Radical Shadows Read online

and they made me Honorary President of the Vienna Horticulturist Association

  and there was nothing I could do about that

  and I went to the Opera ball

  and I went to the Heurigen with our National Socialist President

  I had performances for refugee children from the Philippines

  and for Catholic charities

  and I also did special performances

  for the Socialist Save The Children Organization

  and I bought a mansion in the most fashionable suburb of Vienna

  and there was nothing I could do about that either

  and finally I even let them make me an honorary member

  of the Vienna Burgtheater

  and there was nothing I could do about that

  and I hired the daughter of the president of the Association of Industrialists

  and there was nothing I could do about it

  and the Viennese critics had only raves for me

  and there was nothing I could do about that Beil

  and except for our President who came riding in on his horse in full Wehrmacht uniform

  no one came to my funeral

  only the critics in gravedigger costumes were there

  and our President astride his Macedonian horse in full Wehrmacht uniform

  but the papers reported

  all of Vienna was at my grave

  (suddenly with agitation in his voice, from a vehement urge for an espresso)

  Directing means losing one’s way

  A German directing in Austria

  means having completely lost one’s way

  (heads quickly down toward Grinzing valley leaving BEIL behind

  running he screams with even more agitation in his voice)

  I am telling you

  directing is losing one’s way

  and the theater is the height of insanity

  don’t you think so Beil

  (shouts down into the Grinzing valley)

  If I didn’t have you

  and The Tempest

  (after a pause, with a sigh)

  The Tempest alone isn’t enough

  Richard and The Tempest aren’t enough

  it’s all wrong all deadly

  Shakespeare forgery Shakespeare forgery

  it has to be all of Shakespeare Beil

  the complete works of Shakespeare in one evening

  the sonnets too Beil

  Sonnet dramaturgy Beil sonnet dramaturgy

  the sonnets as the center the core

  all of it all of it all of it

  Do you think I am capable of doing that Beil

  Beil Beil

  BEIL (after he has discovered a cafe where they can have their espresso)

  Naturally

  PEYMANN (exhausted, thoughtfully)

  Naturally

  (they enter the cafe and drink their espressos, then they go directly to the Burgtheater where Hamlet is playing the way it has been done for decades, by itself, rather than all of Shakespeare all at once)

  (Curtain.)

  ***

  AFTERWORD

  BIOGRAPHY AND “SELFBIOGRAPHY”

  Paul Van Ostaijen’s hometown of Antwerpen is the subject of Occupied City, the book of poems from which “Hollow Haven” is drawn. None of Occupied City has appeared in English before. Published in 1921 in an edition of 540 copies (with drawings and woodcuts by his friend Oscar Jespers), Occupied City shows Van Ostaijen exploiting techniques he learned from Mallarmé, Apollinaire and his Dadaist contemporaries in order to dissect the terrifying contest of commercial, national and military powers he witnessed while Antwerpen was occupied by the Germans during World War I. But Van Ostaijen was no mere mimic: his work traversed poetic styles with a speed and intensity available only to those whose relationship to language is both desperate and passionate. Over a period of twelve years he transformed from expressionist to nihilist to aestheticist—each alteration, not incidentally, marking an equally radical shift in politics. Van Ostaijen’s so-called nihilist stage began, predictably, after the war when he moved to a wracked Berlin to avoid jail time for audaciously supporting the Flemings (Dutch-speaking Belgians) at a time when the Walloons (French-speaking Belgians) were ascendant. Ironically, it was in Berlin that he first used his “rhythmic-typographic” technique in writing Occupied City, a book which should certainly be considered one of the most stunning and comprehensive critiques of modern “progress”—in all of its guises—among the work of the avant-garde at the time.

  What follows is Van Ostaijen’s caricature of literary autobiography; it is much more revealing of his personality than it is of his actual biography. What his “Selfbiography” does not reveal, for instance, is that Van Ostaijen was, at various times, a dropout, an art critic, a dandy, an exile, a writer of grotesques, a clerk, a cocaine user, an activist, a sportswriter, a draftee and a bookseller—among other things. As “Hollow Haven” amply demonstrates, Van Ostaijen’s cosmopolitan experiences also make themselves known through an array of linguistic appropriations, “Selfbiography” follows suit: the phrase “struggle for life,” which is repeated twice, for example, did not need to be translated—it was taken straight from English. Several German words are also consciously used to further help set the reader adrift in Van Ostaijen’s imagination: Alpdruck= nightmare; Unfähigkeit=incompetence; Wonne=Bliss. In 1928, Van Ostaijen died from tuberculosis at the age of thirty-two.

  SELFBIOGRAPHY

  I was born. This needs to be accepted, though absolute-objective proof is unavailable. Axiom in the domain of subjective experience. Objectively it’s only conjecture. Therefore: are we born? To see. To touch. Just laugh at this hardly convincing evidence. I ask: who is actually born?

  Nevertheless: I have been born. Despite well-founded doubt, I must also doubt this doubt. The human function appears to have been determined by the doubting of doubt from the beginning.

  At two years of age: train wreck. Terror without knowledge left behind, no bad consequences. In the serious struggle for life, meditated on this with bitterness. My life began with derailment. So understandable that I always view life from this angle: how do I derail in the most advantageous manner. For that a person exists in order to derail, I, derailed early, cannot doubt. Did this train wreck actually happen? Is it possibly only a localization of a prematurely ripened desire for derailment? Or else: unclear memory of a very early “Alpdruck”?

  My family dreamt: musical prodigy. No talent, however.—But circumstances most favorable. Only played soccer once. Enough to retain a 10x2 centimeter scar. I don’t play soccer anymore. Gentlemen, I am a victim of the sport.

  After carefree living, struggled to survive in Berlin, Potsdam and Spandau. Not romantic. Fantasy has it that I made it from lift boy to owner of a night-club. Am much too primitive to occupy a prominent position in society. Despite longing very much to reach the level of the Flemish decadents, I realize my “Unfähigkeit.” At the point of being named teacher of rhythmic-typographic poetry, I had to decline because not in possession of a frock-coat. If only I had a frock-coat. In the crux of the struggle f.l. cigarette peddler, errand boy (Schlepper) in the service of a night-club with nude dancing. Finally a decent position by recommendation of a prominent art critic: salesman in a shoe store, women’s department. By which heavily influenced. See: “Bowlegs,” “Sidereal Swagger” = influence shoe store department W.

  Very happy with this good situation, although gazing Westward with melancholy. Le bonheur est fait d’un je-ne-sais-quoi mélancolique. Brussels. O to see this luxurious city once more. What wealth to die with a Brussels’ bar in view. O Wonne.

  Published three books: Music-Hall, The Signal, Occupied City. Maybe this too is only mass-hypnosis. Who can prove that he has read these books? Let alone: understood. God beware: understood. I haven’t understood them myself.

  Anna Akhmatova, 1910s

  Poems and Fragments 1909-1964

  Anna Akhmatova

 
—Translated from Russian by

  Roberta Reeder with Volodymyr Dibiova,

  with an afterword by Roberta Reeder

  UNTITLED POEM

  I.

  Heaven’s coat of arms is curved and ancient.

  You barely can make out what’s on it.

  I told the little girl sitting by the inn

  To please wait for me today.

  And she gazed at the vernal meadow,

  Peeling an orange with her fingers.

  She smiled: “Is it true you’re not from here?!”

  And left, after granting me a single glance.

  Neither roads are visible, nor lanes.

  I will stop the carriage here.

  Never in my life have I loved blondes,

  And now I will never love them.

  Past midnight we played a game of dice.

  I was devilishly lucky that day …

  And while the guests were still saying goodbye

  Outside the window a shadow grew thin.

  Humming “Rendezvous in May,” I walked

  Down an uneven, rickety staircase.

  The innkeeper lit my way, repeating:

  “Not a sound! In the house are many fine ladies!”

  II.

  On the floor moon rays splashed.

  My heart at once began to sink, to catch fire,

  And blissfully my fingers sank

  Into waves of hair fair as flaxen.

  Lightning flashed, like a match,

  And in the dim sky it died.

  In a white dress a sweet little bird

  Was sleeping on my very own bed.

  She shuddered and folded her arms,

  After whispering: “O God, where are You?”

  The captivating sounds of her voice

  I remember, remember, how pure they were.

  —Before 1909

  FROM THE UNFINISHED AND “FORGOTTEN”

  FROM THE WILL AND TESTAMENT OF A CORNFLOWER

  And my princess, wherever she wants to live

  Let her have her wish.

  And I’m not going to follow this from the grave.

  From the grave in the middle of the bare field.

  I bequeath her all my silver.

  ……………………………………………………

  —1909(?)

  _____

  A shadow lay on the two-horned moon …

  ……………………………………….fear.

  And there down the curved roads they trotted

  Big old men on small donkeys.

  —1942

  _____

  FROM A POEMA THAT PERISHED

  1.

  The Hague dove hovered over the universe

  And in its beak carried an olive branch.

  And grandpas then with peace did play

  Like grandsons now—not with peace …

  2.

  The beauties of that time to me seem

  Monstrous …

  ………………………………………

  O, this sea of cut-off flounces

  And hats, like ducks … or roosters.

  It seemed like the lady was about to quack or crow

  Cock-a-doodle-doo …

  3.

  … Excerpts of dusty operas

  And angelic voices from death:

  Caruso, Tito Ruffo and Chaliapin.

  4.

  And the woman with the mirror eyes

  Of an adolescent beggar-girl—sovereign of the stage

  And the queen of the Russian Moderne.

  ………………………………………

  5.

  That century which no longer believes in itself …

  And in horror snatches at a third,

  Where everything is so clear, simple and dignified:

  War, divorces, long novels—

  Virgin Soil, Resurrection, Rudin, and Nana.

  6.

  At that time we cherished such emotions.

  But the future in the next room

  Still hung around like a crowd of extras,

  Whispering among themselves and yawning

  And knowing everything … ahead of time.

  —1940s, Tashkent-Leningrad

  FROM GLORY TO PEACE!

  I. THE GREAT PATRIOTIC WAR

  We have truly something to be proud of and to cherish—

  A charter of rights, and the speech of our motherland,

  And the peace which we guard with great care.

  And the valor of the people, and the valor of the one

  Who is also closer and dearer to us than anyone,

  Who—is our triumphant banner!

  _____

  To greet the banners, to greet the troops

  Of our returning army

  Let a song of victory fly toward the skies,

  Let glasses clink with joy.

  And an awesome pledge we now give

  And to the children we bequeath it,

  That heavenly peace obtained by fire

  Become our only paradise.

  —1944-1945

  THE FALL OF BERLIN

  For two hours I lived through

  The four long years again. Holding my breath,

  I saw,

  O my Native Land,

  How your freedom was saved

  By the hand of your most courageous sons

  And by the invincible wisdom of the leader …

  How the best of cherished dreams came true.

  … And our tanks sped along, like fate,

  Crossing alien plains,

  And like a Russian song the swanlike voice

  Floated in music.

  Everything, everything that appeared like a mirage in the fog

  That we heard on the loudspeaker in the night

  Everything was illuminated by new rays—

  Everything came alive before us on the screen:

  The days saturated with history

  Are stifling,

  no longer days, but dates—

  In the smoke of Berlin—soldiers on their way to the assault.

  The last assault—

  and fires broke out.

  And with the echo of the last explosions

  Blissful silence has finally come.

  Peace—to the world …

  —Excerpt, October 1949, Moscow

  II. GLORY TO PEACE

  21 DECEMBER 1949

  Let the world be reminded of this day forever,

  Let this hour be cherished for eternity.

  Legend speaks about the wise man,

  Who saved each of us from a terrible death.

  All the land rejoices in the rays of amber dawn,

  And there are no limits to pure joy—

  Ancient Samarkand, and polar Murmansk,

  And Leningrad twice saved by Stalin.

  On the day of the birthday of our teacher and friend

  A song of shining gratitude is sung—

  Let the blizzard rage

  Or the mountain violets blossom.

  And a refrain is sung to the cities of the Soviet Union

  By the cities of all friendly republics

  And by those toilers choked by bonds,

  But whose speech is free and whose soul is proud.

  And their thoughts fly freely to the capital of glory,

  To the Kremlin on high—to the champion of eternal light,

  From where a magnificent hymn is carried at midnight

  And rings out to the whole world like welcome and support.

  _____

  Where the desert slumbers, now there are gardens,

  Fields and a lake’s smooth surface.

  Once and for all we will erase the traces

  Of war in order to create life.

  If we wish, the Pamirs will be moved

  Every river will change its course,

  But for happiness and prosperity we need peace,

  And the ages will be pro
ud of us.

  And we will not fear the foreign lie—

  We are strong in our truth.

  It has already been created—the great plan

  Of the future of our land.

  _____

  And in our great fatherland

  Before our very eyes a man became

  A true sovereign of life,

  Lord of mountains and rivers.

  And on his lips a wise word,

  A radiant word—peace,

  Which rings out like the ringing of new bells

  Flying over simple people,

  Which shines like a guiding star

  Amidst the darkness of foreign lands

  And encounters the response of all nations:

  “Peace is what we seek and thirst for!”

  —1950

  MOSCOW

  How you get better and better day by day

  But remain always unchanged.

  Preserving your inviolable virtue,

  Ardent heart of the universe!

  Smooth is your speech, pale blue your dawn,

  The arrival of your spring seasons!

  A sunny holiday for us—is our meeting with you,

  A rejuvenation of our thoughts and feelings.

  In the factories the whistle of factory sirens is heard

  Echoes of Muscovite glory …

  Gorky taught young people the truth here,

  Mayakovsky glorified life.

  Everywhere, where still on the planet Earth

  Nations suffer in shackles and chains,

  The crimson stars on the Kremlin towers

  Appear in dreams to all thirsting for peace.

  —1950

  POEMS FROM HER LATER YEARS

  Glass air above the bonfire

  Flows and trembles.

  And through it I see a house