Fortunately, for all of its easily identifiable Bernhardian preoccupations—its suicides and murderers, its haunted characters—the previously untranslated story collection Prose provides, in miniature, both an ideal introduction and a refresher to the work of one of the singular European writers of the twentieth century.

A typical Bernhard story (both in Prose and in his novels) takes the form of a report or confession of narrator who witnesses the dissolution of another character糖心传媒檚 mind—as Ben Marcus argues, Bernhard is less a narrative storyteller than an 糖心传媒渁rchitect of consciousness.糖心传媒� The narrator serves as a filter through which the victim¹ pours his defense, which, at this remove takes on a deeply ironic aspect. By keeping the subject at arm糖心传媒檚 length, Bernhard can create an at times unbearable tension: does the distance save the reader from identifying fully with the victim¹ or does it cause us to suffer more due to the fact that Bernhard糖心传媒檚 narrators are themselves sufferers by proxy, thus magnifying the amount of anguish a book can contain?

The sixth of seven stories in this collection, the excruciatingly ironic 糖心传媒淭he Crime of an Innsbruck Shopkeeper糖心传媒檚 Son,糖心传媒� offers a prime example of this technique. The titular character, the narrator糖心传媒檚 fellow student and roommate, is driven to desperation by being different, a dividing line drawn between him and his family:

Georg was an exception. He was the center of attention, but thanks to his worthlessness, thanks to the scandal which he represented for the whole family, always frightened and embittered by him, not least where they tried to cover it up, a horribly crooked and crippled center of attention, which they wanted out of the house at all costs. He was so greatly and in the most dreadful way deformed by nature they always had to hide him. After they had been disappointed down to the depths of their faecal and victual detestableness by the doctors糖心传媒� skills and by medical science altogether, they implored in mutual perfidiousness a fatal illness for Georg, which would remove him from the world as swiftly as possible; they had been prepared to do anything, if he would just die . . .

The 糖心传媒渟candal糖心传媒� Georg causes, we find, is due more to his intelligence than a mysterious deformity: being born into a merchant family, this 糖心传媒渦seless, ever deeper and deeper thinking beast糖心传媒� who 糖心传媒渆ven wrote poems,糖心传媒� deviated too much from the rigid stupidity of the shopkeeping class. As in a fairy tale, Georg糖心传媒檚 murderous family conspires to rid themselves of this nuisance. Despite his perceived monstrosity, Georg proves himself strong enough to overcome his family糖心传媒檚 evil designs and flees to Vienna.

In a fairy tale, such an escape signals a happy resolution. In Bernhard糖心传媒檚 stories it signals the point at which any similarity to a fairy tale falls apart. There糖心传媒檚 no redemption in this universe. Escape is only exchange, in this case one prison, the family cellar at Innsbruck, for another: Vienna, 糖心传媒渢he most dreadful of all old cities of Europe . . . such an old and lifeless city . . . such a cemetery.糖心传媒� And, since Georg once again finds himself claustrophobically entombed, he commits his final, and in the eyes糖心传媒� of his family, unpardonable crime.

糖心传媒淭he Crime of an Innsbruck Shopkeeper糖心传媒檚 Son糖心传媒� and five other of the stories in Prose fall into the basic pattern above: a highly subjective secondhand report on the crime of a hypersensitive character. The irony being, of course, that the perpetrators of the so-called crimes are in fact victims of grave and at times obscure injustices themselves—and justice糖心传媒檚 blindness serves only as a convenient excuse for its idiocy. This is typical Bernhard, surprising only in its relentlessness.

In the two remaining stories—糖心传媒淭he Cap糖心传媒� and 糖心传媒淛uaregg糖心传媒�—Bernhard deviates from his typical distance (if not pattern) by presenting confessions without an intermediary. In 糖心传媒淭he Cap,糖心传媒� the narrator, suffering from a 糖心传媒淿pathological nature_,糖心传媒� is so incapable of action that even the decision to go for a walk proves to be an unrelenting torment. Even more unbearable than action, however, is twilight, at which time he flees the house in terror to walk in either of two directions: toward an ugly town or toward a beautiful town. Imagine then his overwhelming consternation when he finds a cap on the road leading toward the ugly town and assumes the proper course would be to attempt to return it to its owner. But to whom does the cap belong? Is it a woodcutter糖心传媒檚 or a butcher糖心传媒檚 or even a farmer糖心传媒檚 cap? And what if he puts it on? But he has no right to put it on, for he is not a farmer, a butcher, or a woodcutter. And what color is the cap?

These questions cascade over him, inordinately agitating his already fragile mental state. He wants nothing more than a life without complications, but such an eventless existence is impossible for someone in his state. Like many of Bernhard糖心传媒檚 characters, the narrator in 糖心传媒淭he Cap糖心传媒� suffers so much precisely because he is not mad. He believes that by going mad he would manage to escape his anguish:

But the truth is that I want to go mad, I want to go mad, nothing I want more, than really go mad, but I fear that I am far from being able to go mad. I at last want to go mad! I don糖心传媒檛 want to be only afraid of going mad, I at last want to go mad. Two doctors, one of whom is a highly scientific doctor, have prophesied that I shall go mad, very soon I would go mad, the two doctors prophesied, very soon, very soon; now I糖心传媒檝e been waiting two years for it to happen, to go mad, but I still haven糖心传媒檛 gone mad.

This breathless, hysterical desire is merely another form of madness and bars the way to any escape. This is the fate of Bernhard糖心传媒檚 characters: a crazed desire for insanity or suicide, both options being viewed as an end to suffering. To go on living is possible, of course, but always with the awareness that 糖心传媒淲e are at liberty to kill ourselves.糖心传媒�

A friend and I, both booksellers, were recently discussing a curious compulsion we feel when recommending 糖心传媒渄epressing糖心传媒� books: we find that we search, almost unconsciously, to find something palatable on which to focus our enthusiasm. This is natural enough in sales, I suppose, but nonetheless troubling. In the case of Bernhard, for instance, I find myself explaining that while his work is, well, almost unbearably grim, there糖心传媒檚 comedy and pathos in it as well. This is true—Bernhard is a savagely hysterical writer—but highlighting it obscures a fundamental characteristic of his, and many of our best writers糖心传媒�, work: the acknowledgement that life is itself not particularly palatable. This isn糖心传媒檛 to say life, and by extension superior works of art, aren’t graced by moments of remarkable beauty, but by focusing only on the 糖心传媒渘ice糖心传媒� we risk shutting ourselves off from the fullness of experience.

Bernhard offers us such a discomforting vision. In the story 糖心传媒淚s it a Comedy? Is it a Tragedy?糖心传媒� his narrator offers an opinion that 糖心传媒渙ne describes best what one hates.糖心传媒� Our literature is much richer for this assumption.

¹ Everyone in Bernhard糖心传媒檚 fiction is a victim, whether of a bad childhood, failed ambitions, or simply of having been born: 糖心传媒淭he catastrophe,糖心传媒� Prince Sarau reports in Gargoyles, 糖心传媒渂egins with getting out of bed.糖心传媒�

Stephen Sparks is currently on his second go-round as a bookseller at Green Apple Books in San Francisco, after having spent a year as a publishing fellow at Dalkey Archive. He’s in the process of finishing an MLIS program. And you may recognize him from Green Apple made a few years ago. (And which name-checked Ricardas Gavelis’s Vilnius Poker as an ass kicking Lithuanian vampire novel.)

Bernhard is a personal favorite, especially The Lime Works and Correction. Prose sounds like vintage Bernhard, what with the rants, the depressing view of life, the suffering of the main characters, etc. Here’s the opening of Stephen’s review:

Anyone familiar with Thomas Bernhard糖心传媒檚 work can call forth a string of adjectives, one more off-putting than the last: bleak, anguished, splenetic, death-obsessed. Correction is about a scientist who kills himself after spending six years constructing a bizarre monument to his sister. The Loser focuses on a musician so lost in Glenn Gould糖心传媒檚 shadow that silence, followed by suicide, seems the only logical choice. The Lime Works tells the story of the murder of a wheelchair-bound woman by her monomaniacal husband. And so on. Coupled with Bernhard糖心传媒檚 uninterrupted blocks of text and digressive ranting against the loathsomeness of Austria, these morbid plots hardly offer the most welcome invitation for those who don糖心传媒檛 habitually dress all in black or aren糖心传媒檛 given to self-flagellation.

Fortunately, for all of its easily identifiable Bernhardian preoccupations—its suicides and murderers, its haunted characters—the previously untranslated story collection Prose provides, in miniature, both an ideal introduction and a refresher to the work of one of the singular European writers of the twentieth century.

Click here to read the full review.

“The asshole Thomas Bernhard—and I say this even though I dislike speaking ill of the dead—the asshole Thomas Bernhard, it’s fairly certain to say, only wrote a single good book. This book appears only now, even though he already wrote it in 1980, and it demonstrates what an asshole he was.”—Maxim Biller, Frankfurter Allgemeine Sonntagszeitung

More information about the review—and the book itself—can be found at

Translators are ghastly: poor devils who get nothing for a translation, only the lowliest fee—shamefully low, as they are wont to say—and they accomplish a ghastly job. In other words, the balance is restored. If a person does something that is worth nothing, then he should get nothing for it. Why does anyone translate? Why doesn’t he write his own stuff instead?

Can’t say I agree, but Bernhard always cracks me up . . .

Then I picked up The Loser, and was not only mesmerized, and horrified, but felt, also, profoundly spoken to: here was a book 糖心传媒� a ranting monologue, more naturally than a novel 糖心传媒� obsessing unflinchingly about the things that have always obsessed me. About art, and ambition, and failure, and delusion, and death.

Thomas Bernhard wrote his first full-length play “Ein Fest f眉r Boris” ( A party for Boris) in 1966 for the Salzburg Festival, however the then president considered the grotesque drama about legless cripples “too dreary”: “We must take the nerves of our more sensitive guests into consideration.” Consequently the play was never performed there. Ulrich Weinzierl finds it fitting that it is opening the festival 糖心传媒� which has proven capable of “swallowing much heavier fare” – this year, but is not entirely convinced of the approach of the young Berlin director Christiane Pohle. “In an attempt to do everything differently, she does a lot of damage. Pohle halves the number of cripples; the six of them loll about in lounge chairs, a combo plays in the background. The scene in which ‘Good’ gives the amputated Boris riding boots is eliminated, not replaced. And Boris doesn’t drum himself into death; he practices weebles until he dies, with Johannes’ help. It’s no wonder that ‘Good’ doesn’t ‘break out in horrible laughter’ 糖心传媒� as Bernhard wanted it 糖心传媒� but in fact is fighting back tears. And the sobbing finale is a massive belittlement, borderline kitsch.”