{"id":3130,"date":"2021-10-15T15:12:04","date_gmt":"2021-10-15T13:12:04","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/herito.pl\/?post_type=artykul&p=3130"},"modified":"2023-07-17T14:27:57","modified_gmt":"2023-07-17T12:27:57","slug":"the-dark-revelations-of-max-blecher","status":"publish","type":"artykul","link":"https:\/\/herito.pl\/en\/artykul\/the-dark-revelations-of-max-blecher\/","title":{"rendered":"The Dark Revelations of Max Blecher"},"content":{"rendered":"
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Max Blecher, Zdarzenia z bliskiej nierzeczywisto\u015bci <\/em>(Adventures in Immediate Unreality), translated\u00a0into\u00a0Polish by Joanna Korna\u015b\u2011Warwas Pogranicze Publishing, Sejny 2013<\/strong><\/p>\n

Imagine you sit down at\u00a0a desk with an\u00a0intent to describe a\u00a0certain event in an\u00a0ordinary, realistic way, when all of a\u00a0sudden it strikes you that all real events are no more than appearances and pretexts, and people are only random shapes \u2013 masks which secretly hide a\u00a0dark and anonymous force. Isn\u2019t our contem\u2011 porary arrangement of forms and norms merely a\u00a0moment in development? And\u00a0doesn\u2019t it seem as if the\u00a0same idea constantly acquires new forms, as if the\u00a0force was to present itself in constantly new, random characters, and so a\u00a0frightened man, who is only an\u00a0ephemera, but the\u00a0fear within him \u2013 something lasting and unchangeable? Blecher followed the\u00a0path of such sensation. His\u00a0writing brings out the\u00a0sense of dread and strangeness of the\u00a0spectacle.<\/p>\n

Sounds familiar? It\u00a0should because the\u00a0paragraph above is partially a\u00a0paraphrase, partially a\u00a0summary of an\u00a0excerpt from Witold Gombrowicz\u2019s review of Sanatorium Under the\u00a0Sign of an\u00a0Hour\u2011Glass<\/em>. Schulz\u2019s name has been changed.<\/p>\n

Romanian author, Max\u00a0Blecher is a\u00a0kindred spirit to Schulz. He\u00a0entered the\u00a0literary world in the\u00a0same era and with the\u00a0same style. He\u00a0was an\u00a0outstand\u2011 ing writer, who created in the\u00a0atmosphere of \u2013 in his own words \u2013 \u201cprovincial uselessness\u201d, and stayed in touch with literary circles by means of correspond\u2011 ence. As\u00a0a\u00a0writer he took from his private observa\u2011 tions and experiences, but he also searched for inspiration in numerous works of literature, which provided him mostly with general notions, energy and boldness rather than specific ideas. His\u00a0most significant novel, \u00cent\u00e2mpl\u0103ri \u00een irealitatea imediat\u0103 (Adventures in Immediate Unreality), beautifully translated by Joanna Korna\u015b\u2011Warwas, has just been published in Poland as Zdarzenia z bliskiej nierzeczywisto\u015bci.<\/p>\n

Similarly to Schulz, Max\u00a0 Blecher grew up in a\u00a0Jewish merchant family, but of a\u00a0significantly better status. His\u00a0father had a\u00a0prospering china shop in Roman and he could afford to send his gifted son to medical school in Paris. From his early years Blecher showed all the\u00a0markings of a\u00a0remarkable mind: he wrote poems and essays, and at\u00a0the age of 16\u00a0had his first review published in one of the\u00a0most prominent magazines in Bucharest. His\u00a0Parisian adventure did not last long, as at\u00a0the age of 19\u00a0Blecher was diagnosed with spinal tuberculosis. After his return to Romania, the\u00a0young writer spent the\u00a0next ten years \u2013 until his death in 1938\u00a0\u2013 trapped in a\u00a0stiff plaster corset. He\u00a0read and wrote in a\u00a0reclined position, resting his knees against a\u00a0sort of a\u00a0kneeler, while constantly coping with recurring, intense pain.<\/p>\n

\u201cI left overpowered and exhausted\u201d \u2013 wrote Mihail Sebastian, who visited Blecher in Romania in Septem\u2011 ber 1936. \u201cHe lives in intimacy with death. Not\u00a0with the\u00a0abstract, unclear, long\u2011term death. It\u2019s his death, precise, defined, known in every detail, just as an\u00a0object. What gives him courage to live? What gives him support? He\u00a0does not seem devastated. I\u00a0do not understand, I have to admit, I do not understand. I wanted to burst into tears a\u00a0few times when looking at\u00a0him. At\u00a0night I\u00a0heard him moaning and screaming in his room, and I felt that there was another person at\u00a0home with us, maybe death or faith \u2013 I don\u2019t know who.\u201d (quoted from Mihail Sebastian\u2019s Journal 1935\u20131944: The\u00a0Fascist Years).<\/p>\n

Despite living in these circumstances Blecher carried on quite a\u00a0correspondence (with Andr\u00e9 Gide and Martin Heidegger, to name a\u00a0few), worked on translations, wrote articles and novels. Although favorable reviews of Adventures did not gain him popularity, they gave him a\u00a0permanently high position in the\u00a0literary pantheon. In\u00a0Poland, however, none of his books were published for decades. Just like every \u201cdifferent\u201d and original author, he had to wait for his moment, which came late \u2013 on the\u00a075th anniversary of his death.<\/p>\n

Blecher\u2019s subject is the\u00a0veneer of life and what is hidden behind it. His\u00a0protagonist, who also narrates the\u00a0story, experiences the\u00a0world intensively and analytically at\u00a0the same time; sensuality and intellectuality fight a\u00a0constant battle in his work. The\u00a0strength of Blecher\u2019s prose lies in visual suggestiveness and metaphors. In\u00a0one of the\u00a0scenes the\u00a0protagonist observes meat being unloaded in front of butchers\u2019 sheds. The\u00a0butchers carry \u201cwhole halves of cattle in their arms, crimson and veined, moist with blood, tall and superb like dead princesses\u201d. This description develops accordingly to the\u00a0logic of a\u00a0previously used, surprising metaphor: \u201cThey were now lined upagainst white porcelain walls like red sculptures chiseled from the\u00a0most varied and fragile material [\u2026] At\u00a0the\u00a0edge of the\u00a0open stomach hung the\u00a0lacework of muscles and heavy necklaces strung with beads of fat.\u201d<\/p>\n

Another scene: the\u00a0protagonist\u2019s friend gets engaged to a\u00a0woman, who quickly entraps the\u00a0mind of the\u00a0young narrator. These thoughts soon wind up stuck in paradoxes: \u201cEdda became one more object, a\u00a0simple object whose existence tormented and irritated me, like a\u00a0word repeated innumerable times, that becomes incomprehensible to the\u00a0extent that its comprehension seems to us more imperiously necessary.\u201d Edda becomes Schulz\u2019s Adela of sorts \u2013 her terseness, or even her mere existence ridicules all the\u00a0protagonist\u2019s efforts to prove to himself and others that true life is absent. But, as it turns out with time, this is an\u00a0imperfect Adela \u2013 Adela affected by disintegration. This way she becomes the\u00a0 young man\u2019s unexpected ally, thanks to whom his process of self\u2011recognition reaches a\u00a0new level.<\/p>\n

\u201cNothing existed in the\u00a0world outside of the\u00a0mud\u201d \u2013 this discovery made by the\u00a0protagonist sounds familiar and unexciting. The\u00a0scene that precedes it however, is brilliantly constructed: the\u00a0protagonist sets out on a\u00a0rainy night to a\u00a0cattle market to immerse himself in mud and manure. He\u00a0says: \u201cI myself was a\u00a0special creation of the\u00a0mud; a\u00a0missionary sent by it into this world. [\u2026] This was my authentic flesh, clothes flayed, skin flayed, muscles flayed, flayed to the\u00a0mud core.\u201d<\/p>\n

In\u00a0Blecher\u2019s prose, \u201cmud\u201d stands in opposition to a\u00a0perfect, closed, tamed reality. Life, as we may read in Adventures, brings only dark revelations: there is no \u201ctruth superior to the\u00a0mud\u201d, the\u00a0essence of life cannot be uplifted or redeemed (what is interesting, Blecher\u2019s novel, unlike Schulz\u2019s, is almost entirely devoid of religious elements). Paradoxically, the\u00a0mere character of the\u00a0story states it differently. Its\u00a0\u201csensuality\u201d and \u201cintellectuality\u201d are not made of mud. It\u00a0is a\u00a0construction raised with precision and due diligence, put together carefully and without haste. Blecher\u2019s excellence is undeniable. Although belatedly, it is good to be introduced to this writer.<\/p>\n

Translated from the\u00a0Polish by Joanna Dziubi\u0144ska<\/em><\/p>\n<\/div>\r\n\r\n <\/div>\r\n <\/div>\r\n <\/div>\r\n<\/section>\r\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"","protected":false},"featured_media":3257,"parent":0,"menu_order":0,"template":"","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"inline_featured_image":false,"footnotes":""},"tags":[351,359],"region":[656],"kraj":[639],"magazyn":[227],"class_list":["post-3130","artykul","type-artykul","status-publish","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","tag-literature","tag-review","region-transylvania","kraj-romania","magazyn-herito-12en"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nThe Dark Revelations of Max Blecher - herito<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"Imagine you sit down at\u00a0a desk with an\u00a0intent to describe a\u00a0certain event in an\u00a0ordinary, realistic way, when all of a\u00a0sudden it strikes you that all real events are no more than appearances and pretexts, and people are only random shapes \u2013 masks which secretly hide a\u00a0dark and anonymous force. Isn\u2019t our contem\u2011 porary arrangement of forms and norms merely a\u00a0moment in development? And\u00a0doesn\u2019t it seem as if the\u00a0same idea constantly acquires new forms, as if the\u00a0force was to present itself in constantly new, random characters, and so a\u00a0frightened man, who is only an\u00a0ephemera, but the\u00a0fear within him \u2013 something lasting and unchangeable? Blecher followed the\u00a0path of such sensation. 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