Repetition (27 page)
There was light in our house, in every room. My sister was sitting by herself on the bench outside. Her eyes recognized me but gave me no greeting. In her face I saw a sorrow so pure that at first I mistook it for sublime happiness. But it came to me later on that she was sorrowing not so much for her dying mother as for her lost love, decades old, undying. “Grieving dancer.” Never had I seen a more beautiful woman. I wanted to kiss the sorrow away from my sister's face, andâoverwhelming event!âI was aroused by compassion; but she was untouchable.
Under the espaliered tree, the pears were lying in piles, unharvested, rotting. I went to the window and saw my parents lying on the bed. Side by side, holding each other tight; his leg on her hip. They rolled this way and that; I kept seeing first one face, then the other. For once, I saw my hard father softened by weakness, at last holding his wife in his arms. Over his
shoulders he was wearing the purple robe beneath which he had stretched out on the church floor during those Easter vigils; my mother's eyes were wide with the fear of death; she wanted her husband's embrace to keep her alive.âYears later, where the bed had been, I found a thriving rubber plant in the warm sunlight; it was then that I remembered that scene of suffering most keenly and foresaw a time when the rubber plant would again give way to a human being in pain.
shoulders he was wearing the purple robe beneath which he had stretched out on the church floor during those Easter vigils; my mother's eyes were wide with the fear of death; she wanted her husband's embrace to keep her alive.âYears later, where the bed had been, I found a thriving rubber plant in the warm sunlight; it was then that I remembered that scene of suffering most keenly and foresaw a time when the rubber plant would again give way to a human being in pain.
A hundred times I walked back and forth in the night outside the house before I was able to go in to those two people whom, grateful to have been born, I loved. And to this day I have no image of what followed, but only something hot and hugeâmy empty hands in which to gather, now and forever, the looks of my parents' eyes.
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I have often mentioned numbers in this story, numbers of years, kilometers, people and things, and it has cost me a struggle every time, as though numbers were incompatible with the spirit of my story. For this reason I shall speak once again of my fairy-tale-writing teacher. He is now retired and I go to see him now and then. He has set up a garden outside the town with a hut in it, where he sometimes spends the night. The pale historian's face has again become the sunburned face of the geographer. His mother is still living, but she is very old and, as often as I've been there, I've never once laid eyes on her; I hear her talking to her only son through some doors, no longer in words as before, but with tapped signals, which he interprets by counting them. He has given up writing fairy tales; their place has been taken by counting. Even in childhood, he was always counting to himself, often unconsciously. In those
days he had thought it an ailment. But then, on his solitary expeditions in the jungle of the Yucatán, he had discovered that counting, now consciously, his steps and breaths could be a means of survival; it had often helped him in danger, a more powerful “medicine” than any fairy tale, and more effective than any prayer. Now in his old age he felt increasingly allergic to the public notices and posters that were taking over, and more at ease with numbers, even price tags and the luminous figures in gas stations. Hadn't the archaic poet said that number was more powerful than any ruse. Counting, he said, moderated him, slowed him down, regulated him, and cared for him; in counting he recovered from the world of headlines. His sacred numbers were those of the Maya: 9 and 13. Nine times he scraped his shoes before coming into the house; he would not start work until thirteen birds had flown across the garden; now and then he needed a nine-minute breather; and he walked around in a circle nine times thirteen times before going to bed.
days he had thought it an ailment. But then, on his solitary expeditions in the jungle of the Yucatán, he had discovered that counting, now consciously, his steps and breaths could be a means of survival; it had often helped him in danger, a more powerful “medicine” than any fairy tale, and more effective than any prayer. Now in his old age he felt increasingly allergic to the public notices and posters that were taking over, and more at ease with numbers, even price tags and the luminous figures in gas stations. Hadn't the archaic poet said that number was more powerful than any ruse. Counting, he said, moderated him, slowed him down, regulated him, and cared for him; in counting he recovered from the world of headlines. His sacred numbers were those of the Maya: 9 and 13. Nine times he scraped his shoes before coming into the house; he would not start work until thirteen birds had flown across the garden; now and then he needed a nine-minute breather; and he walked around in a circle nine times thirteen times before going to bed.
So much for the old man. At the end of this story, however, though I may die before the day is out, I find myself in middle life; I look at the spring sun on my blank paper, think back on the autumn and winter, and write: Storytelling, there is nothing more worldly than you, nothing more just, my holy of holies. Storytelling, patron saint of long-range combat, my lady. Storytelling, most spacious of all vehicles, heavenly chariot. Eye of my story, reflect me, for you alone know me and appreciate me. Blue of heaven, descend into the plain, thanks to my storytelling. Storytelling, music of sympathy, forgive us, forgive and dedicate us. Story, give the letters another shake, blow through the word sequences, order yourself into script, and give us, through
your particular pattern, our common pattern. Story, repeat, that is, renew, postpone, again and again, a decision that must not be. Blind windows and empty cow paths, be the incentive and hallmark of my story. Long live my storytelling! It must go on. May the sun of my storytelling stand forever over the Ninth Country, which can perish only with the last breath of life. Exiles from the land of storytelling, come back from dismal Pontus. Descendant, when I am here no longer, you will reach me in the land of storytelling, the Ninth Country. Storyteller in your misshapen hut, you with the sense of locality, fall silent if you will, silent down through the centuries, harkening to the outside, delving into your own soul, but then, King, Child, get hold of yourself, sit up straight, prop yourself on your elbows, smile all around you, take a deep breath, and start all over again with your all-appeasing “And then ⦔
your particular pattern, our common pattern. Story, repeat, that is, renew, postpone, again and again, a decision that must not be. Blind windows and empty cow paths, be the incentive and hallmark of my story. Long live my storytelling! It must go on. May the sun of my storytelling stand forever over the Ninth Country, which can perish only with the last breath of life. Exiles from the land of storytelling, come back from dismal Pontus. Descendant, when I am here no longer, you will reach me in the land of storytelling, the Ninth Country. Storyteller in your misshapen hut, you with the sense of locality, fall silent if you will, silent down through the centuries, harkening to the outside, delving into your own soul, but then, King, Child, get hold of yourself, sit up straight, prop yourself on your elbows, smile all around you, take a deep breath, and start all over again with your all-appeasing “And then ⦔
“The kings of old died;
they could not find their food.”
they could not find their food.”
ZOHAR
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“I stayed with this one and that one.”
EPICHARMUS
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“ â¦
laboraverimus
⦔
laboraverimus
⦔
COLUMELLA
Kaspar and Other Plays
The Goalie's Anxiety at the Penalty Kick
Short Letter, Long Farewell
A Sorrow Beyond Dreams
The Ride Across Lake Constance and Other Plays
A Moment of True Feeling
The Left-Handed Woman
The Weight of the World
Slow Homecoming
Across
The Goalie's Anxiety at the Penalty Kick
Short Letter, Long Farewell
A Sorrow Beyond Dreams
The Ride Across Lake Constance and Other Plays
A Moment of True Feeling
The Left-Handed Woman
The Weight of the World
Slow Homecoming
Across
1
The Italian Caporetto. [Trans.]
2
The Italian Gorizia. [Trans.]
3
This brunch-word might be rendered as “childscape,” except that the word
Kindschaft
actually exists in the meaning of “filiation” or “adoption,” as in Romans 9:4, “the adoption, and the glory.” [Trans.]
Kindschaft
actually exists in the meaning of “filiation” or “adoption,” as in Romans 9:4, “the adoption, and the glory.” [Trans.]
4
“Throttler” = shrike; “wolf's milk” = spurge; “kitchen bell” = pasqueflower. [Trans.]
Translation copyright © 1988
by Farrar, Straus and Giroux, Inc.
All rights reserved
by Farrar, Straus and Giroux, Inc.
All rights reserved
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Originally published in German
under the title
Die Wiederholung,
© Suhrkamp Verlag 1986
Published simultaneously in Canada by Collins Publishers, Toronto
under the title
Die Wiederholung,
© Suhrkamp Verlag 1986
Published simultaneously in Canada by Collins Publishers, Toronto
A portion of this book originally appeared,
in somewhat different form, in
The New Yorker
in somewhat different form, in
The New Yorker
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Designed by Roxana Laughlin
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eISBN 9781466807013
First eBook Edition : December 2011
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First edition, 1988
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Handke, Peter.
Repetition.
Translation of: Die Wiederholung.
I. Title.
PT2668.A5W4713 1988 833'.914 87-33065
Handke, Peter.
Repetition.
Translation of: Die Wiederholung.
I. Title.
PT2668.A5W4713 1988 833'.914 87-33065
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