market stall. I saw that a couple of lone old ladies were shuffling uneasily, and were considering following the urge of their feet – no cheese this week, then. Later though I saw small groups of cheese-buyers eagerly attacking each other and I gradually realised that religious strife had always existed amongst believers: the Hook and Cod Wars of medieval Holland, Catholics and Protestants, Shiites and Sunnis. But this time outsiders were also involved, unbelievers – and that is really something quite different.

Frans August Brocatus: 'While the other flowers...'

Terwijl de andere bloemen toekeken

zag ik met bijna dichtgeknepen ogen

hoe de klimrozen leken te smelten.

Ik hield mijn adem in en volgde twee

blinkende torretjes op de rand van de waterput,

ze aarzelden, waren ineens  verdwenen.

Onder de bomen stuurde ik de schaduwen weg

en ik tekende in een plots ontstane plas van licht

het pas gevonden nest van een winterkoninkje.

While the other flowers looked on

I saw with almost half-closed eyes

how the rambling roses seemed to melt.

I held my breath and followed two

tiny beetles on the rim of the well,

they hesitated, had suddenly disappeared.

Under the trees I sent away the shadows

and I drew in a suddenly created splash of light

the newly found nest of a winter wren.

ALS: 'Noorse oppas'

12.11 norwegian babysitter

In 1986, Nico Scheepmaker hears a story about a girl that was frightened by a malicious Norwegian babysitter who tells her that each human being is only granted a limited amount of voice during his or her lifetime, and that you thus end up with a shortage of voice if you talk too much. The story seems familiar to Scheepmaker, he has read it somewhere only recently. He searches in his impenetrable room full of books, files and loose papers – metres high. He is obsessed by the story of the girl and her Norwegian babysitter. He is quite sure he has read it not more than two days previously. He looks in all his books, newspapers and files of the last two days. Finally, he suddenly recalls Conversations with Jean Piaget, the famous Swiss child psychologist. Apparently, Piaget has a room just like Scheepmaker’s, he says to his interviewer: ‘As you know, Bergson has established that disorder simply does not exist! There are only two types of order: geometrical order and vital order. My order is clearly vital!’

The interviewer asks if he is actually able to find anything in that utter shambles. Piaget says: ‘If you have to search, you search. That takes up less time that tidying every day.’

The interviewer asks: ‘But what if the room is cleaned?’

Answer: ‘This room is never cleaned!

‘Never?’ ‘Never!’

‘But your wife?...’ ‘She is kind enough to leave it alone!’

I have no proof, but think that Nico Scheepmaker has probably frequently searched through his chock-a-block room for the girl and her babysitter. With the support of Bergson’s two kinds of order and Piaget’s certainty that no cleaning will ever take place.

ALS: 'Wolf'

17.09 wolf

Yesterday morning around sunrise I was splitting the day’s portion of firewood. More or less by chance I was wearing boots with steel toecaps. Luckily for me, for when the axe broke, the heavy head ended up on my foot – no injury. My first reaction was indignation, fury even. Strange, I ought to have been glad I hadn’t been wounded. Earlier in the week I had also met with setbacks. Two of my five chickens had died. I’d seen it coming – they were old birds. In my chicken coop the most frequent cause of death is a fox or polecat – old age is a rarity. Active perpetrators have my preference, with old age it’s hard to feel indignation, only resignation, a dull feeling. Finally, someone had made a dent in my car in the parking lot. It was a respectable citizen, his card was stuck behind a windscreen-wiper. Even here I felt dissatisfied, I’d much rather have groused about an unknown perpetrator.

These three incidents – the splitting axe, old age, the dent – completely vanished at the pleasure I felt this morning when I read in the newspaper that a wolf from Germany had killed two sheep near a small village in East Groningen. After this act of nature, it had returned to Germany. The name of the village is Hungry Wolf.