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Microscripts
Robert Walser wrote many of his manuscripts in a highly enigmatic, shrunken-down form. These narrow strips of paper (many of them written during his hospitalization in the Waldau sanatorium) covered with tiny ant-like markings only a millimeter or two high, came to light only after the author’s death in 1956. At first considered a secret code, the microscripts were eventually discovered to be a radically miniaturized form of a German script: a whole story could fit on the back of a business card.
Selected from the six-volume German transcriptions from the original microscripts, these 25 short pieces are gathered in this gorgeously illustrated co-publication with the Christine Burgin Gallery. Each microscript is reproduced in full color in its original form: the detached cover of a trashy crime novel, a disappointing letter, a receipt of payment. Sometimes Walser used the pages of small tear-off calendars (but only after cutting them lengthwise and filling up each half with text). Schnapps, rotten husbands, small town life, the radio, pigs (and how none of us can deny being one), jealousy, Van Gogh and marriage proposals are some of Walser’s subjects. These texts take strength from Walser’s motto: “To be small and to stay small.”
Selected from the six-volume German transcriptions from the original microscripts, these 25 short pieces are gathered in this gorgeously illustrated co-publication with the Christine Burgin Gallery. Each microscript is reproduced in full color in its original form: the detached cover of a trashy crime novel, a disappointing letter, a receipt of payment. Sometimes Walser used the pages of small tear-off calendars (but only after cutting them lengthwise and filling up each half with text). Schnapps, rotten husbands, small town life, the radio, pigs (and how none of us can deny being one), jealousy, Van Gogh and marriage proposals are some of Walser’s subjects. These texts take strength from Walser’s motto: “To be small and to stay small.”
Paperback
First published January 1, 1985
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About the author
Robert Walser
220 books848 followersRobert Walser, a German-Swiss prose writer and novelist, enjoyed high repute among a select group of authors and critics in Berlin early in his career, only to become nearly forgotten by the time he committed himself to the Waldau mental clinic in Bern in January 1929. Since his death in 1956, however, Walser has been recognized as German Switzerland’s leading author of the first half of the twentieth century, perhaps Switzerland’s single significant modernist. In his homeland he has served as an emboldening exemplar and a national classic during the unparalleled expansion of German-Swiss literature of the last two generations.
Walser’s writing is characterized by its linguistic sophistication and animation. His work exhibits several sets of tensions or contrasts: between a classic modernist devotion to art and a ceaseless questioning of the moral legitimacy and practical utility of art; between a spirited exuberance in style and texture and recurrent reflective melancholy; between the disparate claims of nature and culture; and between democratic respect for divergence in individuals and elitist reaction to the values of the mass culture and standardization of the industrial age.
Walser’s writing is characterized by its linguistic sophistication and animation. His work exhibits several sets of tensions or contrasts: between a classic modernist devotion to art and a ceaseless questioning of the moral legitimacy and practical utility of art; between a spirited exuberance in style and texture and recurrent reflective melancholy; between the disparate claims of nature and culture; and between democratic respect for divergence in individuals and elitist reaction to the values of the mass culture and standardization of the industrial age.
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June 28, 2010
The Walser of the microscripts is my favorite Walser. It’s not that I like them because they were written in microscript, but rather because by the time he was writing his microscripts he had given up the novel writing business, which adds an aura of defeat to his writing. By the time Walser wrote his microscripts he was a confirmed “loser”, and so was free to fully embrace being a loser and a non-entity. While this adds even further touches of freedom to his expression, it also adds a depth and a sadness, and brings him right to the edge of madness. But Walser’s “madness” wasn’t a stereotypical madness. He remained a gentleman and a sensitive soul and a trickster to the end, and was never fully engulfed by whatever aberrations existed in his mind and soul.
This particular book, however, is more a fetish object for the Walser fanatic than a substantial collection of writings. Each entry is preceded by a reproduction of the actual microscript – written on envelopes, backs of calling cards, paper scraps, etc. - in what looks like actual size. To see how much text Walser could cram into a tiny space, and then to see it fully blossomed out in transcription and translation is fascinating… and troubling. Troubling because in seeing Walser’s actual tiny writing on ephemeral materials you are brought closer (or feel like you are) to the fragility of his mind. Seeing them also emphasizes the compulsive nature of his writing, and conjures images of a very lonely soul, an indigent and lonely soul, writing obsessively on scraps in a script no one was to decipher until long after he died. Seeing these yellowed microscripts is nothing if not sad, but at the same time there's something heroic, miniaturely heroic in his determination and in his ability to not only continue writing as a confirmed non-entity, but to develop and intensify and to write what many people consider his best work.
One eye-opener for me upon reading this collection were the added insights I gained into Walser’s methods – how he would improvise a prose piece with no intention of sticking to his subject, but instead would freely embrace tangents, often with little or no transition. This can give the impression of a fractured mind, or give a nearly tangible example of a mind with screws loose, but I got the clear impression that this “fracturing” was actually a strategy and a practice of frugality. By generating a text with multiple tangents, say four, he could unravel that text into four separate texts, thereby, in theory, garnering four times the (meager) income from it. Seeing these texts brought me closer to Walser’s practical Swiss nature in a life lived very close to the bone.
Seeing these actual microscripts also reminded me of my days (two years full of days) working the kids section in the basement of the Philadelphia Borders. It was a beautiful section diligently ordered and maintained by moi, but there were very few kids in Philly in those days (or else they were afraid to enter my lair). Though there weren’t many kid visitors plenty of characters made their way down. One of these was a young man, a not entirely crazy young man, who would regularly come down and sit in a chair in the nature section. While sitting in this chair he would place a sheet of paper on his lap and affect all the airs of a writer – gaze dreamily into space, bite his eraser, hunch over and scribble, etc. As I worked I’d chat with him and eventually I asked what he was writing. He told me it was a space travel epic and regaled me with details of alien lives on other planets and of the rockets and their engines that would take his heroes there. I also remember something very sexually weird about his vision – like the universe was a big vagina the space travelers entered, but that all females were otherwise excluded – but unfortunately I can’t remember the details. So after hearing his epic précis of his book I was eager to see what he had actually written. I asked and when he held up his paper not only were there less than two lines written on the page, the script itself was so faintly written in pencil I couldn’t make out a single word. As I was trying to make it out he pointed at different places on the page, as if to say “This is where they neutralize the meanies on planet Zirgatoid! And this is where they slip through the galactic labia using their special space lotion!, etc.” It was all sad and fascinating.
This particular book, however, is more a fetish object for the Walser fanatic than a substantial collection of writings. Each entry is preceded by a reproduction of the actual microscript – written on envelopes, backs of calling cards, paper scraps, etc. - in what looks like actual size. To see how much text Walser could cram into a tiny space, and then to see it fully blossomed out in transcription and translation is fascinating… and troubling. Troubling because in seeing Walser’s actual tiny writing on ephemeral materials you are brought closer (or feel like you are) to the fragility of his mind. Seeing them also emphasizes the compulsive nature of his writing, and conjures images of a very lonely soul, an indigent and lonely soul, writing obsessively on scraps in a script no one was to decipher until long after he died. Seeing these yellowed microscripts is nothing if not sad, but at the same time there's something heroic, miniaturely heroic in his determination and in his ability to not only continue writing as a confirmed non-entity, but to develop and intensify and to write what many people consider his best work.
One eye-opener for me upon reading this collection were the added insights I gained into Walser’s methods – how he would improvise a prose piece with no intention of sticking to his subject, but instead would freely embrace tangents, often with little or no transition. This can give the impression of a fractured mind, or give a nearly tangible example of a mind with screws loose, but I got the clear impression that this “fracturing” was actually a strategy and a practice of frugality. By generating a text with multiple tangents, say four, he could unravel that text into four separate texts, thereby, in theory, garnering four times the (meager) income from it. Seeing these texts brought me closer to Walser’s practical Swiss nature in a life lived very close to the bone.
Seeing these actual microscripts also reminded me of my days (two years full of days) working the kids section in the basement of the Philadelphia Borders. It was a beautiful section diligently ordered and maintained by moi, but there were very few kids in Philly in those days (or else they were afraid to enter my lair). Though there weren’t many kid visitors plenty of characters made their way down. One of these was a young man, a not entirely crazy young man, who would regularly come down and sit in a chair in the nature section. While sitting in this chair he would place a sheet of paper on his lap and affect all the airs of a writer – gaze dreamily into space, bite his eraser, hunch over and scribble, etc. As I worked I’d chat with him and eventually I asked what he was writing. He told me it was a space travel epic and regaled me with details of alien lives on other planets and of the rockets and their engines that would take his heroes there. I also remember something very sexually weird about his vision – like the universe was a big vagina the space travelers entered, but that all females were otherwise excluded – but unfortunately I can’t remember the details. So after hearing his epic précis of his book I was eager to see what he had actually written. I asked and when he held up his paper not only were there less than two lines written on the page, the script itself was so faintly written in pencil I couldn’t make out a single word. As I was trying to make it out he pointed at different places on the page, as if to say “This is where they neutralize the meanies on planet Zirgatoid! And this is where they slip through the galactic labia using their special space lotion!, etc.” It was all sad and fascinating.
August 22, 2011
Physically this book is gorgeous and it smells really good, too. I borrowed it from work, and I'm thinking I might try to buy it if New Directions has a really good deal for it at the Brooklyn Book Festival next month. As much as I find myself swooning over the physicality of the book as an object I'm not nearly as in love with the content of the book.
This is probably because I'm not an admirer or fan of Walser. In theory I like him, he was nutso in an interesting way, and I think given time I would learn to like his literary output quite a bit. After only reading one novel though, I don't think I'm in a position to be reading translations of his unedited and writings that he did on little scraps of paper in a nearly indecipherable archaic script. A part of me loves that a giant of literature produced at least some of his work in this way, and then the other part of me thinks about the insane and homeless people who have populated the store who also spent much of their day writing in tiny script whatever it is that they write on the subscription cards from magazines they so lovingly get their stank grease all over which I then have to touch. I don't think those people are cool for their compulsions, so I'm probably guilty of romanticizing serious mental problems in writers. But, isn't that the way it always is? At least for me, I kind of want my writers to be a little mentally unhinged. For their sake I guess I would like them to be happy and sane and well adjusted, but aren't the unadjusted just so much more appealing to be making literature?
If I were more of a Walser fan I'd probably love this book. As a very casual reader of one book of his diving into a collection of quasi-ephemera and borderline curious is a bit too much for me. It would be like watching the extras from a TV shows DVD collection after watching one random episode from a season that isn't even covered in that particular collection.
A handful of the stories / pieces I did enjoy greatly, and there were some amazing lines sprinkled here and there in the pieces, but sometimes those amazing lines didn't necessarily cohere with the work they were in. Actually, quite a few of these short pieces were as tight as a shotgun fired from a really really far distance, kind of hitting everywhere, sometimes on target, sometimes somewhere no where near the target but so unconcentrated that it didn't feel like it was very effective. Some of this was probably because these are translations of pure first drafts and some because a few of the pieces had the inner logical workings of a mentally fucked person.
These stories / pieces (it's really hard to call most of these stories, they are more sketches of people and places more than anything else) did make me want to read more published work by Walser and I'll probably go looking through my books for the collection of short stories I know is hiding somewhere in my apartment.
I did learn something from this book. Walter Benjamin was full of shit. Critical theory gods strike me down, but reading the essay included in this book by Benjamin on Walser I was stunned by how much utter nonsense and shit Mr. Ben-ha-mean (to pronounce his name like a dutiful grad student) spouts. Walt, your dialectic is just semi-poetical mystical jibber-jabber wrapped in non-sensical contradictions that don't mean anything... I know I've fawned over you in the past, and I kind of hope for the sake of my younger selfs credibility that this essay was just a weak one from your oeuvre and that it wouldn't sully my experiences with the essays in Illuminations, but I'm sort of afraid to go back and read some of those previously loved essays and learning that I had been hoodwinked by nonsense.
This is probably because I'm not an admirer or fan of Walser. In theory I like him, he was nutso in an interesting way, and I think given time I would learn to like his literary output quite a bit. After only reading one novel though, I don't think I'm in a position to be reading translations of his unedited and writings that he did on little scraps of paper in a nearly indecipherable archaic script. A part of me loves that a giant of literature produced at least some of his work in this way, and then the other part of me thinks about the insane and homeless people who have populated the store who also spent much of their day writing in tiny script whatever it is that they write on the subscription cards from magazines they so lovingly get their stank grease all over which I then have to touch. I don't think those people are cool for their compulsions, so I'm probably guilty of romanticizing serious mental problems in writers. But, isn't that the way it always is? At least for me, I kind of want my writers to be a little mentally unhinged. For their sake I guess I would like them to be happy and sane and well adjusted, but aren't the unadjusted just so much more appealing to be making literature?
If I were more of a Walser fan I'd probably love this book. As a very casual reader of one book of his diving into a collection of quasi-ephemera and borderline curious is a bit too much for me. It would be like watching the extras from a TV shows DVD collection after watching one random episode from a season that isn't even covered in that particular collection.
A handful of the stories / pieces I did enjoy greatly, and there were some amazing lines sprinkled here and there in the pieces, but sometimes those amazing lines didn't necessarily cohere with the work they were in. Actually, quite a few of these short pieces were as tight as a shotgun fired from a really really far distance, kind of hitting everywhere, sometimes on target, sometimes somewhere no where near the target but so unconcentrated that it didn't feel like it was very effective. Some of this was probably because these are translations of pure first drafts and some because a few of the pieces had the inner logical workings of a mentally fucked person.
These stories / pieces (it's really hard to call most of these stories, they are more sketches of people and places more than anything else) did make me want to read more published work by Walser and I'll probably go looking through my books for the collection of short stories I know is hiding somewhere in my apartment.
I did learn something from this book. Walter Benjamin was full of shit. Critical theory gods strike me down, but reading the essay included in this book by Benjamin on Walser I was stunned by how much utter nonsense and shit Mr. Ben-ha-mean (to pronounce his name like a dutiful grad student) spouts. Walt, your dialectic is just semi-poetical mystical jibber-jabber wrapped in non-sensical contradictions that don't mean anything... I know I've fawned over you in the past, and I kind of hope for the sake of my younger selfs credibility that this essay was just a weak one from your oeuvre and that it wouldn't sully my experiences with the essays in Illuminations, but I'm sort of afraid to go back and read some of those previously loved essays and learning that I had been hoodwinked by nonsense.
October 5, 2020
Толкова красиво е издадена тази книга, че е трудно човек да я подмине току-така. Може би това не е най-подходящата книга като за първа среща с автора, но търсещите литературен финес категорично ще оценят наличието на такъв.
Тези кратки текстове са писани в по-късния период от живота на Валзер, когато доброволно е постъпил в психиатрична клиника. Етикети от бира, визитни картички, печатни издания са част от убежищата приютили ситния почерг на Валзер и също са включени в изданието. Очертанията на кратките истории събрани тук са неопределими -- центърът може да е навсякъде, а границите -- никъде. Тук Валзер е изтънил униформата на литературата по същия начин, по който друг голям швейцарски артист, Алберто Джакомети, е изтънил отливките на своите скулптури. През цялото време докато четях в създанието ми изникваше крехката, почти призрачна фигура на "Ходещия човек". Макар и без намерение да бъдат публикувани, деликатната тъкан на микроскриптите на Валзер, също като скулптурата на Джакомети, е отражение на трудното пречупване на духа, решимостта на таланта и неговата устойчивост, която се крепи отвъд психичното равновесие.
Яйой Кусама, която също доброволно постъпва в психиатрична клиника, казва, че творенето е нейното освобождение и терапия срещу душевната болест. Нейните "Вечни огледала" са едни от най-разпознаваемите, скъпоструващи и популярни арт инсталации в света. Навярно и Валзер е гонил своите демони със стотиците текстове върху хвърчащи листове, но за разлика от Кусама, той е пожелал да потъне в своята интровертност и да остане незабележим за света. Когато го попитали защо не пише, той просто отвърнал: "Аз съм тук, за да бъда луд, не за да пиша".
"Микросрипти" са жанрово неопределими текстове, парчета с разчленени контури, но те са и ехото на един утвърден литературен глас, който знае как да отекне и уседне в съзнанието на читателя.
Тези кратки текстове са писани в по-късния период от живота на Валзер, когато доброволно е постъпил в психиатрична клиника. Етикети от бира, визитни картички, печатни издания са част от убежищата приютили ситния почерг на Валзер и също са включени в изданието. Очертанията на кратките истории събрани тук са неопределими -- центърът може да е навсякъде, а границите -- никъде. Тук Валзер е изтънил униформата на литературата по същия начин, по който друг голям швейцарски артист, Алберто Джакомети, е изтънил отливките на своите скулптури. През цялото време докато четях в създанието ми изникваше крехката, почти призрачна фигура на "Ходещия човек". Макар и без намерение да бъдат публикувани, деликатната тъкан на микроскриптите на Валзер, също като скулптурата на Джакомети, е отражение на трудното пречупване на духа, решимостта на таланта и неговата устойчивост, която се крепи отвъд психичното равновесие.
Яйой Кусама, която също доброволно постъпва в психиатрична клиника, казва, че творенето е нейното освобождение и терапия срещу душевната болест. Нейните "Вечни огледала" са едни от най-разпознаваемите, скъпоструващи и популярни арт инсталации в света. Навярно и Валзер е гонил своите демони със стотиците текстове върху хвърчащи листове, но за разлика от Кусама, той е пожелал да потъне в своята интровертност и да остане незабележим за света. Когато го попитали защо не пише, той просто отвърнал: "Аз съм тук, за да бъда луд, не за да пиша".
"Микросрипти" са жанрово неопределими текстове, парчета с разчленени контури, но те са и ехото на един утвърден литературен глас, който знае как да отекне и уседне в съзнанието на читателя.
August 9, 2010
As a Walser fanatic, I must say, this is like Christmas in July.
Read
May 2, 2019These were good stories. Good, abstract, little stories. But that is not the important part.
The important part is the way they were written, which is reproduced in images throughout, and then you realize that Robert Walser was legit crazy, not in a poète-maudite way, in a jerking-off-into-feces way. And so, despite the fact that Walser had had a literary career of note, he was also, by his Microscripts period, basically an outsider artist. And it feels like outsider art, and you wind up judging it by a different metric, in the same way you listen to the Langley Schools Music Project or look at a Henry Darger illustration.
The important part is the way they were written, which is reproduced in images throughout, and then you realize that Robert Walser was legit crazy, not in a poète-maudite way, in a jerking-off-into-feces way. And so, despite the fact that Walser had had a literary career of note, he was also, by his Microscripts period, basically an outsider artist. And it feels like outsider art, and you wind up judging it by a different metric, in the same way you listen to the Langley Schools Music Project or look at a Henry Darger illustration.
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October 20, 2020Фин и жив Валзер. Кристални парченца Швейцарски дух, бистра проза, която не си задава въпроса “как”.
Още за книгата - тук .
Още за книгата - тук .
June 18, 2010
Assuming I do not lie, she wept with joy, although quite possibly she did so for some other reason.("Assuming I do not lie" is the best clause to start off any sentence)
Obviously, this work has hip-appeal and almost Herzog-like marketability with its back-story. In case you haven't heard it yet: Walser spent many of his waning years writing in a kind of tiny hieroglyphic code that only he understood on the back of slips, envelopes, napkins, strips of paper, and whatnot. It took them 35 years to decode (and they still haven't decoded them all), and the contents of this book is the result of those snippets translated PLUS beautiful facsimiles of the original pieces of paper each story was written on.
The actual pieces are dizzying in the way they twist about. It is hard enough to follow one sentence of his, much less a whole sketch, which moves quickly from topic to topic. There is a sense that he tossed these off without much thought, although this casualness is coupled with his typical ornate overblown formality of style to a very strange effect. I find these pieces generally much more complicated and dense (on the sentence-level) than his early novels like The Assistant, there is a sense of over-crowdedness here.
The casual manner in which I loved my beloved, who was forever distinguishing herself by her utter absence, resembled a soft-swelling, enchanting sofa.Walter Benjamin writes an afterword to this book, and it has some great insights which I will now share with you. Exhibit 1.
For we can set our minds at rest by realizing that to write yet never correct what has been written implies both the absence of intention and the most fully considered intentionalityExhibit 2.
Everything seems to be on the verge of disaster; a torrent of words pours from him in which the only point of every sentence is to make the reader forget the previous one.Exhibit3.
The tears they shed are his prose. For sobbing is the melody of Walser's loquaciousness. It reveals to us where his favorite characters come from--namely, from insanity and nowhere else. They are figures who have left madness behind them, and this is why they are marked by such a consistently heartrending, inhuman superficiality.
September 29, 2023
"Микроскрипти" е книга като никоя друга - това, което ме привлече веднага беше нейната различност. Определено не бих казала, че ще се хареса на всеки - дали защото произведенията не могат да бъдат определени по никакъв начин (освен като миниатюрни), дали защото някои са незавършени, дали заради странния стил на писане. Изисква се много специфично състояние на духа и читателска нагласа за този особен сборник. Но аз имах и двете.
Роберт Валзер пише върху късчета хартия с изключително ситен и нечетлив почерк - едномилиметрови букви изграждат микроистории върху визитки, картички, подложки за бира, пощенски пликове... Всичко това е можело никога да не бъде припознато като литературно произведение. Можело е никога да не бъде разгадано. Можело е никога да не бъде издадено, преведено, никога да не стигне до тук. Докато четях страница след страница не спирах да съм удивена - сякаш някой го е направил точно за мен! Целият този труд, години изследвания, анализи, разшифроване, за да може една Десислава да прочете думите на отдавна починал автор, писани сякаш мимоходом - на улицата, в кафене, в психиатрията.
Толкова лично и интимно - ту си представях историите, тук как ги пише швейцареца. Все едно шпионирах през времето и пространството. За мен книгата носи едно воайорско усещане, но докато четях написаното усещах, че думите искат да бъдат прочетени, че точно защото е можело да останат тайна от всички нас, най-после се чувстват видени.
Роберт Валзер пише върху късчета хартия с изключително ситен и нечетлив почерк - едномилиметрови букви изграждат микроистории върху визитки, картички, подложки за бира, пощенски пликове... Всичко това е можело никога да не бъде припознато като литературно произведение. Можело е никога да не бъде разгадано. Можело е никога да не бъде издадено, преведено, никога да не стигне до тук. Докато четях страница след страница не спирах да съм удивена - сякаш някой го е направил точно за мен! Целият този труд, години изследвания, анализи, разшифроване, за да може една Десислава да прочете думите на отдавна починал автор, писани сякаш мимоходом - на улицата, в кафене, в психиатрията.
Толкова лично и интимно - ту си представях историите, тук как ги пише швейцареца. Все едно шпионирах през времето и пространството. За мен книгата носи едно воайорско усещане, но докато четях написаното усещах, че думите искат да бъдат прочетени, че точно защото е можело да останат тайна от всички нас, най-после се чувстват видени.
August 24, 2016
This book, the physical entity, is extremely beautiful. Overall, I'd say the back-story is more interesting than the actual stories. Walser wrote these little things in tiny script on tiny scraps of paper, to make them less available to his waxing neuroses and self-criticism, which is a good idea. In the micro-bio at the end, there's a good description of RW's writing: each sentence wants to make you forget the last one. Humble, restrained, peaceful, not wanting anything much to happen, hardly stories, you can feel how Rdub's a little unhinged underneath, like "don't be crazy, don't be crazy, don't be crazy."
There are a few really really good lines, better than I've seen in a long while. I think if I'd read any of his novels first I'd love this book more.
There are a few really really good lines, better than I've seen in a long while. I think if I'd read any of his novels first I'd love this book more.
December 31, 2015
My favorite book read in 2015...(for some reason as I was perusing Goodreads I realized I didn't enter it)...the most generous, lovely, surprising, gentle and beautiful book of my year. Walser is a beautiful writer who also puts across his yearning, his melancholy and his warmth in every sentence....his books take longer to read because you constantly put the book down to say, "Holy fuck!...and across the century and what a balm! O man..." Also a lovely book all around, as object, etc...
August 12, 2024
Един от най-симпатичните, но и най-трагични чудаци. Учтив до безобразие, сякаш съобразяващ се с всички – до степен на себеотричане. Автор на тези необичайни разкази, които са толкова хубави, колкото е и историята за тях. Не са за всеки, естествено: и слава богу!
dnf
July 5, 2021DNF for now, might appreciate this more if I read one of Robert Walser’s novels first
July 19, 2024
БУРЕНОСНО ПИСАНЕ в Изумен
Какво е микроскрипт? Текст, написан в микроскопичен размер върху подръчни материали – пощенски пликове, подложки за бира, визитни картички. Тези едномилиметрови букви дълго време са се смятали за плод на бръщолевенето на луд. Техният автор Роберт Валзер все пак прекарва последните години от живота си в санаториум за душевно болни. Оказва се обаче години по-късно, че това са текстове, написани с неповторимия почерк на този „майстор на най-прелестната, най-грациозна проза на своето време“ по думите на Роберт Музил. В провокативно издание от „Критика и хуманизъм“ и в превод на Мария Добревска те вече са достъпни и за българския читател.
Някои от текстовете са по-дълги, около 5–6 стр. (вероятно дължината е зависела и от подръчните материали, върху които Валзер е писал), други са съвсем кратки, но във всички се забелязва скокливата, неограничена мисъл на човек, който не пише, за да бъде издаден. Непредумишлено, буреносно писане, вероятно породено от спонтанен импулс, тъй като повечето текстове описват непосредствени наблюдения. Езикът на Валзер вълнува, създава потребност за още от тази свежа вода на вдъхновението.
От друга страна, това писане често е хаотично и този, който чете, започва да се губи в трескавото препускане. Мисълта на Валзер прескача от един образ към друг, впуска се в абстракции, сенки на мисълта и строи мостове към мъгляви картини, спомени, пропукани от неврологична тревожност. Четенето не е спокойно, не напомня отпуснатото настроение на разходките, които писателят толкова е обичал и които описва пространно в други произведения. „Микроскрипти“ не е книга за първо запознанство. За това би подхождал повече романът „Семейство Танер“, но за всички, които вече са обикнали швейцареца, настоящият сборник е съвсем неочаквана и много приятна изненада.
Край се римува със знай, а кройка – с бройка. Почука се, аз казах „Влез!“ и се скрих в гардероба, а влезлият сигурно дълго се е ослушвал, чакал. Не един или два романа започват многообещаващо. В снощния сън ръцете ми се превърнаха в прогнили рухващи кули. Една руина, имам предвид една остаряла милионерка, ми завеща сто хиляди франка, които успях за кратко време да прахосам. Какъв измамен спомен!
Наподобяващи разказ импресии, в които могат да се открият несретници, скитници, блудни синове, мъже, които убеждават свой другар да замине за по-малък град, портрети на меланхолични жени, есенни пейзажи с просяци. Присъства и толкова чаровната предумишлена спънатост, за която говори Валтер Бенямин, стилистично усложнение на изразяването.
Този безделник, скитник и мечтател не иска да взима участие в абсурда наоколо, подобно на Даниил Хармс и Бартълби, писаря, готов да бъде дамгосан като луд в името на една душевна непорочност, чистота на духа, която копнее за възвишеното, за красивото. Неговият отговор на въпроса дали продължава да твори в санаториума, все така силно отеква в умовете на младите хора, които се вълнуват от подредбата на думите: „Аз не съм дошъл тук, за да пиша, аз съм дошъл тук, за да бъда луд“.
Подходено е с грижа към настоящата книга. Отпечатани са качествени цветни снимки на оригиналните текстове, а в края на сборника е поместен текст на Валтер Бенямин от 1927 г. – същата година, в която Валзер влиза в санаториума „Валдау“. Очарован от „тази невинна непохватност на езика“, немският философ и литературовед я приписва към традицията на вятърничавия лентяй, на безделника, появяващи се в произведенията на Кнут Хамсун и Йозеф фон Айхендорф. В самия край е поместен и текст на Антоанета Колева, който хвърля светлина върху цялостното творчество на Валзер.
Изданието на „Критика и хуманизъм“ е сред най-красивите тази година и напомня, благодарение на непрежалимите Яна Левиева и Гергана Икономова, че работата по художественото оформление на една книга може да бъ��е само по себе си произведение на изкуството.
Какво е микроскрипт? Текст, написан в микроскопичен размер върху подръчни материали – пощенски пликове, подложки за бира, визитни картички. Тези едномилиметрови букви дълго време са се смятали за плод на бръщолевенето на луд. Техният автор Роберт Валзер все пак прекарва последните години от живота си в санаториум за душевно болни. Оказва се обаче години по-късно, че това са текстове, написани с неповторимия почерк на този „майстор на най-прелестната, най-грациозна проза на своето време“ по думите на Роберт Музил. В провокативно издание от „Критика и хуманизъм“ и в превод на Мария Добревска те вече са достъпни и за българския читател.
Някои от текстовете са по-дълги, около 5–6 стр. (вероятно дължината е зависела и от подръчните материали, върху които Валзер е писал), други са съвсем кратки, но във всички се забелязва скокливата, неограничена мисъл на човек, който не пише, за да бъде издаден. Непредумишлено, буреносно писане, вероятно породено от спонтанен импулс, тъй като повечето текстове описват непосредствени наблюдения. Езикът на Валзер вълнува, създава потребност за още от тази свежа вода на вдъхновението.
От друга страна, това писане често е хаотично и този, който чете, започва да се губи в трескавото препускане. Мисълта на Валзер прескача от един образ към друг, впуска се в абстракции, сенки на мисълта и строи мостове към мъгляви картини, спомени, пропукани от неврологична тревожност. Четенето не е спокойно, не напомня отпуснатото настроение на разходките, които писателят толкова е обичал и които описва пространно в други произведения. „Микроскрипти“ не е книга за първо запознанство. За това би подхождал повече романът „Семейство Танер“, но за всички, които вече са обикнали швейцареца, настоящият сборник е съвсем неочаквана и много приятна изненада.
Край се римува със знай, а кройка – с бройка. Почука се, аз казах „Влез!“ и се скрих в гардероба, а влезлият сигурно дълго се е ослушвал, чакал. Не един или два романа започват многообещаващо. В снощния сън ръцете ми се превърнаха в прогнили рухващи кули. Една руина, имам предвид една остаряла милионерка, ми завеща сто хиляди франка, които успях за кратко време да прахосам. Какъв измамен спомен!
Наподобяващи разказ импресии, в които могат да се открият несретници, скитници, блудни синове, мъже, които убеждават свой другар да замине за по-малък град, портрети на меланхолични жени, есенни пейзажи с просяци. Присъства и толкова чаровната предумишлена спънатост, за която говори Валтер Бенямин, стилистично усложнение на изразяването.
Този безделник, скитник и мечтател не иска да взима участие в абсурда наоколо, подобно на Даниил Хармс и Бартълби, писаря, готов да бъде дамгосан като луд в името на една душевна непорочност, чистота на духа, която копнее за възвишеното, за красивото. Неговият отговор на въпроса дали продължава да твори в санаториума, все така силно отеква в умовете на младите хора, които се вълнуват от подредбата на думите: „Аз не съм дошъл тук, за да пиша, аз съм дошъл тук, за да бъда луд“.
Подходено е с грижа към настоящата книга. Отпечатани са качествени цветни снимки на оригиналните текстове, а в края на сборника е поместен текст на Валтер Бенямин от 1927 г. – същата година, в която Валзер влиза в санаториума „Валдау“. Очарован от „тази невинна непохватност на езика“, немският философ и литературовед я приписва към традицията на вятърничавия лентяй, на безделника, появяващи се в произведенията на Кнут Хамсун и Йозеф фон Айхендорф. В самия край е поместен и текст на Антоанета Колева, който хвърля светлина върху цялостното творчество на Валзер.
Изданието на „Критика и хуманизъм“ е сред най-красивите тази година и напомня, благодарение на непрежалимите Яна Левиева и Гергана Икономова, че работата по художественото оформление на една книга може да бъ��е само по себе си произведение на изкуството.
January 10, 2014
I'm sure it's been said before (probably in a blurb) but these are tiny genius jewels that glitter like the spittle of gods.
Read
January 29, 2020Robert Walser - Betydande människor kallar mig ett barn: Mikroskrifter i urval | Promenaden, följd av Bilden av fadern | Carl Seelig - Vandringar med Robert Walser. Samtliga utgivna av Bokförlaget Faethon 2019 och översatta av Peter Handberg.
Robert Walser har alltid varit något av en författarnas författare. Har har fascinerat och inspirerat namn som Franz Kafka, Hermann Hesse, Robert Musil, Walter Benjamin, Elias Canetti, Giorgio Agamben, Susan Sontag Elfriede Jelinek och många andra. För allmänheten var han under samtiden tämligen okänd, men på senare år har han fått ett internationellt erkännande och översättningar av hans böcker har kommit på många språk. Dock tycks han fortfarande mest vara en angelägenhet för andra skribenter, litteraturvetare och vittra finsmakare. Det är inte rättvist. Walser är långtifrån någon svår författare och han är värd en betydligt större läsekrets. Hans klurigt humoristiska, skarpögt melankoliska texter skulle lätt gå hem hos en bredare allmänhet. På svenska finns sedan tidigare en handfull böcker, men de är alla slut hos förlagen och de flesta svåra att hitta även antikvariskt. Att bokförlaget Faethon nu gör en satsning med dessa tre böcker är därför mer än välkommet.
Walser föddes i schweiziska Biel 1878, levde ett rastlöst och kringflackande liv, bland annat i Berlin 1905-13, och hankade sig fram på ströjobb, tidningsartiklar och snålt säljande böcker. Han avled i hemlandet 78 år gammal. Periodvis led han av svår ångest, tilltagande alkoholism och gjorde även några självmordsförsök, och efter ett sammanbrott blev han till sist inlagd. De sista 28 åren tillbringades på mentalsjukhus, först på Waldau, utanför Bern, och från 1933 i Herisau i nordöstra Schweiz. Från den dagen fram till sin död skrev han inte ett ord. När frågan kom på tal svarade han, med eftertryck: ”Jag har inte kommit hit för att skriva. Jag har kommit hit för att vara galen!”.
”Betydande människor kallar mig ett barn” rymmer ett urval av Walsers så kallade mikroskrifter. Med små, millimeterhöga bokstäver skrev han på allt han kom över: vykort, kvitton, refuseringsbrev. Över några färgplanscher i boken kan dessa krumelurer beskådas. De är som konstverk i sig. Först femtio år efter hans död lyckades man dechiffrera dessa märkvärdiga skrifter.
Texterna är korta, 53 stycken på knappa 250 sidor, och behandlar allt från Karl XII till halshuggna flugor. Här skymtar konstnärer och författare, nunnor och Nietzsche, bratwurst och björngropen i Bern. Humorn är sträv, som dåliga vitsar man motvilligt ler åt, för att de faktiskt ä r roliga, trots allt. Världen betraktas från ett kompromisslöst utanförskap, med distans, ironi och en pragmatisk syn på tillvaron. Meningarna kan flyta ut över en halv sida eller komprimeras med paradoxal exakthet till livsvisdomspackade enradingar; ”I detta avseende är jag gudskelov lika mänsklig, d.v.s. svag, som alla andra.”.
Walser var den ständige flanören, den evige vandraren. Aldrig stilla på samma ställe, alltid nya lägenheter (”ofta var det mycket sunkiga ställen”), nya städer och gärna rejäla heldagspromenader över berg och dal, med paus för öl och ost på något lämpligt världshus (”flankanfall” från krogen, kallar han det någonstans). Att han dog, i hjärtinfarkt, mitt under en promenad juldagen 1956 känns därför som en logisk och värdig avslutning.
”Promenaden” är just vad den heter: en fiktiv skildring av en dag av walserskt promenerande. En dag utanför ”skrivarlyan eller spökkabinettet”. Det låter kanske inte så upphetsande, men det går inte en sida i denna säregna kortroman utan att man blir intellektuellt belönad. Hans charmigt omständliga språk rör sig obehindrat mellan absurdistiska lustigheter och filosofiska funderingar i molande moll. Det är oavbrutet underhållande, oavsett om han utsätts för ett grymt kulinariskt practical joke av lunchvärdinnan Fru Aebi, beundrar arkitektur eller en vacker flicka, eller, som när han passerar en skola, önskar att han ”återigen var ett barn och en olydig skolgosse, att han åter gick i skolan och som straff för sitt dåliga uppförande fick ta emot ett välförtjänt kok stryk”.
Jag får känslan av att ”Promenaden” (liksom många av hans andra texter) bara är en något tillknycklad och skruvad självbiografi; kanske av samma torrt humoristiska släkte som exempelvis Emmanuel Boves ”Mina vänner”? Faktum är att han själv, tämligen walserskt, sammanfattar boken bra: ”under sådana tålmodiga promenader träffar [jag] på jättar, har äran att få skåda professorer, i förbifarten uppsöker bokhandlare och banktjänstemän, samtalar med sångerskor och skådespelarinnor, äter lunch hos själfulla damer, genomkorsar skogar, postar livsfarliga brev och slåss vilt med baksluga, ironiska skräddarmästare”. Inte illa av en man som är ”fientligt stämd mot världen och mig själv, främmande för båda två”.
Carl Seelig (1894-1962) var en tysk-schweizisk rikemansson, skribent, mecenat och från och med 1944 Robert Walsers förmyndare. Han besökte Walser på anstalten redan 1936 och hade sedan dess för vana — och sjukhusdirektörens tillåtelse — att ta med den nyckfulle författaren på långa söndagsutflykter till fots, med tåg och buss.
I ”Vandringar med Robert Walser” har Seelig, likt en Eckermann (om Goethe) eller en Boswell (om Samuel Johnson), samlat en del av de samtal som han genom åren trots allt fått ut av den periodvis tjurskalligt tvära och tystlåtna författaren. Men i takt med att deras vänskap fördjupas öppnar sig Walser allt mer, och talar, när han är på bäst humör, öppenhjärtligt om minnen och erfarenheter, politiker och konstnärer.
Seelig skriver med uppenbart skönlitterära ambitioner, men det är inte där boken styrka ligger. Den finner vi istället i Walsers författarskvaller och rikliga anekdoter ur sitt kringflackande liv. Tips till (blivande) författare har han gott om och någon form av poetik skymtar emellanåt i samtalen: ”Vet ni varför jag aldrig lyckades som författare? Jo, det ska jag berätta: jag hade för dålig social instinkt. Jag spelade för lite teater”, ”Konstnären måste hänföra eller plåga sin publik”, ”Författare utan etik förtjänar ett ordentligt kok stryk”, ”Utan avgrunder förblir varje konstnär bara något halvdant, en luktfri drivhusplanta”.
Hitler och ”nassarna” har han inte mycket till övers för och trots att han tycks vara konservativ, ja, i vissa anseenden rentav reaktionär politiskt (men ”besten ’kapitalism’” borde drivas tillbaka ”i buren igen”), sätter han den personliga friheten främst: ”Aldrig, inte ens under perioder av största fattigdom, skulle jag ha låtit mig köpas av samhället”.
Promenaderna avbryts med jämna mellanrum för intag av mat och, inte minst, vin och framförallt öl. Walser spottade inte heller på senare år i glaset och han trivdes utmärkt i bayerska ölkällare: ”Märkvärdigt vad ölet och halvmörkret kan skölja bort alla laster”.
Från de sista promenaderna gjorde Seelig inga anteckningar. ”Kände jag instinktivt att slutet närmade sig?”, frågar han sig. På grund av Walsers dåliga hälsa skjuter han upp vandringen från jul till nyår 1956, men i skymningen den 25:e december får han ett samtal från överläkaren på Herisau. Promenaderna är över.
Självklart anser jag att alla tre titlar borde vara obligatorisk läsning, men tvingas jag av någon outgrundlig anledning välja måste jag nog säga ”Betydande människor...”, då den visar upp den största bredden och variationen hos denna unika (ja, faktiskt!) författare, och därför lämnar läsaren med mersmak.
Slutligen, en stor eloge till översättaren Peter Handberg (som även levererar lärda förord), som utfört trollkonster med Walsers märkvärdiga prosa. Inte en enda gång känns det krystat eller obekvämt – bara melodiskt och tidlöst. Och jag undrar hur länge han fick klura innan det underbara ordet ”kuragöst” infann sig? Stående ovationer, om jag får be.
Robert Walser har alltid varit något av en författarnas författare. Har har fascinerat och inspirerat namn som Franz Kafka, Hermann Hesse, Robert Musil, Walter Benjamin, Elias Canetti, Giorgio Agamben, Susan Sontag Elfriede Jelinek och många andra. För allmänheten var han under samtiden tämligen okänd, men på senare år har han fått ett internationellt erkännande och översättningar av hans böcker har kommit på många språk. Dock tycks han fortfarande mest vara en angelägenhet för andra skribenter, litteraturvetare och vittra finsmakare. Det är inte rättvist. Walser är långtifrån någon svår författare och han är värd en betydligt större läsekrets. Hans klurigt humoristiska, skarpögt melankoliska texter skulle lätt gå hem hos en bredare allmänhet. På svenska finns sedan tidigare en handfull böcker, men de är alla slut hos förlagen och de flesta svåra att hitta även antikvariskt. Att bokförlaget Faethon nu gör en satsning med dessa tre böcker är därför mer än välkommet.
Walser föddes i schweiziska Biel 1878, levde ett rastlöst och kringflackande liv, bland annat i Berlin 1905-13, och hankade sig fram på ströjobb, tidningsartiklar och snålt säljande böcker. Han avled i hemlandet 78 år gammal. Periodvis led han av svår ångest, tilltagande alkoholism och gjorde även några självmordsförsök, och efter ett sammanbrott blev han till sist inlagd. De sista 28 åren tillbringades på mentalsjukhus, först på Waldau, utanför Bern, och från 1933 i Herisau i nordöstra Schweiz. Från den dagen fram till sin död skrev han inte ett ord. När frågan kom på tal svarade han, med eftertryck: ”Jag har inte kommit hit för att skriva. Jag har kommit hit för att vara galen!”.
”Betydande människor kallar mig ett barn” rymmer ett urval av Walsers så kallade mikroskrifter. Med små, millimeterhöga bokstäver skrev han på allt han kom över: vykort, kvitton, refuseringsbrev. Över några färgplanscher i boken kan dessa krumelurer beskådas. De är som konstverk i sig. Först femtio år efter hans död lyckades man dechiffrera dessa märkvärdiga skrifter.
Texterna är korta, 53 stycken på knappa 250 sidor, och behandlar allt från Karl XII till halshuggna flugor. Här skymtar konstnärer och författare, nunnor och Nietzsche, bratwurst och björngropen i Bern. Humorn är sträv, som dåliga vitsar man motvilligt ler åt, för att de faktiskt ä r roliga, trots allt. Världen betraktas från ett kompromisslöst utanförskap, med distans, ironi och en pragmatisk syn på tillvaron. Meningarna kan flyta ut över en halv sida eller komprimeras med paradoxal exakthet till livsvisdomspackade enradingar; ”I detta avseende är jag gudskelov lika mänsklig, d.v.s. svag, som alla andra.”.
Walser var den ständige flanören, den evige vandraren. Aldrig stilla på samma ställe, alltid nya lägenheter (”ofta var det mycket sunkiga ställen”), nya städer och gärna rejäla heldagspromenader över berg och dal, med paus för öl och ost på något lämpligt världshus (”flankanfall” från krogen, kallar han det någonstans). Att han dog, i hjärtinfarkt, mitt under en promenad juldagen 1956 känns därför som en logisk och värdig avslutning.
”Promenaden” är just vad den heter: en fiktiv skildring av en dag av walserskt promenerande. En dag utanför ”skrivarlyan eller spökkabinettet”. Det låter kanske inte så upphetsande, men det går inte en sida i denna säregna kortroman utan att man blir intellektuellt belönad. Hans charmigt omständliga språk rör sig obehindrat mellan absurdistiska lustigheter och filosofiska funderingar i molande moll. Det är oavbrutet underhållande, oavsett om han utsätts för ett grymt kulinariskt practical joke av lunchvärdinnan Fru Aebi, beundrar arkitektur eller en vacker flicka, eller, som när han passerar en skola, önskar att han ”återigen var ett barn och en olydig skolgosse, att han åter gick i skolan och som straff för sitt dåliga uppförande fick ta emot ett välförtjänt kok stryk”.
Jag får känslan av att ”Promenaden” (liksom många av hans andra texter) bara är en något tillknycklad och skruvad självbiografi; kanske av samma torrt humoristiska släkte som exempelvis Emmanuel Boves ”Mina vänner”? Faktum är att han själv, tämligen walserskt, sammanfattar boken bra: ”under sådana tålmodiga promenader träffar [jag] på jättar, har äran att få skåda professorer, i förbifarten uppsöker bokhandlare och banktjänstemän, samtalar med sångerskor och skådespelarinnor, äter lunch hos själfulla damer, genomkorsar skogar, postar livsfarliga brev och slåss vilt med baksluga, ironiska skräddarmästare”. Inte illa av en man som är ”fientligt stämd mot världen och mig själv, främmande för båda två”.
Carl Seelig (1894-1962) var en tysk-schweizisk rikemansson, skribent, mecenat och från och med 1944 Robert Walsers förmyndare. Han besökte Walser på anstalten redan 1936 och hade sedan dess för vana — och sjukhusdirektörens tillåtelse — att ta med den nyckfulle författaren på långa söndagsutflykter till fots, med tåg och buss.
I ”Vandringar med Robert Walser” har Seelig, likt en Eckermann (om Goethe) eller en Boswell (om Samuel Johnson), samlat en del av de samtal som han genom åren trots allt fått ut av den periodvis tjurskalligt tvära och tystlåtna författaren. Men i takt med att deras vänskap fördjupas öppnar sig Walser allt mer, och talar, när han är på bäst humör, öppenhjärtligt om minnen och erfarenheter, politiker och konstnärer.
Seelig skriver med uppenbart skönlitterära ambitioner, men det är inte där boken styrka ligger. Den finner vi istället i Walsers författarskvaller och rikliga anekdoter ur sitt kringflackande liv. Tips till (blivande) författare har han gott om och någon form av poetik skymtar emellanåt i samtalen: ”Vet ni varför jag aldrig lyckades som författare? Jo, det ska jag berätta: jag hade för dålig social instinkt. Jag spelade för lite teater”, ”Konstnären måste hänföra eller plåga sin publik”, ”Författare utan etik förtjänar ett ordentligt kok stryk”, ”Utan avgrunder förblir varje konstnär bara något halvdant, en luktfri drivhusplanta”.
Hitler och ”nassarna” har han inte mycket till övers för och trots att han tycks vara konservativ, ja, i vissa anseenden rentav reaktionär politiskt (men ”besten ’kapitalism’” borde drivas tillbaka ”i buren igen”), sätter han den personliga friheten främst: ”Aldrig, inte ens under perioder av största fattigdom, skulle jag ha låtit mig köpas av samhället”.
Promenaderna avbryts med jämna mellanrum för intag av mat och, inte minst, vin och framförallt öl. Walser spottade inte heller på senare år i glaset och han trivdes utmärkt i bayerska ölkällare: ”Märkvärdigt vad ölet och halvmörkret kan skölja bort alla laster”.
Från de sista promenaderna gjorde Seelig inga anteckningar. ”Kände jag instinktivt att slutet närmade sig?”, frågar han sig. På grund av Walsers dåliga hälsa skjuter han upp vandringen från jul till nyår 1956, men i skymningen den 25:e december får han ett samtal från överläkaren på Herisau. Promenaderna är över.
Självklart anser jag att alla tre titlar borde vara obligatorisk läsning, men tvingas jag av någon outgrundlig anledning välja måste jag nog säga ”Betydande människor...”, då den visar upp den största bredden och variationen hos denna unika (ja, faktiskt!) författare, och därför lämnar läsaren med mersmak.
Slutligen, en stor eloge till översättaren Peter Handberg (som även levererar lärda förord), som utfört trollkonster med Walsers märkvärdiga prosa. Inte en enda gång känns det krystat eller obekvämt – bara melodiskt och tidlöst. Och jag undrar hur länge han fick klura innan det underbara ordet ”kuragöst” infann sig? Stående ovationer, om jag får be.
December 12, 2025
I picked up this book because it was listed as one of W. G. Sebald's favorite book. Apparently, Walser was also the favorite writer by Kafka.
More than anything, Microscripts is an experiment of a sort: what happens to writing when 1) you only have limited space to write and 2) you can't revise. Walser wrote on a small note card, something like an index card, and he never revised his first draft. I don't think it was an intentional experiment; such form of writing was the only luxury he had at the time, it seems. What we get to see is: how human consciousness, thoughts, and feelings manifest in the no-brake rush of vomiting out written words. To me at least, many entries seemed more banal than interesting. I understand that the value of Walser's writing stems from his non-revision, but his language seemed too raw and redundant at times.
It is easy to see that there were no revisions.
This edition has photocopies of the actually notecards on which Walser wrote his entries. It also contains some paintings by Walser admirer, as long as an essay by Walter Benjamin.
Benjamin remarks:
a neglect of style
linguistic wilderness, linguistic garland
Walser's admission that he never corrected a single line in his writing
More than anything, Microscripts is an experiment of a sort: what happens to writing when 1) you only have limited space to write and 2) you can't revise. Walser wrote on a small note card, something like an index card, and he never revised his first draft. I don't think it was an intentional experiment; such form of writing was the only luxury he had at the time, it seems. What we get to see is: how human consciousness, thoughts, and feelings manifest in the no-brake rush of vomiting out written words. To me at least, many entries seemed more banal than interesting. I understand that the value of Walser's writing stems from his non-revision, but his language seemed too raw and redundant at times.
It is easy to see that there were no revisions.
This edition has photocopies of the actually notecards on which Walser wrote his entries. It also contains some paintings by Walser admirer, as long as an essay by Walter Benjamin.
Benjamin remarks:
a neglect of style
linguistic wilderness, linguistic garland
Walser's admission that he never corrected a single line in his writing
July 28, 2024
Robert Walser exists in a magical zone, perhaps somewhat akin to Henri Michaux, in terms of unclassifiable: funnier than Kafka, and yet somehow more…melancholy? Perhaps because the anxiety is replaced by a satirical self awareness, and yet that description fails the utterly benign complacency that rings his tone with a beguiling fatalism that somehow seems more adrift than a protagonist like K. These tiny…stories? They are like prose poems. They go nowhere, really, cul de sacs of the kind of infinite regressing doors and walks that no doubt compromised Walser’s life. If his novels and proper stories constitute the jungles and forests of Walser’s mind, then these stories are the Bonsai trees, impeccably pruned to be stark, skeletal edifices. Did I say pruned? Rumor is Walser never rewrote a sentence, so maybe these are more like dream fragments, and it is this feeling that strikes me in commerce with some of Michaux’s writings.
December 16, 2013
A short book--a collection of short pieces, that is--but what a wealth of delightful language, insight and humor. Remarkable and sui generis. Includes Maira Kalman's lovely brief "biography", an essay by Walter Benjamin full of great pointers, and intro material, along with life-size photos of the pieces of paper these tiny works were written on.
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May 30, 2020It amuses me to believe that readers are, as it were, writers' chaperones; but even the most rigorous thinker may well have arrived perhaps at the surely capital insight that these lines of mine are autumnally fading—with which, in point of fact, their purpose has been fulfilled. [89]
June 24, 2011
Eh...these texts are small. They are short. You get a Walter Banjamin essay. What else needs to be said, well Benjamin finds Walser's lack of style very important, perhaps my lack of interest is equally important.
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October 29, 2018teksteinä nää ei yllä saman herran Berliinin skeneblogin tasolle mutta äärimmäisen sympaattinen kokoelma siitä huolimatta
// tämän kirjan innoittamana tavoitteenani on pienentää käsialaani nykyisestä vielä 50%. Mitä SINÄ teet ilmastovaikutuksiesi vähentämiseksi?
// tämän kirjan innoittamana tavoitteenani on pienentää käsialaani nykyisestä vielä 50%. Mitä SINÄ teet ilmastovaikutuksiesi vähentämiseksi?
April 13, 2014
my engagement w/ it here: http://www.5cense.com/14/358.htm
October 11, 2020
This book has intrigued me for years. Lee Rourke’s excellent A Brief History of Fables: From Aesop to Flash Fiction introduced me to it, but the cost was always too prohibitive and the library never stocked it. Recently, I managed to get my hands on an affordable copy.
First up, I love short, short fiction. I’m not a fan of the term Flash Fiction; maybe because the concept of compact, perfectly formed pieces of writing has been around for a while and I feel the need to keep rebranding everything to make it feel new makes us lose touch with what has gone before. Or at least, not give it the credit it deserves. (Note to reader – do yourself a favour and read A Brief History of Fables for an in depth look at short fiction throughout history. Anyway this isn’t a review of Lee’s book...)
Microfictions was never written as a stand-alone book. It’s a collection of Robert Walser’s once undeciphered manuscripts, handwritten on an assortment of items: torn calendar fragments, back of envelopes, tickets etc. Almost runic, they didn’t come to light until after the author’s death in 1956. Walser spent the last 23 years of his life in an institution and at first, these manuscripts were assumed to be a secret code written during his time inside. The fragments were covered in tiny ant-like pencil markings and for years they went undeciphered. Not until one was published in a magazine, an eagle-eyed reader realised it was a form of Kurrent, an ancient script medieval in origin.
Due to the script’s size, translation wasn’t a simple task. Too much magnification and the characters lost their form, not enough and the text was simply too small to decipher. Eventually, after much revision their meaning was revealed. This book is a collection of the translated text accompanied by facsimiles of the original writing. It has been lovingly put together, with a great introduction, detailed notations for each fragment and a graphic novella tribute to fittingly close the book.
Unfortunately, although I feel the book is a work of beauty, the writing just never grabbed me. In the intervening period whilst I waited to get my hands on Microscripts, I read Walsner’s The Assistant. I couldn’t get into that novel at all. I suppose I probably should have heeded that warning. Similarly, this collection of vignettes, observations, prose-poetry pieces just didn’t land with me. However, as a piece of art (or a collection of artefacts) it really is quite something. More than just a curio, this collection shows Walsner’s dedication to his craft, taking writing to a whole new level, a level greatly reduced in size. As a complete book, it was fascinating to read and despite never loving the scripts themselves, I was left with a feeling of total respect for a man committed to his craft.
First up, I love short, short fiction. I’m not a fan of the term Flash Fiction; maybe because the concept of compact, perfectly formed pieces of writing has been around for a while and I feel the need to keep rebranding everything to make it feel new makes us lose touch with what has gone before. Or at least, not give it the credit it deserves. (Note to reader – do yourself a favour and read A Brief History of Fables for an in depth look at short fiction throughout history. Anyway this isn’t a review of Lee’s book...)
Microfictions was never written as a stand-alone book. It’s a collection of Robert Walser’s once undeciphered manuscripts, handwritten on an assortment of items: torn calendar fragments, back of envelopes, tickets etc. Almost runic, they didn’t come to light until after the author’s death in 1956. Walser spent the last 23 years of his life in an institution and at first, these manuscripts were assumed to be a secret code written during his time inside. The fragments were covered in tiny ant-like pencil markings and for years they went undeciphered. Not until one was published in a magazine, an eagle-eyed reader realised it was a form of Kurrent, an ancient script medieval in origin.
Due to the script’s size, translation wasn’t a simple task. Too much magnification and the characters lost their form, not enough and the text was simply too small to decipher. Eventually, after much revision their meaning was revealed. This book is a collection of the translated text accompanied by facsimiles of the original writing. It has been lovingly put together, with a great introduction, detailed notations for each fragment and a graphic novella tribute to fittingly close the book.
Unfortunately, although I feel the book is a work of beauty, the writing just never grabbed me. In the intervening period whilst I waited to get my hands on Microscripts, I read Walsner’s The Assistant. I couldn’t get into that novel at all. I suppose I probably should have heeded that warning. Similarly, this collection of vignettes, observations, prose-poetry pieces just didn’t land with me. However, as a piece of art (or a collection of artefacts) it really is quite something. More than just a curio, this collection shows Walsner’s dedication to his craft, taking writing to a whole new level, a level greatly reduced in size. As a complete book, it was fascinating to read and despite never loving the scripts themselves, I was left with a feeling of total respect for a man committed to his craft.
November 11, 2017
it was through goodreads that i originally discovered robert walser; i haven't found any of his NYR books anywhere, but i found the New Directions edition of Microscripts in a bookstore in seattle and i felt compelled to buy it.
a little perplexing at times, the concept itself is fascinating, and the final line of the last piece of the book is gonna stick with me for a long, long time: "New Year's? Don't the words almost smell a bit like wistfulness? When a year stops, another instantly commences, as if one were turning the page. The story keeps going, and the beauty of a context is revealed."
that's some real shit right there.
anyway, i probably would have appreciated this, like, a lot more if i had read any of his published works before reading this collection. perhaps i will appreciate it in retrospect once i am able to track some of his stuff down.
a little perplexing at times, the concept itself is fascinating, and the final line of the last piece of the book is gonna stick with me for a long, long time: "New Year's? Don't the words almost smell a bit like wistfulness? When a year stops, another instantly commences, as if one were turning the page. The story keeps going, and the beauty of a context is revealed."
that's some real shit right there.
anyway, i probably would have appreciated this, like, a lot more if i had read any of his published works before reading this collection. perhaps i will appreciate it in retrospect once i am able to track some of his stuff down.
February 22, 2021
This was a physically beautiful book. I encourage you to find it just to hold it in your hands and look through it. It's a group of unrelated short stories and essays that were all written in pencil in impossibly small letters in very small spaces; the backs of business cards, small strips of carefully cut paper, sections of old calendar pages. Robert Walser was a renowned writer in his time, a contemporary and favorite of Franz Kafka and Hermann Hesse. I don't know how this book got on my reading list, but I had noted that "you have to get it in book form!" The tiny writing is impressive, but I didn't find the stories engaging. The edition I have has a section afterwards that includes a tribute to the author drawn by Maira Kalman that I found to be the best part of the whole book.
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February 3, 2020Ciekawa sprawa z tym Walserem. wydana przez Ha-art książka to raczej protokół z odczytania niż dzieło samo w sobie. Walser zapisywał mikrogramy miniaturowym pismem na zupełnie przypadkowych kawałkach papieru, a w wydanej w zwykły sposób książce pozbawieni jesteśmy środowiska naturalnego tych tekstów. Zostaje nam styl Walsera, jego przesadnie tapirowane frazy, usztywnione relacje z równie usztywnionych spotkań z ludźmi, poczucie arbitralności systemu języka przywołujące współczesnego mu Wittgensteina. Po lekturze nie zapamiętałem pojedynczych fraz, raczej było to wrażenie dusznej inności świata tam przedstawionego.
November 11, 2017
This is at once one of the shortest and most difficult books I've ever read. Robert Walser writes in sentences that feel uneneding. At the end of each you've forggoten the beginning yet the desperation to convey some meaning sticks with you through out each mercifully short essay. These effects are only augmented by the fact that Walser's writing style is very circular and poetic. It's madness yet there's a method to the madness. No wonder he was Kafka's favorite author.
December 20, 2017
Truly a unique, one of a kind book: Written in an almost indecipherable, microscopic script while Walser was an inmate in a various asylums, diagnosed as a catatonic schizophrenic. Most thought they were the scribblings of a madman, but eventually it came to light that he was using an ancient German script called Sutterlin. He may have been mad, but the stories are delightfully weird, rambling and opaque. Before his breakdown, he was a writer, and a big influence on Kafka.
April 4, 2018
Walser's giddy and discursive style is intoxicating. Whilst reading his stories, I find my own thoughts take on a cod-Walserian style, an involuntary and extremely cheap imitation of his hilarious bloviation and moments of deep poignancy. I love him. This volume of stories, poems and prose pieces is a must not only for Walser's stories, but also an illuminating essay by Walter Benjamin, and a deeply moving tribute in words and paintings by Maira Kalman.
August 20, 2022
“So poets are loved, but loved because they just can’t make it here. They exist to light up the enormity of the awful tangle and justify the cynicism of those who say, ‘If I were not such a corrupt, unfeeling bastard, creep, thief, and vulture, I couldn’t get through this either. Look at these good and tender and soft men, the best of us. They succumbed, poor loonies.” — Saul Bellow, Humboldt’s Gift
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