Frost

This is about infinity and the fatalistic thought that all the abilities of one's own appearance... until one day the first idea comes and then the second idea, the third, the fourth idea... idea after idea... finally hundreds, thousands, again thousands of ideas: there are painters, journalists, prison guards and prisoners, policemen, philosophers... Inheritance order, cow, himself, minister, chauffeur, do you understand... until finally nothing is certain anymore... that's what it's about... In the end, a person only has his own characteristic states, but not nature... how quickly everything flows into emptiness and then it becomes, for example, a passive state, an incompetent state, madness, an outcast, finally achieved harmony with one's own boredom... And everything is always just an opinion," he said, "no deeper, but also no less deep than the greatest error.

Frost, the first published novel by Bernhard, begins with the statement "Eine Famulatur besteht ja nicht nur aus..." And indeed, in the subsequent course, it mainly focuses on these other, "außerfleischlichen" things that also play a role in medicine at times. However, the whole book is also a special case in Bernhard's novel works. In his later books, Bernhard never wrote so structurally (on the macro level), so materially, so humanly, so banally, and yet so much storytelling. The fact that the book still fits perfectly into his work is partly due to the already overly mature language security here, but also because the book means a bridge between his earlier poems and the novels (which come from a completely different world).

The book is also full of contradictions and disharmonies that more or less unrestrainedly flow from the thought world of the sick painter Strauch (whose illness we "naturally" do not learn until the end) into the thought world of the intern who pursues his observational work with great meticulousness and equal failure. The idea that medicine is actually a philosophy that can/wants to deal so extravagantly with "außerfleischlichen" aspects already belongs to the fictional world of the novel. The thoughts and sometimes wonderfully senseless sayings of the painter are carefully noted down, reflected upon, and largely accepted without contradiction by the intern. At the beginning, he still tries to oppose his very different life to it, but soon gives that up too.

The intern is obviously also far too much of a literary person for this given task, but with the model of the "lyrical I," one quickly gets into a dead/empty end without an exit in Frost. The by far most believable aspect of the book is the anti-idyll of village life. Bernhard was never as close to banal descriptions as here: who goes to bed with whom, what does the engineer of a power plant say, etc. etc. Weng becomes the counter-village to all the sugary descriptions from folk literature. It was surely a great pleasure for Bernhard to describe all this "differently" than was usual. This "other truth" is also great in its shamelessness, although it is thus also banal and forms a strong contrast to the shining spiritual world of the painter, just a necessary "background," no more.

Despite all these contradictions and formal errors that almost tear the text apart, Bernhard's poetic power, which is still strongly palpable in this book, holds everything together. Individual words, aphoristic fragments, and descriptions (yes, there are still those in Frost!), which oppose each other; the unbelievable interest of the intern in the painter... Bernhard is here basically still a very sensitive "poet," far from being the hard-forged prose author he later became. Over long stretches, I had the feeling of reading a poem that knows or allows no boundaries.

Just because of all these gaps, errors, stiffnesses, stupidities, highly pathetic exaggeration of scientific nonsense... but all of which is held together by masterful language and remains "playfully" readable almost everywhere, it deserves a full rating of 5 stars. Frost must look exactly like this and cannot be written differently. The form is perfect, the story is coherent.

In any writing of Bernhard, no matter how slight, one finds Bernhard and all that his work represents. The ways in which he materializes himself are already the subject of punctuation and are determined, to a large extent, by the very chronology of the writer. But the fact is that even in "Helada", still deprived of that characteristic style by which the author is known and recognized, we find the Bernhardian motifs. And it is crude, it is brilliant, it is dense and dark... a darkness, however, crystalline. Some may denounce that apparent trait of comfort that at first sight implies always writing about the same theme, from the same perspective or about any other aspect that one wants to address. In my opinion, in this case, such criticism would be refuted, not by the writing itself, but by the art of writing that begins and ends with Bernhard, radically, as radical as the contemplation of the solid ground and the abyss that would await us if we were at the very edge of a cliff. In short, as radical as the author himself. It is like the musician who, after years of orthodox interpretation, is able to find his place and can somehow already express it in an art that, although not unique, is at least distinctive, and which reaches ever higher levels of refinement.

So the musician, so Bernhard. Since it is his first novel, it is more than evident that this is not where we will find such stylistic purification. This is not the Bernhard of the interminably subordinated sentences, nor the one of the hostility towards the dots and dashes, nor the one of the repetitive, obsessive musicality for which we remember his art today. Even so, despite (or precisely because of) being written, stylistically speaking, in a conventional key (taking into account the degree of convention that can reside in Bernhard), it makes for a heavier reading than any of his other works. Nevertheless, in the book there are abundant brilliant thoughts (those that can be deciphered, of course) and a somewhat more descriptive directionality than I had read in the Austrian author until then.

"The world is a gradual diminution of light." This profound statement seems to capture the essence of our existence in a rather melancholic way.

As we journey through life, we often witness the fading of hope, the dimming of dreams, and the loss of that initial sparkle that once illuminated our path.

The passage of time brings with it a series of challenges and setbacks that can slowly erode the bright light within us.

However, it is important to remember that even in the face of this gradual diminution of light, there are still pockets of brightness and moments of inspiration that can reignite our inner flame.

We must learn to cherish these fleeting moments and use them as a source of strength to keep moving forward.

Perhaps, by doing so, we can resist the encroaching darkness and find a way to keep the light burning within us, no matter how faint it may seem.

After all, it is this light that gives meaning and purpose to our lives and allows us to continue our journey with hope and determination.

[1963] Although I don't think it's the most polished of Bernhard's works due to a matter of rhythm or vocabulary, I don't know, perhaps because it's his first novel. And although at times I thought wearily something like "no, not this time, no! I who have only received the task of observing! How can he charm me again with a man who needed to write the same thing over and over again, now in the form of a painter who doesn't paint but only talks. What kind of curse is this and why, being apparently the most accessible one that even starts with chapters and has many and different paragraphs, it is probably the most desolate of a desolate work…

And then I imagine him impeccably dressed, polishing his shoes on the Prado promenade. And forgive me, but I think Bernhard's sense of humor was simply gigantic and there isn't a single paragraph in it that isn't a delight to try to think to the limits of one's own thoughts and leave you a multitude of clues in the process.

“The question is to know to what extent it is possible to penetrate into the disproportion of his brother,” as the first letter to the assistant Strauch well says.

Reading Frost gives the impression of being in a state of entrapment. It's as if one is pinned between walls or stuck in a mountain crevice. This is not only due to the imagery imposed on the reader by Bernhard but also because of the very nature of the text itself. The rhythm is unwavering, offering no stable ground to rest upon or an opportunity to catch one's breath. Wherever you look, you are confronted with these sentences, unyielding and methodical, as if chiseled from rock. Words pile up on top of each other, forming new ones that, when repeated, line up like thick walls. This is mirrored in the town of Weng, which is trapped in a hollow among the mountains, oppressive and confining.

Trapped there with us is the painter Strauch, along with our unnamed narrator, a medical intern working for the painter's estranged brother. The intern has been dispatched to Weng on a secret mission to assess and report back on Strauch's health to the worried yet emotionally distant brother. And Strauch proves to be quite a character. The world he inhabits is self-centered, with all roads leading back to himself. He is, without a doubt, completely insufferable. He yearns for the pure, the good, and the untouched, but instead, he consciously immerses himself in suffering, managing to be self-indulgent by denying himself any indulgences. If there's anything that gets Strauch excited, it's his perception of himself as a bitter, eccentric man, suffering his way through life. "I'm quite reconciled to the fact that everything about me is diseased. In the grip of illness," he says, and I'm fairly certain that he's not just reconciled but relishes the thought of it, wallowing in it. This idea of his own misery has taken such deep root in Strauch that it has pushed him far beyond the bounds of reality.

Bernhard's approach to shaping dialogues is novel to me. The only way for us to access Strauch is through the intern. When narrating, the intern sometimes presents the painter's words in quotes, while at other times, he retells them, making it difficult to distinguish the intern's thoughts from those that emerge from Strauch's mouth. The impressionable narrator increasingly becomes a mouthpiece for the painter's chaotic mind, and it seems that we primarily get to learn a great deal about Strauch. His ramblings are at times poetic and enjoyable to read, and on occasion, they are genuinely interesting, but mostly they are just that: ramblings, aimless and erratic. Strauch has only one thing in mind, and that is his own inevitable end. All this turmoil teaches us a lot about him, but it can be frustrating to read, feeling a bit like slogging through endless marshes. It占据了书中很大一部分篇幅, and I early on made the mistake of attempting to search for meaning in what he says. It's exhausting, but this search for something real and substantial in Strauch's great mire is so alluring, and that is the very real trap that threatens to engulf the intern. Because what does looking for substance in that which means nothing do to the observer?

And with that question, Strauch fades from his position as our main character. His thoughts and fears占据了 Frost的很大一部分, but it all ultimately has to be conveyed to us through, and colored by, the hands of the intern. He, who has scarcely mentioned his own life as an aside and was only meant to act as a messenger, suddenly turns inward at some point. He begins to take shape. Has he ever truly observed himself before? Unlike Strauch, the intern has a family, work, and even friends, yet he still seems alienated, completely disconnected from his own self. He is a man who has always simply let things happen to him while passively accepting it all, but since coming to Weng, he can't sleep at night.

In the presence of the painter, the intern's passiveness gives way to another, less subconscious form. Strauch thinks himself into passivity; he is stuck, frozen in place, "dominated by himself," as the intern puts it. He is disgusted by instincts and what he perceives as the feral, bestial aspects of life that he does not partake in. But while it's tempting to conclude that the painter is responsible for the intern's newly discovered self, we've seen these things before. It has been present in Frost from the very first page, the dislike of humanity and all that is alive and breathing. It has been present in the intern. Something has been lying dormant in his chest, and it has finally received enough nourishment to break free.

Bernhard intrigues me. There are several passages in Frost that become tiresome to read and don't seem to contribute much, but his writing style is remarkable, and he carves out a very claustrophobic form that, in my opinion, sustains the entire book. The fact that this is only the first one he wrote only makes me more curious to see how he would develop over time.

(I switched between two different translations while reading this one: the English one by Michael Hofmann and a Swedish one by Jan Erik Bornlid. They differed enough that I had a hard time settling on one of them, but I eventually ended up reading the Swedish edition. This translation is very intense, the words hit harder and come across as a lot more emotionally effective, but it's also somewhat more muddled than the one by Hofmann. It's difficult to determine how good a translation is without being able to read the original, but I definitely felt like reading Bornlid's version felt closer to being trapped in a frozen mountain crevice.)

How to write about a book that delves into the profound difficulties of writing itself, the ineffability of thinking and feeling, and the mystery of a life that seems impossible to explain through writing? How to pen down a book that is deliberately provocative, capable of making you feel as if someone is boring a hole in your head while you stand naked in the freezing snow, looking up at the black sky, and yet, making you like it? How to contain the uncontainable?

Can we ever truly know, understand, interpret, or observe an inner life? Can the story of an inner life be told in words in a meaningful way? Can I possibly convey the experience of reading this book? Can I put it into words? I can only attempt to piece together the notes I took while reading into some semblance of coherence.

It has been almost a year since I began this book, and I have read it twice (taking notes the second time around). During this time, I also read several other works simultaneously: Shakespeare's Hamlet and Macbeth; Kafka's Metamorphosis and The Trial; T S Eliot's The Waste Land and his introduction to Pascal's Pensées; Ionesco's Rhinocéros; DeFoe's "The Apparition of Mrs. Veal"; and Kermode's The Genesis of Secrecy. [0]

It was while reading that last book, during my second reading of this particular work, that something clicked. The mysterious nature of parables, the unknowability of stories. In a sense, this entire book is a series of parables, told, retold, and overheard within the typical Bernhardian web of direct and indirect discourse. We are not meant to grasp all of the meaning; we are outsiders, much like in Kafka's parable of the man who desires to enter the Law [1]. And note that no one has a name, not even the narrator, as is the case in a parable: the innkeeper's wife, the engineer, the skinner. Only the painter is given a name (G. Strauch), though he is usually referred to simply as "the painter". The Gospel according to G. Strauch?

All of this is laid out for us on the very first page of the book: "A medical traineeship isn't just about watching complicated intestinal operations, [etc...], it also has to come to terms with extracorporeal realities and possibilities. The task entrusted to me of observing the painter Strauch forces me to think about these types of realities and possibilities. To explore the inexplorable. To uncover it...Like a conspiracy is uncovered."[2] What exactly is this extracorporeal stuff? Not the soul, according to the narrator, who does not (yet?) believe in the soul. Might we catch a glimpse of it within this book? And perhaps, just perhaps, could it be that everything emerges from this non-corporal, "non-cellular" stuff (and not the other way around)?

So, right from the first page, on the "first day" of this diary of a medical student assigned to observe a "crazy" painter, we know that we are about to embark on an exploration of something that cannot be explored, we are going to plunge deep into the "non-cellular", and we will not come out unscathed. In fact, we might even become "infected".

We could say that this book is a diary of a medical student observing a slow suicide and attempting to understand it, but that would not do justice to this remarkable work. There is so much happening here, so many stories and ideas (I am tempted to say everything) that it would be impossible to write about them all. There are numerous doors that might lead to understanding, not all of which are openable, enterable, or even visible (yet), but for some doors, we might discover a key that allows us to open it and peek inside. There is the Pascal key (the painter carries around and reads Pensées) - thoughts, thoughts, thoughts, thoughts that illuminate, thoughts that drive you mad (the narrator describes the painter as both a Political man and a Dreamer, while Eliot speaks of Pascal as both a Mathematician and a Spiritualist). There is the Kafka key, which is perhaps more like a light (ironically) showing the way: the narrator "concludes" on page 347 that the painter was alone like a fly is alone, "a fly that in the winter finds itself inside the room of someone who lives in a big city, a fly followed and chased..., and finally crushed against a wall when those in the room think they're being persecuted by the fly, irritated..." [3]

Can we ever fully understand a work of literature? Probably not, and I will not attempt to do so here, that's for sure. But I will mention my favorite story in the book, my favorite parable. And that is the Story of the Vagabond, on page 262. In fact, I would recommend going to your favorite bookstore right now and opening up this book to that story. Especially if you think Literature isn't real, or that it must contain some "idea" of "authenticity". Therein you will find the perfect parable on the meaning of Art.

[0] You'll notice that all of these books (except the Ionesco and Kermode) are in the public domain and freely available on gutenberg.org. Unfortunately, the English translations of the Kafka books are rather poor. I look forward to rereading them in the Italian Adelphi editions.

[1] Interestingly, the narrator lies to the painter, telling him that he is studying Law so that he does not realize he is being observed. (This lying troubles the narrator.) Also, the painter mentions that a nephew of his was a judge and then went insane (page 17).

[2] My translation from the Italian translation. I omitted a lot, but this is a powerful opening. Also, I deliberately chose "traineeship" over "internship" for its EU-English feel :-)

And speaking of translation, the English title, while the same as the original German ("Frost"), seems rather unfortunate. I don't know the connotations of that word in German, but in the Italian translation "Gelo" implies a bitter cold that freezes everything over, something that stops you in your tracks, something that takes over everything and makes you numb. In English, "frost" is almost nice; it's that coating of ice you might see on vegetation after a freezing cold night, it's Frosty the Snowman, it's what you put on cakes, it's definitely not what Bernhard had in mind.

[3] My translation from the Italian translation. Another key might be Henry James, as the narrator is reading one of his books. But we never find out which one (there are a few clues, but I haven't read Henry James, so I can't even hazard a guess). Yet another key might be Robert Walser, whose Life of a Poet I have just started reading in a French translation. But it would perhaps be a key in the negative: where Robert Walser sees beauty and beauty in ugliness on his daily walks, the Painter just sees ugliness. Oh, and did I mention that Walser died while walking in the snow?

This book is indeed a difficult one to get through.

Even as an enthusiastic admirer of Bernhard's style, I was unable to finish it with the same speed and vigor as his other works like Der Untergeher or the 300+ page novel Holzfällen. It's his first novel.

I believe he refined his style considerably in his later works. They are more filled with humor, offer more variety, and at the same time, are more concise and impactful.

Of course, the themes largely remain the same: Pessimism, black humor, a dislike of Austria and all things Austrian, anti-Catholicism, anti-naziism, etc.

This book doesn't yet have the same intense anti-catholic and anti-nazi (for Bernhard, they are strongly connected, and for good reason) sentiments, but they are already emerging at certain points.

I don't think I'll read this in its entirety again, but I might pick out some remarkable passages as there are surely many.

I must admit that there were numerous occasions when I had to force myself to continue, especially towards the end. This made me deduct another point, bringing it down to 3 stars.

Because that "forcing through" had nothing to do with the material being dense, but rather it was dense and tiresome at times.

Towards the end, many of the intellectual ravings of the mad painter Strauch become so convoluted and nonsensical that they are annoying to sift through and my mind just shut off. (When will this end?)

Then a great sentence would pull me out of that passive state and engage me again.

There were also passages that were a bit hackneyed or simply unoriginal. The takes on communism, the Lord's Prayer, etc. were quite uninteresting.

This book is too long for its own good. 6 - 7/10