Gert Jonke (1946–2009)

This book wins my prestigious "most ridiculous afterword of the 21st century" badge of honor. SoV is a nice collection of bits and pieces mostly about Vienna. Supposedly some of it is based on Jonke's life, but that seems pretty unlikely, except in the broadest, least informative sense. There is some trickiness to the writing, but it doesn't take a genius to work out. Most importantly, it's funny, smart, and just strange enough to be compelling. It's as if Beckett decided to take it easy for once.

The afterword, on the other hand, somehow contrives to need a two page bibliography including, I tish you not, Jonathan Safran Foer; given that this text could easily stand on its own, I'm puzzled by the translator's need to compare it to about 50000000 other books, most of which are less interesting and certainly less enjoyable than this one. Luckily, the translation is clear and very readable.

There's a lot to be said about SoV, but I'll just put in a word for 'Wholesale Fish Dealer by the Danube Canal.' It starts out like a funny pub story about a conspiracy nut, looks like it's about to become a tiresome "but isn't all literature with its plots and forms really just another kind of lunatic conspiracy theory?" tale, then (I would argue) finally develops into a very funny, very cutting re-description of representative democracy. The conspiracy nut suggests that life would be a lot easier and more efficient if he replaced the Chancellor, who is really only a puppet. Indeed.… (mer)

Homage to Czerny is in two sections and is in patches rather reminiscent of Thomas Bernhard, though Jonke's style is much less extreme. And there seem to be references to music in the repetitions, rhythms, and structure; in fact, I've little doubt there are many musical references I missed altogether.

In the first and longer section two siblings are giving a party. Just as the paintings they've hung about their estate precisely duplicate the views that they obscure, the party will, they hope, down to each word and gesture be indistinguishable from the party they gave exactly one year before. The premise is all the more intriguing because the painter of the oils and the narrator, an unnamed composer, are the only guests who know of their hosts' intention.

The rest of the book describes the visit a composer (who may or may not be the same narrator) and his brother pay to the music conservatory where they both studied. In the attic from which they cannot escape they find dozens upon dozens of pianos allowed to fall into a state of desuetude.

I was a bit more taken with the first section, perhaps because the second was slightly more conventional: The characters in the latter were better-drawn, the events less unlikely, and the conversations less surreal than in the first.

I don't know whether I'll have remembered the novel as a whole six months from now, but I don't think I'll have forgotten details in it--the eeriness of the North city, the smokestacks of impossible heights, the unearthly weather patterns and the wonderfully absurd explanations for them--nor the questions it inspires. (Edit: After five years I do indeed remember quite a lot about the book; in fact it's about time I re-read it.)… (mer)