Bernhard, in Germany
it’s become common to classify writers as either rats or blowflies. Are you a rat or a blowfly?
THOMAS BERNHARD: A hybrid of a rat and a blowfly, probably. In Austria we haven’t yet alighted on the
idea of calling writers rats and blowflies, but there are certainly people here
also who at least go around with [such a distinction] in their heads.
the reason for that; why is the tone in Austria so much nicer?
I don’t know if it’s any nicer. But
nobody dares to call writers rats and blowflies outright…
though you have done plenty to provoke your fellow Austrians to do something to
THOMAS BERNHARD: In
order to be reviled as every possible species of vermin, I’d have to go to Germany or be a
German; perhaps then I’d still stand a chance of receiving an honorary degree
QUESTION: What were
the causes of your being reviled in Austria?
Writing on its own was enough. Basically
even in my early poems there was enough to make people call me a skunk.
QUESTION: On the
other hand, you have a tendency to view other people [as existing] in a state
of decay, of dissolution, you depict them as ailing and having gone to seed. Your characters have often lost the ability
to walk, to see, to hear; the only thing they really can still do is grouse and
rant and browbeat their surroundings. Is
your heroes’ illness there as a kind of camouflage, something that perhaps
allows them to see and hear even better [than other people]?
No, I certainly don’t camouflage my characters; I release them from their cage
as they are, and they’re bound to go wherever they like. I no longer have any influence over these
characters; I’m obviously not a very good herdsman.
most recent of your characters for the theater has a highly remarkable
job-title: he’s a “World-Improver.”
Improving the world is obviously an insane idea; the world
can’t be made any better than it is.
you’re having a go at it anyway?
I have a go at it, at making the world a better place, every time I get up in
the morning. A go at making myself
better and the world better…
are you especially horrified by the people who are in power?
I’m certainly no lover of power; I don’t care either for individuals who wield
power or for groups of people who wield it.
are you not a lover of chaos either?
Chaos is basically impossible in the so-called civilized world, although I
personally am quite partial to chaos in the abstract.
your plays and books meant to promote chaos?
Basically I think they are, yes.
how is that supposed to function?
The moment it functions, there’s obviously no more chaos.
the purpose of your writings could still be to frustrate power.
I find the word “purpose” almost as repellent as the word “power.” Purposes [or ends] always seek out means, and
with means you also always get power.
thorough survey of your heroes reveals that they are sometimes—as in the
of your President—politicians, at other times philosophers, at still
other times artists. Are artists as much wielders of power as
Artists sometimes have every bit as much power as politicians.
their power disturb you every bit as much?
Their power would disturb me if I were ever confronted by it.
QUESTION: Am I
right in detecting a hint of self-disgust in what you just said?
Probably. But it’s not just that. I don’t see life just as something that’s
disgusting…and I don’t see writing that way either.
texts are centered on death, disgust with life, suicide. Do you write to avoid hanging yourself?
Maybe, sure, why not?
said you’re not a very good herdsman of your characters. Despite this you’ve recently prohibited the
Viennese theaters from staging any of your plays until further notice.
I wasn’t being particularly serious when I said that. But I don’t willingly commit my characters
into the care of people who are habitually cruel to animals.
you had bad experiences with the Burgtheater in Vienna?
I have had nothing but bad experiences with the Burgtheater, but I don’t take
those very seriously. It’s just that I
don’t want any play of mine to be performed there.
QUESTION: Is the
performance of your plays by the Viennese a forbidden act?
“Forbidden act”—it sounds so melodramatic.
to matters Austrian. You have never
hesitated to saddle the Austrians with every conceivable form of
wickedness. In an article on the 1977
National Holiday you wrote that your governments in recent decades have been
willing to perpetrate any crime against this Austria. The governments had “committed every
imaginable crime, they have finally transformed the exploitation of the
vulgarity and brutality of this congenitally somnolent nation into their sole
art, which masters them, and which they venerate, and with which they are
positively smitten.” That’s basically a
blanket vote of no confidence against every Austrian government.
Yes, against all these people who have gotten used to being in power and
QUESTION: You spoke
in similarly forceful terms when you left the German Academy
for Language and Literature.
On closer consideration, the Academy for Language and Literature turned out to
be the limit…
QUESTION: But it
seemed that as long as Walter Scheel wasn’t in it you didn’t have a problem
with it[.] Was Walther Scheel’s election
a welcome excuse for [you to] leave?
I found the [whole] appearance of the thing unsavory.
That’s a difficult question. Questions
are always correct; answers are always wrong, erroneous.
QUESTION: Was it
[the election of] Scheel as [an] individual that moved you to withdraw, or
would any other president—say, Carstens or Heinemann—have served just as well?
Any of them would have served. And I
would have reacted in exactly the same way.
same in the case of all three?
Also in the case of Giscard d’Estaing, even if Margaret Thatcher or whoever had
come [to the ceremony] at the invitation of the [West German] government.
QUESTION: But at
some point you must have participated in the academy’s activities; at any rate,
that’s the impression one gets when one reads your maliciously punctilious
accounts of the academy’s meetings, which you describe as a mixture of vanity,
senility, idleness, and high-rollerism.
I’ve never been to any of these meetings.
But [the spirit of] the academy is of course reflected in its
have refused to allow these publications into your house.
I can’t keep them out. The postman
chucks them in [through the front door].
you still a member of some [other] similar academy somewhere?
I’m a member of a group of health insurance policyholders.
QUESTION: And of
haven’t always been especially consistent; for example, you’ve been known to
accept prizes and honorary titles.
Nobody can be consistent; a person will always be able to catch himself out in
some inconsistency or other.
your [acceptance] speeche[s] you have of course repaid the awarders of prizes
[with thanks time and] again. Would you
ever again accept a prize, for example the Nobel Prize?
Neither a prize nor a title or distinction.
your new play you depict the ineluctable ridiculousness of a prize-awarding
I’ve always found such ceremonies ridiculous, ever since I was quite a young
boy of fifteen or sixteen. And there has
of course always been an air of the comical surrounding all the prizes I’ve
QUESTION: Is a
prize not also always an attempt to muzzle the artist?
[It’s an attempt] to pacify him, [and] thereby render him harmless.
is it about writers that makes them dangerous?
In a brief prose sketch you write about an author sitting in a theater
and shooting people who laugh during the parts of his comedy that aren’t
supposed to be funny. You yourself
behave with much more equanimity at the theater, on those rare occasions when
you go there. What’s the difference
between the written and the real? You
are of course aware that in Germany we’ve goat truly a truly ludicrous debate going
on in Augsburg, because the theater and film director [Werner] Schroeter has
fantasized about assassinating [Franz Josef?] Strauss with a veal sausage and
has admitted that he’s in a killing sort of mood—much in the manner of your
I, too, could kill anybody on paper. But
only on paper.
are you at all worried that some person somewhere could take what’s on paper
for a prescription?
There’s nothing I can do to stop that.
one kill on paper in order to spare oneself in real life?
I can’t answer that [question].
penchant for morbidity shows you to be a kind of romantic writer who envisages
a connection between illness and art, between madness and art, between anarchy
Yes, you’ve really hit the mark there. I
think it’s like with dreams; you have no control over the direction your dreams
take; if need be somebody can wake you up; the worst things [imaginable] can
happen in them, but you have no influence over them.
QUESTION: Do you
think the criticism leveled at you is justified?
Every [instance of] criticism is justified, but of course you never know
whether it[’s] hit its mark; everybody can say whatever he wants, and there’s
nothing you can do to change it; why should anybody change any [piece of]
then would you characterize your experiences with [book] reviews and
As ranging from horrendous to thoroughly amusing.
one was horrendous?
It was really quite a long time ago; it was about fifteen years ago.
other words, it was horrendous because at the time you weren’t yet capable of
[--]because at the time everything was oversized. When you’re a child or a very young man,
everything is much bigger—the mountains, the snowdrifts. The winters are colder; the summers are
Thomas Bernhard has grown more mature, and he has fun reading newspapers,
because he no longer feels as much of a need to get involved.
If I were to pack it in, in other words if I were to snuff it, and I could no
longer move, I’d probably find it ideal to sit in a coffeehouse with the
curtains drawn. But not drawn so tightly
that you could no longer read. It would
be nice to experience the world exclusively through the newspapers. Then I[’d] stop reading the world except
through the newspapers.
[Wouldn’t it be] even better to be lying and bed and also slightly ill?
That would be a great pleasure, I think.
Being slightly ill is of course very nice. [And it’s nice no matter how ill you get],
all the way to [death’s] door. Even
though naturally if you cross [the threshold] and you’re dead, that’s bound to
be a great pleasure too.
Reliable reports on that [experience] are hard to come by.
The only [experience], I believe, that’s simply followed by nothing.
Whenever anybody in your books writes or contemplates, he always ends up
genuinely suffering from the fact that he has conceived something and that now
he’s shackled, enslaved, by the product of his conception. Is that your [own] situation?
I think so. When the book, or the
manuscript, is completely finished, the period of enslavement is at an
end. A new one begins[—n]amely, of
[enslavement to] not writing and not being shackled.
gets the impression that your plays are also always iterations of one and the
That’s probably quite true. Because of
course the prose is also like that.
surely the text isn’t as far gone and washed-up as that?
Basically it’s always the same [kind of] prose and the same way of writing for
now suddenly there [has appeared] among all your characters, who are all also
[part of] a single play [written] by you, a [character] who resembles [Hans]
Filbinger. Surely this character can’t
have any relation to you?
Now please don’t misunderstand me. I
have the feeling that I and everybody else are [in some way] related to
everybody. That there’s even a Filbinger
inside me and inside everybody else.
That the Good Lord is also in each of us and so is the girl next door
and pretty much every other living person.
Each of us could identify with all of them. That is the question: to what extent are we
stifled and dominated by all these millions and billions of possibilities of
people that we carry within us?
is understandable. But doesn’t it vex
you when somebody interprets your plays so unambiguously and says that in Stuttgart there was a run
of a play about Filbinger and the Filbinger affair?
No, it’s nonsensical for anyone to say that it’s a play about Filbinger. Because it’s got nothing to do with
Filbinger. [It’s] just about a person
with similar personality traits.
every similarity is purely coincidental?
…no, of course it’s not coincidental.
Thanks to the newspapers I’ve run into [plenty of] these fossilized
the little mini-drama for Die Zeit in which a Nazi family are eating soup
the first draft [i.e., of the play about the Filbingeresque character (DR)]?
No, that was a play I really didn’t want to write in the first place. Heinrichs from Die Zeit asked me for a
play. I wrote it. And as I watched it tumbling into the wastepaper
basket I said, “Well, that’s enough of that thing.” But then I fished it back out and typed it up
and sent it off.
have written a comedy about Kant in which the hero, who’s called Kant, is
traveling to America
for an eye operation. “I’m bringing America
reason,” he says; “America
is giving me eyesight.” Is this the
motto that best sums up your relationship with your audience?
It was apt in that I actually had an acute case of glaucoma and was faced with
the threat of going blind. And to stave
that off an operation was necessary. But
that was just the initial inspiration for the play.
[it’s] really just [one of those] bioplay[s] about an artist?
[It’s] no such thing. It’s a bioplay
about a [pair of] eyes. About the drama
of [having] glaucoma.
about [your] plays about the drama of being in a wheelchair?
Those have their place. Obviously, just
because your head is smashed in it doesn’t mean you’re unconditionally bound to
write about heads.
once you’ve delivered a play up to the people at the theater, do you keep tabs
on what’s being done with it?
“Delivering up” suggests vomiting. And
the two acts may be genuinely dependent on each other. And they probably really are dependent on
QUESTION: But it
is of course just a myth propagated by Thomas Bernhard himself that he for
example never attends premieres. He can
in fact be seen at premieres, hiding out [in the wings], to be sure; but he
does at least take a peek at each of his plays.
Sure, I’ve been to several [premieres].
Sometimes I’ve taken an interest in them, and more often I haven’t. I’ve also actually walked out on them. I saw The Hunting Party in Vienna from the start [of
the performance] onwards, and from the first word I realized that the whole
thing was a washout and dead on arrival.
I walked out in the middle of the first act and went upstairs to the gallery
and got my coat from the wardrobe lady, and she said, “Oh, you don’t like it
you studied acting?
Yes, that’s what they say. Nowadays I no
longer have anything to do with it, or with music; everything I[’ve] studied
I[’ve] had nothing to do with afterwards.
have you perchance come back to it since?
And you have in fact become so strongly addicted to the theater that you
have discovered an actor whom you regard as your ideal incarnation[—s]o much so
that you have named a play after him.
With Minetti it’s almost as if I’d discovered my own self.
the play written for Minetti about Minetti is the dramatization of a catastrophe,
of a failure. Do you get high on
I am after all a berserker; how can I put it[?]
I obviously want to write well, I obviously want to keep getting better
[at it]. But that means I really ought
to keep making myself more and more gruesome and [immerse] myself in ever more
horrifying and ever darker [depths of] evil, so that I get better [at writing].
QUESTION: Do you
have to make an effort to be so evil, so gruesome? Is it something you actually have to decide
to do, to say to yourself, “Now it’s time for me to get nice and beastly”?
I think I’m evil by nature, and the basic
outline doesn’t require any effort, but its execution is arduous.
once actually wrote that Salzburg
was the city with the most suicides.
Yes, I actually just transcribed that; it’s actually been officially determined
that there’s a [high] concentration of suicides there.
QUESTION: How do
you account for that?
First of all on the basis of [the city’s] natural setting, the way it’s been
carved into the rock-faces; Salzburg
is really terribly humid…it rains suicides there, in the autumn, at the
beginning of the school year; by October they’ve met their quota. But these are all statistics and
QUESTION: So you
found them interesting just that one time?
I’d find it interesting if I killed myself and was able to observe myself
Unfortunately that’s not possible.
The discovery that it’s not possible is my biggest disappointment.
QUESTION: What sort of relationship does Thomas
Bernhard have with his colleagues, with other writers? Does he feel a sense of solidarity with them?
With which writers? With living writers?
start with, sure, with living writers.
I haven’t a thing to do with any of them.
Not as near as I can remember.
you think you’re better off going it alone?
That’s quite hard to say.
we’ve already talked about the Academy.
Can you imagine what things would be like if the Gruppe 47 still existed? Could you imagine traveling to that kind of
annual gathering of writers?
I would have traveled to it fifteen or twenty years ago, if I had been invited
to it then. Back then I certainly wanted
to receive an invitation, but I just never got one. In hindsight I couldn’t care less.
QUESTION: So you
wouldn’t go to it now?
No, if there were a Gruppe 44 or 88 in existence now, I wouldn’t go, because I
have no desire to hang out with writers.
is it about other writers that bothers you?
Why don’t you want [to be around them]?
In the first place they bother me because they’re also writers.
QUESTION: [So it’s]
envy of [your] competitors?
Of course every human being is a competitor.
Among the other things they do writers are naturally even bigger
QUESTION: But is
there really not a single one of them who you think of almost as a brother, as
a twin or as a buddy?
I’ve got an actual brother.
[one who’s] a writer.
I’m absolutely sure I have no need of a [fellow-]writer[ly] brother, and
never had one either. I love Wittgenstein
and Thomas Wolfe; these are [figures] who have kept company with me like
brothers for decades, who I’ll love with all my heart until the day I
beyond the grave, to use that wonderful expression. But [as for] living
writers? Probably I don’t read enough either. I mean, I obviously
don’t read everything that
comes out of South America.
QUESTION: Do you
read everything that comes out of Austria?
No, that would of course drive a person mad; to do that you’d have to read all
day and all night, and you can only do that if you’re brain-dead.
people compare you from time to time to other Austrians, to, let’s say, Handke,
what’s your response to that? Can you
see any similarities, any points of contact, [between the two of you]?
[I see] no similarities whatsoever. Handke
is an intelligent lad, and there’s not a single one of his books that I’d be
proud to have written, whereas [I am proud] of all of mine.
about [Ernst] Jandl?
I’m completely against [people like him].
They’re schoolmasterly types who can never dissociate themselves from
their line of work. What’s more, they
can’t be bothered to make the slightest effort to immerse themselves in
[as for] other playwrights?
I personally am [quite] enthusiastic about Hochhuth. It’s ghastly, the stuff he writes.
Botho Strauss? You and Botho Strauss are
among the most often performed contemporary German[-language] dramatists.
Yeah, Botho Strauss. I lump him in with
Peter Stein and the Schaubühne [am Lehniner Platz company]:
in my view the stuff that Stein does isn’t theater. It’s like a church in which he builds an
altar and then installs his [idols,] his God-proxies. I don’t go to church. Strauss is like an altar boy in Stein’s [church],
and he’s still writing like one even now.
[It’s] very bracing and very charming; I enjoy it enormously, but ten
years from now I don’t think anyone will be interested in what he’s writing
this mean that you are convinced that ten years from now people will still be
conversant with your plays to some extent?
I don’t think they’ll have forgotten them.
It seems to me that in Strauss’s [work everything] depends on his
diction, his jargon, which is very, very, appealing in an evanescent sort of
way, like the smell of lilacs at my front doorstep.
other words, you’re saying your [own] diction is for the ages.
Absolutely nothing is for the ages.
you are for at least an age or two; Strauss is on the fast track to
I am for at least an age or two.
[everybody] else is on the fast track to obsolescence?
Well, you know, prospective obsolescence is also kind of nice. There’s nothing more horrible than sticking
around forever. I certainly don’t care
at all to have everything having to do with me survive; I find the prospect of
that completely uninteresting; it’s just that [I think] my stuff is more likely
to [last longer].
QUESTION: So Peter
Stein’s theater reminds you of a church?
In my view, it isn’t theater at all, the stuff that Stein does—velvet, silk,
purple [vestments]: it’s all so much churchy paraphernalia. It’s all so…what’s the word?
Sacramental. It really has absolutely
nothing to do with the theater.
about when your [play] The Ignoramus and the Madman was about to be
premiered in Salzburg and even the emergency lights were supposed to be turned off during the performance because they supposedly threatened to disrupt the [intended]
effect—was that also [a bit of] church[ery]?
I didn’t witness any part of that imbroglio because I wasn’t present at the
QUESTION: But wasn’t
it precipitated by things you had asked for?
No, it was something that somehow arose among the people who were putting on
[the play]. I had no say [in the
matter], but logically I was on the side of the people who in the final
analysis had been imposed upon there.
QUESTION: Do you
enjoy going to the theater? And what
theaters do you go to?
I go to the theater once a year, and that’s [to see one of] my own
play[s]. And naturally [the play in
question] no longer belongs to me, because the actors and the director have
made it their own, in the final analysis.
Of course it has the title I gave it; the characters have the names I
gave them, but all the same, for what it’s worth, whatever they say is
basically completely different from what I would have had them say, or thought
they were saying.
it’s [basically] been made worse…
wouldn’t say that; in certain circumstances it can [actually] be much better,
but it’s [still] different. It’s
different and it’s also always a huge disappointment and a huge falsification,
which is impossible in the case of my prose texts, because there’s nothing that
needs to be changed in them. Actually
even with them [everything] is falsified from beginning to end. [What] I mean [is that] the title alone [and]
by chance remains the same.
would you say to a theater that you wrote [all] the plays for, [a theater]
where you produced [and directed] them yourself, and where you were your own audience?
I’d find it infinitely tedious, and it would literally be enough to make me
yet it would be your ideal; you wouldn’t be disappointed.
From the very start I’d be disappointed in myself.
you ever [actually] be disappointed in yourself?
I’m immeasurably disappointed every [single] day. At [every] instant, at [every] moment[,]
does Thomas Bernhard think of his public, of his readers?
I don’t know them at all, and I don’t want to at all either.
there no exceptions?
If there are any they’re like what’s her name, Ria Endres, who’s written about
me; well OK, there was actually a point to that; she was working on her doctor[al
dissertation]; she could just as easily have written it about somebody else,
but I happened to be around.
Endres has portrayed you as a male chauvinist, as a misogynist. And as a matter of fact your women are
stupid, submissive victims of tyrannical men.
And in the real world there are also women who are happy with just being
allowed to mop up the vomit of social underdogs. I’m not responsible for Ria Endres’s
problems. Probably it would have done
her some good if on account of me she’d go[ne] to Mexico and sat naked on a mountain. But it’s nice that she managed to get a doctorate
out of me.
if you’re not improving the world you’re still helping [people]
out, [helping,] for example, Ms. Endres to get her PhD.
One helps a lot of people get their jobs done and, to use that wonderful
expression, earn their daily bread: stagehands, printers, workers at paper
factories. Not everything one does
disappears into thin air.
QUESTION: So [by]
now we’ve ascertained that you write because you have to write, but you don’t
really write for anybody [in particular].
Have to, ought to—one doesn’t have to do anything whatsoever; I have to eat, to
drink, and, sure, one simply has to keep polishing off all that food and drink;
one has to do that, but there’s nothing else one has to do; probably there’s
nothing at all one has to do, but it’s a predilection, a passion, I’d call it; it’s
[something] one simply can’t stop doing.
said you live under pressure as long as you’re writing, until you’re
finished. And when you’re finished you
live under pressure because you’re not living under pressure.
As a matter of course a writer lives under pressure [Druck], which is of
course naturally bound up with printing [Drucken] and printers [Druckern]—but
what I said just now was really just another bit of coquetry.
QUESTION: Do you
manage to live off of your writing, to live well [off of it]?
Oh, I live the way I like to live.
QUESTION: And were
you able to calculate how you’d manage that when you started writing?
No, I didn’t calculate anything. I was
very calculating, but I didn’t calculate anything.
success gratify your vanity or doesn’t it?
Is success an integral part of the life of a writer; is it something he
When a person is successful, you shouldn’t ask him what success is. And the same goes for someone who’s unsuccessful:
you shouldn’t ask him that question.
one [get away with] asking you if success is something you enjoy?
I enjoy it immensely. I’m horrified by
failure, even though failure is more useful than success.
QUESTION: So you
enjoy success, but you don’t want to receive any prizes. Is that logical?
In my view prizes have nothing to do with success; I don’t see any [evidence
of] success in the fact that some [group of] people somewhere [have] worked up
some rationale for getting up on a soapbox about something or other while handing
out a prize; where’s the success in that?
then do you measure success?
Success is when I send a publisher a manuscript and he doesn’t ask me a bunch
of questions about it; he typesets it; he prints it; for me that really is the
full measure of success.
just getting published is really enough for you; it makes no difference to you
whether 200 or 200,000 copies are issued?
It’s enough for me if the book is printed as accurately as possible and with
the fewest possible number of typographical errors, and without any silly graphical
decorations. And if I can continue
living. All the rest of it I can do
without. I always find what comes
afterwards more horrible [than pleasant].
--Mr. Bernhard, we
thank you for this conversation.