Is writing the gift of curling up, of curling up with reality? One would solove to curl up, of course, but what happens to me then? What happens to those,who don’t really know reality at all?
It’s so very dishevelled. No comb,that could smooth it down. The writers run through it and despairingly gathertogether their hair into a style, which promptly haunts them at night.Something’s wrong with the way one looks. The beautifully piled up hair can bechased out of its home of dreams again, but can anyway no longer be tamed. Orhangs limp once more, a veil before a face, no sooner than it could finally besubdued. Or stands involuntarily on end in horror at what is constantlyhappening. It simply won’t be tidied up. It doesn’t want to. No matter howoften one runs the comb with the couple of broken off teeth through it - it justdoesn’t. Something is even less right than before.
The writing, that dealswith what happens, runs through one’s fingers like the time, and not only thetime, during which it was written, during which life stopped. No one has missedanything, if life stopped. Not the one living and not dead time, and the one whois dead not at all. When one was still writing, time found its way into the workof other writers. Since it is time, it can do everything at once: find its wayinto one’s own work and simultaneously into the work of others, blow into thetousled hairstyles of others like a fresh, even if malign wind, which has risensuddenly and unexpectedly from the direction of reality. Once something hasrisen, then perhaps it doesn’t lie down again so quickly. The angry wind blowsand sweeps everything with it. And it sweeps everything away, no matter where,but never back to this reality, which is supposed to be represented. Everywhere,except there. Reality is what gets under the hair, under the skirts and justthat: sweeps them away and into something else.
How can the writer know reality,if it is that which gets into him and sweeps him away, forever onto thesidelines. From there, on the one hand, he can see better, on the other hehimself cannot remain on the way of reality. There is no place for him there.His place is always outside. Only what he says from the outside can be taken upinside, and that because he speaks ambiguities. And then there are already twowho fit, two whose faces are right, who warn, that nothing is happening, two whoconstrue it in different directions, reach out to the inadequate grounds, whichhave long ago broken off like the fangs of the comb. Either or. True or false.It had to happen sooner or later, since the ground as building ground was quiteinadequate. And how could one build on a bottomless pit anyway?
But theinadequacy that enters the writers’ field of vision, is still adequate enoughfor something, that they could also take or leave. They could take or leave it,and they do leave it. They don’t kill it. They merely look at it with theirbleary eyes, but it does not become arbitrary because of this bleary gaze. Thegaze is well aimed. Whatever is struck by this gaze says, even as it sinks down,although it has hardly been looked at, although it has not even been exposed tothe sharp gaze of the public, whatever has been struck never says, that it couldalso have been something else, before it fell victim to this one description. Itsays exactly what had been better left unsaid (because it could have been bettersaid?), what always had to remain unclear and groundless. Too many have alreadysunk into it up to their stomachs. It’s quicksand, but it doesn’t quickenanything. It is groundless, but not without grounds. It is as you like, but itis not liked.
The sidelines are at the service of the life, that precisely does not takeplace there, otherwise we would not all be in the thick of it, in the fullness,the fullness of human life, and it is at the service of the observation of thelife, which is always taking place somewhere else. Where one is not. Why insultsomeone, because he cannot find his way back to the path of journeying, of life,of life’s journey, if he has borne it - and this bearing is no bearingsomeone, but nor is it any kind of bearing on - has simply fortuitously borneit, like the dust on a pair of shoes, which is pitilessly hunted down by thehousewife, if a little less pitilessly than the stranger is hunted down by thelocals. What kind of dust is it? Is it radioactive or active by itself, justlike that, I’m only asking, because it leaves this strange trail of light onthe way? Is what is running alongside and never meeting up with the writeragain, the way, or is the writer the one who is running alongside, onto thesidelines? He has not yet passed away, but he’s already passed the linenevertheless. From there he sees those who have parted from him, but from oneanother too, in all their variety, in order to represent them in all theircredulity, in order to get them on form, because form is the most importantthing, anyway he sees them better from there. But that, too, is chalked upagainst him, so are those chalk marks and not particles of luminous matter,which mark the way of writing? At any rate it’s a marking out, whichsimultaneously shows and obscures and afterwards carefully covers up again thetrail he himself laid. One was never there at all. But nevertheless one knowswhat’s up.
The words have come down from a screen, from blood-smeared facesdistorted with pain, from laughing, made-up faces, with lips pumped upbeforehand just for the make-up or from others, who gave the right answer to aquestion in a quiz, or born mouthers, women, who have nothing for and nothingagainst, who stood up and took off a jacket to point their freshly hardenedbreasts, which were once steeled and belonged to men, at the camera. In additionany amount of throats, out of which singing comes like bad breath, only louder.That is what could be seen on the way, if one were still on it. One goes out ofthe way of the way. Perhaps one sees it from a distance, where one remainsalone, and how gladly, because one wants to see the way, but not walk it. Didthis path make a noise just now? Does it want to draw attention to itself withnoises now and not just with lights, loud people, loud lights? Is the way, whichone cannot walk, afraid of not being walked at all, when so many sins are beingconstantly committed after all, torture, outrages, theft, threatening behaviour,necessary threat in the manufacture of significant world fates? It makes nodifference to the way. It bears everything, firmly, even if groundlessly.Without ground. On lost ground.
My hair, as already mentioned, is standing onend, and no setting lotion there, which could force it to firm up again. Nofirmness in myself either. Not on me, not in me. When one’s on the sidelines,one always has to be ready to jump a bit and then another bit to the side, intothe empty space, which is right next to the sidelines. And the sidelines havebrought their sideline pitfall along with them, it’s ready at any time, itgapes wide, to lure one even further out. Luring out is luring in. Please, Idon’t want to lose sight now of the way, which I’m not on. I would so liketo describe it honestly and above all truly and accurately. If I’m actuallylooking at it, it should also do something for me.
But this way spares menothing. It leaves me nothing. What else is there left for me? I am preventedfrom being on my way, I can hardly make my way at all. I am out, while not goingout. And there, too, I should certainly like to have protection against my ownuncertainty, but also against the uncertainty of the ground, on which I’mstanding. It runs to make certain, not only to protect me, my language rightbeside me, and checks, whether I am doing it properly, describing realityproperly wrongly, because it always has to be described wrongly, there’s noother way, but so wrongly, that anyone who reads or hears it, notices thefalseness immediately. Those are lies! And this dog, language, which is supposedto protect me, that’s why I have him, after all, is now snapping at my heels.My protector wants to bite me. My only protector against being described,language, which, conversely, exists to describe something else, that I am not -that is why I cover so much paper - my only protector is turning against me.Perhaps I only keep him at all, so that he, while pretending to protect me,pounces on me. Because I sought protection in writing, this being on my way,language, which in motion, in speaking, appeared to be a safe shelter, turnsagainst me. No wonder. I mistrusted it immediately, after all. What kind ofcamouflage is that, which exists, not to make one invisible, but ever moredistinct?
Sometimes language finds itself on the way by mistake, but it doesn’t goout of the way. It is no arbitrary process, speaking with language, it is onethat is involuntarily arbitrary, whether one likes it or not. Language knowswhat it wants. Good for it, because I don’t know, no not at all. Talk, talkingin general keeps on talking over there now, because there’s always talking,talking, without beginning or end, but there’s no speaking. So there’stalking over there, wherever the others are staying, because they don’t wantto linger, they’re very occupied. Only them over there. Not me. Only thelanguage, which sometimes moves away from me, to the people, not the otherpeople, but moves away over to the real, genuine, on the well-signposted way(who can go astray here?), following their every movement like a camera, so thatit at least, the language, finds out, how and what life is, because then it isprecisely not that, and afterwards all of it must be described, even in what itprecisely is not. Let’s talk about the fact, that we are supposed to go for amedical check-up once again. Yet all at once we suddenly speak, with due rigour,like someone who has a choice, whether or not to speak. Whatever happens, onlythe language goes away from me, I myself, I stay away. The language goes. Istay, but away. Not on the way. And I’m speechless.
No, it’s still there. Has it perhaps been there all the time, did it weighup, whom it could weigh down? It has noticed me now and immediately snaps at me,this language. It dares to adopt this tone of command to me, it raises its handagainst me, it doesn’t like me. It would gladly like the nice people on theway, alongside whom it runs, like the dog it is, feigning obedience. In realityit not only disobeys me, but everyone else, too. It is for no-one but itself. Itcries out through the night, because no-one has remembered to put up lightsbeside this way, which are supplied by nothing but the sun and no longer needany current at all from the socket, or to find the path a proper path name. Butit has so many names, that it would be impossible to keep up with all thenaming, if one tried. I shout across, in my loneliness, stamping across thesegraves of the departed, because since I am already running alongside, I cannotpay attention as well to what I’m treading on, whom I’m treading down, Iwould only somehow like to get to the place where my language already is, andwhere it smirks mockingly across at me. Because it knows, that, if I ever triedto live, it would soon trip me up, then rub salt in my wounds. Good. So I willscatter salt on the way of the others, I throw it down, so that their ice melts,coarse salt, so that their language loses its firm ground. And yet it has longbeen groundless. What bottomless cheek on its part! If I do not have solidground under my feet, then my language can’t either. Serve it right! Why didit not stay with me, on the sidelines, why did it part from me? It wanted to seemore than me? On the highway over there, where there are more people, above allmore likeable ones, chatting nicely to each other? It wanted to know more thanme?
It has always known more than me, it’s true, but it has to know even morethan that. It will end up killing itself by eating into itself, my language. Itwill overindulge on reality. Serve it right! I spat it out, but it spits nothingout, it’s good at keeping it down. My language calls over to me, over on thesidelines, it likes best of all to call over to the sidelines, it doesn’t haveto take such careful aim, but it doesn’t have to, because it always hits thetarget, not by saying something or other, but by speaking with the "austerityof letting be", as Heidegger says about Trakl. It calls me, language does,today anyone can do it, because everyone always carries their language aroundwith them in a small gadget, so that they can speak, why would they have learnedit?, so it calls me where I am caught in the trap and cry out and thrash about,but no, it’s not true, my language isn’t calling, it’s gone, too, mylanguage has gone from me, that’s why it has to call, it shouts in my ear, nomatter out of which gadget, a computer or a mobile phone, a phone booth, fromwhere it roars in my ear, that there’s no point in saying something out loud,it already does that anyway, I should simply say what it tells me; because therewould be even less point in for once speaking what was on one’s mind to a dearperson, who has fallen down on the case and whom one can trust, because he hasfallen and won’t get up again so quickly, in order to pursue one and, yes, tochat a little. There’s no point. The words of my language over there on thepleasant way (I know it’s more pleasant than mine, which is actually no way atall, but I can’t see it clearly, but I know, that I too would like to bethere), the words of my language have, therefore, in parting from me,immediately become a speaking out.
No, no talking it out with someone. Aspeaking out. It listens to itself speaking out, my language, it correctsitself, because speaking can still be improved at any time; yes, it can alwaysbe improved, it is even entirely there to be improved and then to make a newlinguistic ruling, but then only to be able immediately to overturn the rulesagain. That will then be the new way to salvation, of course I mean solution. Aquick fix. Please, dear language, don’t you for once want to listen first? Sothat you learn something, so that you at last learn the rules of speaking ...What are you shouting and grumbling about over there? Are you doing it,language, so that I graciously take you in you again? I thought, you didn’twant to come back to me at all! There was no sign, that you wanted to come backto me, it would have been pointless anyway, I wouldn’t have understood thesign. You only became language to get away from me and to ensure that I got on?But nothing is ensured. And by you not at all, as well as I know you. I don’teven recognise you again. You want to come back to me of your own accord? Iwon’t take you in any more, what do you say to that?
Away is away. Away is noway. So if my loneliness, if my constant absence, my uninterrupted existence onthe sidelines came in person to fetch back language, so that it,well-looked-after by me, at last came home, to a beautiful sound, which it couldutter, then it would only happen, so that with this sound, this penetrating,piercing howling of a siren, blown by the wind, it could drive me further, everfurther back from the sidelines. Because of the recoil of this language, which Imyself produced and which has run away from me (or did I produce it for thatpurpose? So that it immediately runs away from me, because I have not managed torun away from myself in time?), I am chased ever deeper into this space beyondthe sidelines. My language is already wallowing blissfully in its muddy pool,the little provisional grave on the way, and it looks up at the grave in theair, it wallows on its back, a friendly creature, which would like to pleasehuman beings like any respectable language, it wallows, opens its legs,presumably to let itself be stroked, why else. It’s greedy for caresses, afterall. That stops it from gazing after the dead, so that I must gaze after theminstead, and of course in the end it’s down to me. So I had no time to curb mylanguage, which now shamelessly rolls around under the hands of the caressers.There are simply too many dead, whom I have to see to, that’s an Austriantechnical term for: whom I have to look after, whom I have to treat well, butthen we’re famous for that, for always treating everyone well.
The world islooking to us, no need to worry. We don’t have to take care of that. Yet themore clearly this demand, to gaze at the dead, sounds in me, the less am I ableto pay attention to my words. I must gaze at the dead, while meanwhile thestrollers are stroking the good old language and chucking it under the chin,which doesn’t make the dead any more alive. No one is to blame. Even I,dishevelled as I and my hair are, am not to blame for the dead staying dead. Iwant the language over there to finally stop making itself the slave ofstrangers’ hands, no matter how good it feels, I want it to begin by stoppingmaking demands, but itself become a demand, to finally face up to, not thecaresses, but a demand to come back to me, because language always has to faceup, only doesn’t always know it and doesn’t listen to me. It has to face up,because the people who want to adopt it instead of a child, it’s so lovable,if one loves it, people therefore never face up, they decide, they don’tanswer calls, many of them even immediately destroyed, tore up, burnt theircall-up order to sociability, and the flag along with it.
So the more people whotake up the invitation of my language to scratch its stomach, to rufflesomething, to affectionately accept its friendliness, the further I stumbleaway, I have finally lost my language to those who treat it better, I’m almostflying, where on earth was this way, that I need in order to hurry down? How doI get where to do what? How do I get to the place, where I can unpack my tools,but in reality can right away pack them up again? Over there something bright isgleaming under the branches, is that the place, where my language first of allflatters the others, rocks them into a sense of security, only in order foritself to be lovingly rocked in the end for once? Or does it want to snap again?It always wants to do nothing but bite, only the others don’t know it yet, butI know it very well, it was with me for a long time. Beforehand there’s firstof all cuddles and whispering sweet nothings to this seemingly tame creature,which everyone has at home anyway, why should they bring a strange animal intothe house? So why should this language be any different from what they alreadyknow? And if it were different, then perhaps it might be dangerous to take itin.
