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“She had been unable to stand the people at the inn. The company had disgusted her. For an instant, but that instant was now long gone, she had thought of returning to her home, to Persia. Or to Greece, where she had friends, but she had dropped the idea again. From me she had expected salvation, but I too had disappointed her. I was, much as she was, a lost and ultimately ruinous person, even though I did not admit that to her, she could feel it, she knew it. No salvation could come from such a person. On the contrary, such a person only pushed one even deeper into despair and hopelessness. Schumann, Schopenhauer, these were the two words she said after a prolonged silence and I had the impression that she was smiling as she said them, and then nothing again for a long time. She had had everything, heard and seen everything, that was enough. She did not wish to hear from anyone any more. People were utterly distasteful to her, the whole of human society had profoundly disappointed her and abandoned her in her disappointment. There would have been no point in saying anything, and so I just listened and said nothing. I had, she said, on our second walk in the larch-wood, been the first person to explain to her the concept of anarchy in such a clear and decisive manner. Anarchy she said and no more, after that she was again silent. An anarchist, I had said to her in the larch-wood, was only a person who practised anarchy, she now reminded me. Everything in an intellectual mind is anarchy, she said, repeating another of my quotations. Society, no matter what society, must always be turned upside down and abolished, she said, and what she said were again my words. Everything that is is a lot more terrible and horrible than described by you, she said. You were right, she said, these people here are malicious and violent and this country is a dangerous and an inhuman country. You are lost, she said, just as I am lost. You may escape to wherever you choose. Your science is an absurd science, as is every science. Can you hear yourself? she asked. All these things you yourself said. Schumann and Schopenhauer, they no longer give you anything, you have got to admit it. Whatever you have done in your life, which you are always so fond of describing as existence, you have, naturally enough, failed. You are an absurd person. I listened to her for a while, then I could bear it no longer and took my leave.”

ScienceFailureDespairAbsurd
Author:Thomas Bernhard
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“People are always talking about it being their duty to find their way to their fellow men — to their neighbour, as they are forever saying with all the baseness of false sentiment — when in fact it is purely and simply a question of finding their way to themselves. Let each first find his way to himself! And since hardly anyone has yet found his way to himself, it is inconceivable that any of these unfortunate millions has ever found his way to another human being — or to his neighbour, as they say, dripping with self-deception.”

HumanityUnfortunateFellow ManSelf DeceptionFalse
Book:Concrete
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“The art historians are the real wreckers of art, Reger said. The art historians twaddle so long about art until they have killed it with their twaddle. Art is killed by the twaddle of the art historians. My God, I often think, sitting here on the settee while the art historians are driving their helpless flocks past me, what a pity about all these people who have all art driven out of them, driven out of them for good, by these very art historians. The art historians’ trade is the vilest trade there is, and a twaddling art historian, but then there are only twaddling art historians, deserves to be chased out with a whip, chased out of the world of art, Reger said, all art historians deserve to be chased out of the world of art, because art historians are the real wreckers of art and we should not allow art to be wrecked by the art historians who are really art wreckers. Listening to an art historian we feel sick, he said, by listening to an art historian we see the art he is twaddling about being ruined, with the twaddle of the art historian art shrivels and is ruined. Thousands, indeed tens of thousands of art historians wreck art by their twaddle and ruin it, he said. The art historians are the real killers of art, if we listen to an art historian we participate in the wrecking of art, wherever an art historian appears art is wrecked, that is the truth.”

ArtArt History
Book:Old Masters: A Comedy
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“I am an observer of myself, which is stupid, since I am my own observer anyway: I've actually been observing myself for years, if not for decades; my life now consists only of self-observation and self-contemplation, which naturally leads to self-condemnation, self-rejection and self-mockery. For years I have lived in this state of self-condemnation, self-abnegation and self-mockery, in which ultimately I always have to take refuge in order to save myself. But all the time I ask myself what I have to save myself from. Is what I constantly wish to save myself from really as bad as all that? No, it isn't, I told myself, and immediately resumed my self-observation, self-calumniation and self-mockery.”

Self
Book:Concrete
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“After my parents were dead, I found in a box and in two chests of drawers nothing but hundreds of bright red Alpine caps, I said, nothing but bright red Alpine stockings. Every one of them knitted by my mother. My parents could have gone into the High Alps with these bright red caps and bright red stockings for thousands of years. I burnt every one of those bright red caps and bright red stockings, I said. I put on one of my mother's hundreds of bright red Alpine caps and in this costume burnt all the others, laughing, laughing, continuously laughing, I said. (Goethe Dies, p.65)”

HumourParentsDysfunctional FamiliesAlpsTrips
Book:Goethe schtirbt: Erzählungen
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“We have relinquished and abandoned and left behind and forgotten what we believed we had to relinquish, abandon and leave behind and ultimately forget; we have let ourselves go and we have gone away and we have gone under, but we have relinquished nothing and abandoned nothing and left behind nothing and forgotten nothing; we have in reality extinguished nothing whatsoever, because our parents did not inform us of or enlighten us about the fact that our life-process is in reality nothing but a process of illness. We were up above, in the company of our parents, locked up in our walls and in our rooms and in our books and papers and everything around us and in us was nothing but lethal and we are down below, without our parents, again locked up in these walls and in our rooms and in our books and papers and everything around us and in us is nothing but lethal.”

IllnessParentsLethal
Author:Thomas Bernhard
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“Everything about Wertheimer didn't come from Wertheimer himself, I said to myself now, everything about Wertheimer was always taken from somebody else, copied, he took everything from me, he copied me in everything, and so he even took my failure from me and copied it, I thought. Only his suicide was his own decision and came completely from him, I thought, and so he may have experienced, as they say, a sense of triumph in the end. And perhaps thus, by committing suicide on his own so to speak, he had outstripped me in everything, I thought.”

FailureSuicide
Book:The Loser
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“Unlike my brother, I had no respect for authority. Very early on, Uncle Georg had told me the truth about teachers: that they were moral cowards who took out on their pupils all the frustrations they could not take out on their wives. When I was very young Uncle Georg impressed upon me that among the educated classes teachers were the basest and most dangerous people, on a par with judges, who were the lowest form of human life. Teachers and judges, he said, are the meanest slaves of the state--remember that. He was right, as I have discovered not just hundreds but thousands of times. No teacher and no judge can be trusted as far as you can throw him. Without scruple or compunction they daily destroy many of the existences that are thrown upon their mercy, being motivated by base caprice and a desire to avenge themselves for their miserable, twisted lives--and they are actually paid for doing so. The supposed objectivity of teachers and judges is a piece of shabby mendacity, Uncle Georg said--and he was right. Talking to a teacher we soon discover that he is a destructive individual with whom no one and nothing is safe, and the same is true when we talk to a judge.”

ExtinctionTeachersJudgesThomas Bernhard
Book:Extinction
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“One might go to the bakery, perhaps," he said. "But did you know the baker has tuberculosis? All the people here run around in a highly infectious state. The baker's daughter has tuberculosis too, it seems to have something to do with the runoff from the cellulose factory, with the steam that the locomotives have spewed out for decades, with the bad diet that people eat. Almost all of them have cankered lung lobes, pneumothorax and pneumoperitoneum are endemic. They have tuberculosis of the lungs, the head, the arms and legs. All of them have tubercular abscesses somewhere on their bodies. The valley is notorious for tuberculosis. You will find every form of it here: skin tuberculosis, brain tuberculosis, intestinal tuberculosis. Many cases of meningitis, which is deadly within hours. The workmen have tuberculosis from the dirt they dig around in, the farmers have it from their dogs and the infected milk. The majority of the people have galloping consumption. Moreover," he said, "the effect of the new drugs, of streptomycin for example, is nil. Did you know the knacker has tuberculosis? That the landlady has tuberculosis? That the landlady has tuberculosis? That her daughters have been to sanatoria on three occasions? Tuberculosis is by no means on the way out. People claim it is curable. but that's what the pharmaceutical industry says. In fact, tuberculosis is as incurable as it always was. Even people who have been inoculated against it come down with it. Often those who have it the worst are the ones who look so healthy that you wouldn't suspect they were ill at all. Their rosy faces are utterly at variance with their ravaged lungs. You keep running into people who've had to endure a cautery or, at the very least, a transverse lesion. Most of them have had their lives ruined by failed reconstructive surgery." We didn't go to the bakery. Straight home instead.”

Tuberculosis
Book:Frost
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“Her mother, an unshapely, chubby-cheeked creature from the rural gentry of Styria, permanently lost her hair at the age of forty after being treated for influenza by her husband, and prematurely withdrew from society. She and her husband were able to live in the Gentzgasse thanks to her mother's fortune, which derived from the family estates in Styria and then devolved upon her. She provided for everything, since her husband earned nothing as a doctor. He was a socialite, what is known as a beau, who went to all the big Viennese balls during the carnival season and throughout his life was able to conceal his stupidity behind a pleasingly slim exterior. Throughout her life Auersberger's mother-in-law had a raw deal from her husband, but was content to accept her modest social station, not that of a member of the nobility, but one that was thoroughly petit bourgeois. Her son-in-law, as I suddenly recalled, sitting in the wing chair, made a point of hiding her wig from time to time--whenever the mood took him--both in the Gentzgasse and at the Maria Zaal in Styria, so that the poor woman was unable to leave the house. It used to amuse him, after he had hidden her wig, to drive his mother-in-law up the wall, as they say. Even when he was going on forty he used to hide her wigs--by that time she has provided herself with several--which was a symptom of his sickness and infantility. I often witnessed this game of hide-and-seek at Maria Zaal and in the Gentzgasse, and I honestly have to say that I was amused by it and did not feel in the least bit ashamed of myself. His mother-in-law would be forced to stay at home because her son-in-law had hidden her wigs, and this was especially likely to happen on public holidays. In the end he would throw the wig in her face. He needed his mother-in-law's humiliation, I reflected, sitting in the wing chair and observing him in the background of the music room, just as he needed the triumph that this diabolical behavior brought him.”

WigsInfluenzaBaldnessMother In LawsSon In Laws
Book:Woodcutters
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“me habia quedado tambien casi por completo sin contactos con quienes anteriormente mehabia permitido confrontaciones, es decir, confrontaciones intelectuales en diálogos y discusiones, de todas esas personas, con mi inmersión cada vez más rigurosa en mi trabajo científico, em había apartado y mantenido alejado cada vez más y, como tuve que comprender de pronto, de la forma más peligrosa y, a partir de un momento determinado, no había tenido ya fuerzas para reanudar todos esos lazos intelectuales necesarios, ciertamente había comprendido de pronto que, sin esos contactos, difícilmente podría avanzar, que sin esos contactosm probablemente, en un plazo previsible, no podría ya pensar, que pronto tampoco podría ya existir, pero me faltaban fuerzas para detener, mediante mi propia inicativa, lo que veía ya que se me acercaba, la atrofia de mi pensamiento producida por el apartamiento voluntariamente provocado, de todas las personas suceptibles de un contacto que excediera del más imprescindible, del llamado vernáculo, simplemente del derivado de las necesidades más apremiantes de la existencia en mi casa y su entorno inmediato, y habían pasado años ya desde que había dejado de mantener correpondencia, totalmente absorbido en mis ciencias, había dejado pasar el momento en que todavía hubiera sido posible reanudar esos contactos y correspondencia abandonados, todos mis esfuerzos en ese sentido habían fracasado siempre, porque en el fondo me habían faltado ya por completo, si no las fuerzas para ello, sí, probablemente, la voluntad de hacerlo, y aunque en realidad había comprendido claramente que el camino que había tomado y había seguido ya durante años no era el verdadero camino, que sólo podía ser un camino hacia el aislamiento total, aislamiento no sólo de mi mente y de mi pensamiento, sino en realidad aislamiento de todo mi ser, de toda mi existencia, siempre espantada ya, de todos modos, por ese aislamiento, no había hecho ya nada para remediarlo, había seguido avanzando siempre por ese camino, aunque siempre horrorizado por su lógica, temiendo continuamente ese camino en el que, sin embargo, no hubiera podido ya dar la vuelta; había previsto ya muy pronto la catástrofe, pero no había podido evitarla y, en realidad, se había producido ya mucho antes de que yo la reconociera como tal. Por un lado, la necesidad de aislarse por amor al trabajo científico es la primera de las necesidades deun intelectual, por otro, sin embargo, el peligro de que ese aislamiento se produzca de una forma demasiado radical que, en fin de cuentas, no tenga ya consecuencias estimulantes como se pretendía, sino inhibidoras e incluso aniquiladoras, en el trabajo intelectual es el mayor de los peligros y, a partir de cierto momento, mi aislamiento del entorno por amor a mi trabajo científico (sobre los anticuerpos) había tenido precisamente esas consecuencias aniquiladoras en mi trabajo científico. La comprensión llega siempre, como había tenido que reconocer en mi mente de la forma más dolorosa, demasiado tarde y sólo queda, si es que queda algo, la desesperación, o sea, la comprensión directa del hecho de que ese estado devastador y, por tanto, intelectual, sentimental y, en fin de cuentas corporalmente devastador, surgido de pronto, no puede cambiarse ya, ni por ningún medio.”

IntellectualSoledadPensamiento
Book:Yes
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“The street that ran down from the poorhouse into the metropolis was chock-full of destinies. In that street there were many thousands of heads, which appeared in the window frames every morning, young heads and old ones, blond ones and brunette ones; and in each of these heads something was happening... and so nobody was very much surprised when every now and then one of these people went and emptied his bucket of water on to the head of one of the others, threw down his pickaxe, pocketed his pay packet and vanished; when one fine day he resurfaced with his body sun-brazened and battered beyond belief, with wildly unkempt hair and a mind sorely unhinged by the world, and with thousands and thousands of worthy thoughts that he could never give vent to, because he was despised—and he walked, onwards and onwards—and finally jumped into some sewer somewhere amid the gray rows of houses, so that nobody could ever discover a trace of him again, apart perhaps from a waterlogged shoe, a shirt, some paper on which he had written what he was called, what was depressing him, and what, in his heart of hearts, he actually was…”

TalesModernityProvincial
Author:Thomas Bernhard
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“Ciò che lo affascinava erano gli esseri umani nella loro infelicità, non lo attraevano le persone in sé, ma la loro infelicità, e l'infelicità la coglieva dovunque ci fossero delle persone, pensai, era avido di persone perché avido di infelicità. L'uomo è l'infelicità, diceva di continuo, pensai, solo gli imbecilli affermano il contrario. Essere partoriti è un'infelicità, diceva, e fintanto che viviamo ci portiamo appresso questa infelicità, che soltanto la morte può spezzare. Ma ciò non significa che noi siamo solo infelici, la nostra infelicità è la premessa per poter essere anche felici, solo passando attraverso l'infelicità possiamo essere felici, così diceva, pensai. I miei genitori non mi hanno mostrato nient'altro se non l'infelicità, diceva, la verità è questa, pensai, eppure molto spesso sono stati felici, e lui dunque non poteva dire che i suoi genitori erano stati esseri umani infelici, e neppure poteva dire che erano stati felici, come pure di se stesso non poteva dire né di essere felice né di essere infelice, perché tutti gli esseri umani sono infelici e felici nello stesso tempo, diceva, e volta a volta è più grande in essi l'infelicità della felicità o viceversa. Ma una cosa è sicura, così diceva, pensai, che negli esseri umani c'è più infelicità che felicità.”

MorteFelicitàInfelicitàAntinatalismo
Book:The Loser
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“... y con ningua otra he hablado nunca sobre todo lo imaginable con mayor intensidad y, por tanto, disposición para comprender y, por tanto, he podido pensar con mayor intensidad y disposición para comprender sobre todo lo imaginable, y nadie me ha dejado nunca mirar nunca dentro de sí más profundamente y a nadie he dejado mirar nunca dentro de mí más profunda y desconsideradamente y cada vez más desconsiderada y profundamente.”

EncuentroMirar
Book:Yes
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“O sıralar herkes tarafından da terk edilmiştim, ben onların hepsini terk etmiştim çünkü, işin aslı bu, hiç kimseyi istemiyordum, tıpkı artık hiçbir şeyi istemeyişim ama her şeye de kendi elimle son veremeyecek kadar korkak oluşum gibi. Ve belki de kapkara yılgınlığımın zirvesinde, artık bu sözcüğü ağzıma almaktan da utanmıyorum, çünkü çoktandır, içinde süslenecek tek bir şey kalmayan ama her şeyin sürekli olarak üstelik de en iğrendirici biçimde süslendiği bir dünyada kendi kendime yalan söylemek ve bir şeyleri süslemek niyetinde değilim, Paul çıktı karşıma. O sırada benim için öylesine bambaşka, yeni bir insandı ki, üstelik de yıllar yılı hiçbirine duymadığım kadar hayranlık duyuyordum, o an işte benim kurtarıcım, dedim içimden. Şehir parkının sırası üzerinde otururken birden tekrar bütün bunların apaçık bilincine vardım ve şu dokunaklı halimden, eskiden hiçbir zaman ruhuma girmelerine izin vermediğim ama şimdi zorla, sıkış tıkış ruhuma dahil ettiğim büyük laflardan da utanmadım, şu anda bana müthiş iyi geliyorlardı, onların üzerimdeki etkisini kesinlikle hafifletmeye kalkışmadım. Serinleten bir yağmur gibi bütün bu sözcüklerin üzerimden kayıp gitmelerine izin verdim.”

RuveydaThomas BernhardWittgenstein In Yeğeni
Book:Wittgenstein’s Nephew
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“Bu zaman zarfında Paul'un düşüncelerinden yoksun kalmıştım, başka başka yüzlerce, ortalaması son derece düşük çaplı kafa içinde boğulmama ramak kalmıştı, çünkü kendimizi aldatmayalım, çoğunlukla elimizin altında bulunan kafalar ilginç olmaktan uzaktır, zevksiz elbiselere sokulmuş bedenler üzerinde acınası ama ne yazık ki acımaya lâyık olmayan hayatlar sürdüren patates azmanlarından ne kadar hayır gelirse onlardan da o kadar gelir.”

RuveydaThomas BernhardBir Dostluk
Book:Wittgenstein’s Nephew
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“Haris yıkıcılar işbaşında, sorumsuz sömürücüler, üstlerine sosyalizm kılıfını geçirmişler. Yok ediciler iş başında, katiller. Karşımızda yok ediciler ve katiller var, her köşe bucakta öldürücü çalışmalarını sürdürüyorlar. Yok edici ve katiller kentleri öldürüyor ve onları yok ediyorlar. Kocaman kıçlarıyla devletin her bir köşesinde binlerce ve yüz binlerce makamda oturuyor ve kafalarında yok etme ve katletmekten başka bir düşünce taşımıyorlar.”

RuveydaThomas BernhardBir ParçalanmaYok Etme
Book:Extinction
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“Sadece bir saptama ya da bu sessizliğe uzun süre katlanamayacağımızın ve bu büyük sessizliğin kısa bir zaman içinde bizleri deliye çevireceğinin idrak edilmesi Uzun süren sessizlikler bizi delirtiyor İlkin sessizlik içinde deliriyor sonra çıldırıyoruz Duyuyor musun seni incitmek istemedim Insanların uzun süre sessiz kaldıklarında delirdikleri daha uzun bir süre kaldıklarında da çıldırdıkları bir gerçektir.”

RuveydaThomas BernhardDünya DüzelticisiThe World Fixer
Book:The World-Fixer
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“Dünyada inekler, hizmetkârlar ve kesinlikle kutlanması gereken bayram günleri dışında da bir şeyler olduğu bilgisini ona borçluyum. Yalnızca okumayı ve yazmayı değil, düşünmeyi ve düş kurmayı da öğrenmiş olmamı yine ona borçluyum. Paraya önem verişim ama onu her şeyin üzerinde görmeyişim, onun kazandırdığı bir şey. Ölü kentleri değil çok canlı olanlarını tanıdım, ölü halkları ziyaret etmeyip canlıları ziyaret ettim, ölü müzik dinlemeyip canlısını dinledim, ölü resimler görmeyip canlılarını gördüm. Bir başkası değil oydu beynimin iç duvarlarına tarihin büyük isimlerini can sıkıcı fotokopiler olarak değil de her zaman canlı bir sahnedeki canlı insanlar olarak yerleştiren.”

RuveydaThomas BernhardBir ParçalanmaYok Etme
Author:Thomas Bernhard
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“Benimle Nathal'de avlu duvarı dibinde oturmuş, batmakta olan güneşin altında, kaç kere Paris'e, kaç kere Londra'ya, kaç kere Roma'ya gittiğinin, kaç bin şişe şampanya ictiğinin ve acaba kaç kitap okuduğunun hesabını yapıyordu. Çünkü bu görüldüğü gibi yüzeysel varoluşu sürdüren kişi kesinlikle yüzeysel biri değildi. Üzerinde düşünmekte, düşünce üretmekte en ufak bir zorlukla karşılaştığı tek konu yoktu, tam tersine aslında bana ait olan, yetkinleştiğimi sandığım alanlarda beni utandıran çoğunlukla o olurdu; beni daima düzeltir, doğrusunu gösterirdi. Sık sık düşünmüşümdür, felsefeci olan o, matematikçi olan o, ben değilim, şu işin erbabı olan o, ben değilim diye. Müzik alanında bilmediği, onun için en azından ilginç bir müzik tartışması açma fırsatı oluşturmayacak tek konu bulunmadığını ise hatırlatmaya gerek yok. Üstüne üstlük, bütün bu zihinsel ve sanatsal etkinliklerde bulunurken olağanüstü bir koordinasyon yeteneğine de sahipti. Öte yandan, sadece çok konuşan insanlarla gevezelerden oluşan bir dünyada ona çok konuşan bir insan diyemezdiniz, hele hele geveze hiç.”

RuveydaThomas Bernhard
Book:Wittgenstein’s Nephew
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“İnsanın benim gibi biri olarak olduğu her şeyden vazgeçip kalabalığa karışabileceğine inanmak çok abes. Kalabalık çok geçmeden bu saçmalığı görüp kişiyi yok eder ya da her halükârda kişiyi yok etmeye çabalar. Kalabalık kendini ona yüzde yüz teslim etmiş bir insanı yabancı bir cisimmiş gibi acımadan dışarı atar. Kalabalığı işitince kalabalığa ait olmuyorum, kendimi işitince kendime ait oluyorum. Kalabalık beni dışarı attığından, benim için hâlâ cazipken kendi içimde bir ölüm aramaktan başka şansım yok. Çünkü bu caziplik de sınırlı. Ya sonra? Ölüm benim için sadece kalabalığın yerine geçiyor. Söylenen her şey yalan, hakikat bu, saygıdeğer beyefendi, bu lakırdı müebbet zindanımızdır. Zaman zaman kendime ciddiyetle diyorum ki, her şey yalnızlıkla, yalnızlaşmayla, kendimle bir aldatmaca sadece. Hakikatten yalana, yalandan da hakikate varıyorum, kendimden alçalmaya varmam gibi. Amacın, diyorum, ne olduğunu sormaktan çoktan vazgeçtim, çünkü baştan beridir biliyordum ki bu sorular ancak çaresizliğe, belli şartlarda da alçaltıcı bir daimi çılgınlığa çıkar.”

RuveydaThomas BernhardWatten
Book:Watten. Ein Nachlaß
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“Was die Schriftsteller schreiben ist ja nichts gegen die Wirklichkeit jaja sie schreiben ja daß alles fürchterlich ist daß alles verdorben und verkommen ist daß alles katastrophal ist und daß alles ausweglos ist aber alles das sie schreiben ist nichts gegen die Wirklichkeit die Wirklichkeit ist so schlimm, daß sie nicht beschrieben werden kann noch kein Schriftsteller hat die Wirklichkeit so beschrieben wie sie wirklich ist das ist das Fürchterliche”

Thomas BernhardWirklichkeitSchriftsteller
Book:Heldenplatz
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“Un chef d’État de cette Europe centrale où les chefs d’État peuvent, à bon droit, craindre à chaque instant pour leur vie, avait révélé à son confident un plan mis au point au cours de centaines de nuits d’insomnie, et qui devait permettre au chef de l’État de déserter l’État que, comme tous les autres chefs d’État d’Europe centrale font avec le leur, il avait bien entendu conduit systématiquement à la ruine la plus complète (L'imitateur)”

HumourSatireLittérature éTrangèreRépétition Subversive
Book:The Voice Imitator
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“Wir heben die Fragen auf, weil wir selbst sie nur fürchten, und aufeinmal ist es zu spät dafür. Wir wollen den Befragten in Ruhe lassen, ihn nicht zutiefst verletzen, also fragen wir nicht, weil wir uns selbst in Ruhe lassen wollen und nicht zutiefst verletzen. Wir schieben die entscheidenden Fragen hinaus, indem wir ununterbrochen nutzlose und gemeine, lächerliche Fragen stellen, und wenn wir die entscheidenden Fragen stellen, ist es zu spät. Lebenslänglich schieben wir die großen Fragen hinaus, bis sie zu einem Fragengebirge geworden sind und uns verdüstern. Aber dann ist es zu spät. Wir sollten den Mut haben (gegen die, die wir zu fragen haben, wie gegen uns selbst), sie mit Fragen zu quälen, rücksichtslos, unerbittlich, sie nicht schonen, sie nicht mit Schonung betrügen. Wir bereuen alles, das wir nicht gefragt haben, wenn der zu Fragende kein Ohr für diese Fragen mehr hat, schon tot ist. Aber selbst wenn wir alle Fragen gestellt hätten, hätten wir eine einzige Antwort? Wir akzeptieren die Antwort nicht, keine Antwort, das können wir nicht, das dürfen wir nicht, so ist unsere Gefühls- und Geistesverfassung, so ist unser lächerliches System, so ist unsere Existenz, unser Alptraum.”

Fragen
Author:Thomas Bernhard
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“We always wonder, when we see two people together, particularly when they're actually married, how these two people could have arrived at such a decision, such an act, so we tell ourselves that it's a matter of human nature, that it's very often a case of two people going together, getting together, only in order to kill themselves in time, sooner or later to kill themselves, after mutually tormenting each other for years for for decades, only to end up killing themselves anyway, people who get together even though they probably clearly perceive their future of shared torment, who join together, get married, in the teeth of all reason, who against all reason commit the natural crime of bringing children into the world who then proceed to be the unhappiest imaginable people, we have evidence of this situation wherever we look... People who get together and marry even though they can foresee their future together only as a lifelong shared martyrdom, suddenly all these people qua human beings, human beings qua ordinary people... enter into a union, into a marriage, into their annihilation, step by step down they go into the most horrible situation imaginable, annihilation by marriage, meaning annihilation mental, emotional, and physical, as we can see all around us, the whole world is full of instances confirming this... why, I may well ask myself, this senseless sealing of the bargain, we wonder about it because we have an instance of it before us, how did this instance come to be?”

Marriage
Book:Correction
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