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thomas bernhard

the fisherman of halicarnassus · 2024-12-11T14:13:51.675293-08:00

thomas bernhard's life was marked by relentless misfortunes from the very beginning. born out of wedlock, he carried the stigma of "illegitimacy" in a society that cared deeply about such things. his mother never hid her contempt for him, and his childhood was overshadowed by a sense of rejection. physical illnesses repeatedly brought him to the brink of death, and a misdiagnosis by a doctor cost him his beloved grandfather—one of the few people he truly loved. although bernhard's parents were austrian, his mother, desperate to escape the social pressures of an illegitimate birth in austria, delivered him in a monastery in heerlen, in the netherlands. he was later raised by his grandparents back in austria. at eleven years old, bernhard was sent to a boarding school in salzburg, where he studied music aesthetics, violin, and voice. by the late 1940s, he developed the severe lung disease that would haunt him for the rest of his life. during a two-year stay at the grafenhof sanatorium, he suffered devastating losses: first his grandfather, the single most important person in his life, and then his mother a year later. by the time he left the sanatorium, he was a budding young journalist, forced early on to grapple with grief and existential questions. bernhard's first significant published work was a poetry collection, auf der erde und in der hölle (on earth and in hell), released in 1957. however, his true literary breakthrough came in the spring of 1963 with his first novel, frost (freeze), which quickly garnered critical acclaim. at the time, bernhard was living with his aunt in vienna, making ends meet by taking on construction jobs—digging trenches, driving trucks—and steadily forging his unique literary identity. frost earned him the bremen literature prize, which opened new doors. with the prize money and additional support from his publisher, bernhard bought a farmhouse in upper austria. he spent most of his life there in isolation, venturing abroad frequently but always returning to this rural retreat. yet he never severed his ties to vienna. he regularly traveled back and forth between the countryside and the city, unable to settle comfortably in either place. whenever he grew weary of rural life, he fled to vienna, and as soon as vienna lost its appeal, he hurried back to his farmhouse. when neither option satisfied him—something that happened often—he escaped beyond austria's borders altogether. in fact, he wrote most of his books during these restless journeys. in an interview, bernhard explained that every one of his books was created in different places—vienna, brussels, somewhere in yugoslavia, poland. he never had a dedicated writing desk and preferred working in noisy environments. construction cranes, bustling crowds, blaring streetcars, even laundries and butcher shops—none of these disturbed him. he found it stimulating to write where he didn't speak the local language, calling it an "encouraging" factor. bernhard's fame soon spread beyond austria and germany. he was met with great enthusiasm in many parts of continental europe, especially in italy, spain, and france, where his works were quickly translated. his influence was also immense in russia and across the former soviet republics, earning him recognition in slavic literary circles. over his lifetime, bernhard was astoundingly prolific: nine major novels, five long stories, four volumes of short stories, two volumes of shorter prose pieces, a five-volume autobiography, eighteen plays, several shorter dramas, three volumes of poetry, and countless interviews. he even had many unpublished works that rivaled in quantity those he had already released. this vast output brought bernhard numerous awards. he received the julius campe prize in 1964, the bremen literature prize in 1965, austria's national prize and the anton wildgans prize in 1968, the georg büchner prize from the german academy for language and literature in 1970, the franz theodor csokor prize and the adolf grimme prize in 1972, and the hanover theater prize and prix seguier in 1974. in 1976, he earned the austrian economists' association literature prize. twice nominated for the nobel prize in literature by the german pen club, he never won, but he famously declared that he would have gladly accepted it—only so he could then turn it down. bernhard died in 1989 at the age of 57, finally meeting the end he had contemplated so deeply and woven so thoroughly into his books. the controversy of legacy and identity two days before he died, bernhard left a will that was as controversial as his life's work. he explicitly banned the performance, publication, or public reading of any work he had published or left behind within austria's recognized borders for as long as his copyrights remained valid. he wanted no involvement with the austrian state, a system whose moral rejection of him began the moment he was born. this ban reflected his lifelong defiance, not only against the austrian government but also against all forms of cultural complacency. a revolutionary literary style bernhard's writing stands as a rebellion against the traditional novel in both form and content. readers sense something missing: no conventional story, no grand finale. he dismantles standard narrative structures, refusing to break his work into paragraphs or chapters. everything is presented as one continuous block, resisting logical categorization. his narrative world can begin anywhere and end everywhere, allowing the reader to open the book at any point without losing the thread—because, strictly speaking, there is no linear thread. his works lack the usual "plot" we expect from novels; they exist in a state of suspended action. this approach leaves the story perpetually "open." you cannot easily summarize a bernhard narrative to someone else because it resists any neat reconstruction. his works might feel repetitive or monotonous at first glance, but this "monotony" actually reveals an intricate landscape of subtle differences for those patient enough to look closely. in describing this effect, bernhard himself used a brilliant metaphor: staring at a white wall long enough reveals that it's neither blank nor uniform. with time—and a certain loneliness as your companion—you begin to notice cracks, indentations, tiny movements, and insects. the wall, like his texts, becomes alive with detail. everything in bernhard's writing is intentionally crafted and exaggerated. he believed that only through exaggeration could we truly understand how bad reality can be. this overemphasis serves as a form of aesthetic stance: to make something understandable, he insisted, you must present it in an extreme form. repetition is a core technique in bernhard's work. he tells essentially the same story in every novel—though always in new ways—and then repeatedly revisits phrases, sentences, and descriptions. he frequently employs narrators who restate what the main character has told them. the narrator's voice often risks losing its own identity in the overwhelming presence of the protagonist's worldview. each bernhard novel reads like a monologue, delivered through a proxy, anchored in the same philosophical undercurrent: the inescapable tension between individual existence and a world that feels impossibly hostile. bernhard's protagonists live secluded, often in remote rural places that serve as both prison and refuge. they flee the city's horrors only to discover that the countryside offers no relief. he despised the notion that pastoral settings or small towns were inherently wholesome or redemptive. for bernhard, nature was "rotten," rural life even more corrupt and depressing than the city. there is no safe haven—no place is free of human folly and decay. this relentless negativity might seem bleak, but it's central to his vision. for bernhard, the only true escape from the world's misery is death. to live means to suffer, to endure crushing loneliness, and to fail to communicate one's inner torment. it's no surprise that one of his most famous public statements—delivered when he received a national literary prize in austria—was simply that when you consider death, everything else becomes absurd.

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