ER nichts als ER: Wie pensionsreif ist die althergebrachte Lit. made in A?
“Ausscheren aus dem Denkdrehkäfig, schweigen.”
Am Rand von Groß-Paris sitzt ein in die Jahre gekommener österreichischer Literatur-expatriate in seiner Einfamilienhaus und versucht trotzig wie ein gealterter John Lennon auszusehen. Die Atmosphäre: erdschwer bis bedeutungschwanger, mitunter ungehalten, wenngleich ohne Mörder. Ab und zu taucht ein anderer Schreiber auf, um einen Brosamen von SEINEM Tisch aufzupicken.
“The Landscapes Through Which We Traveled” –
a text by Žarko Radaković (c) Open Letters Monthly 2012.
In the text there are no words about the photo: The bridge over the river Drina in Višegrad, Bosnia-Herzegovina – setting for a famous novel and for a less famous genocide…
My birthday wishes for Peter Handke would be a bit harsher – unfortunately they are only available in German…
The Story of Dragoljub Milanović: a true Handke indeed.
“This is not a sermon, but (…) a story. A story to tell, if necessary, to a woodpile or an empty snail shell or even to myself alone, by the way not for the first time –”*
Peter Handke’s narrator, the self-appointed chronicler of Dragoljub Milanović’ Story, suffers from a strangely missionary pessimism that leads him to formulate unbearably beautiful sentences like the one quoted. And if no one listens to him, he is just going to talk to his “shoelace”, the “nutcracker”, or even a “worn-out doormat.”
‘Talk to the hand,” evil tongues of Americanized origin probably would tell him, but in Continue reading
delirium clemens 