The Will To Sickness

by Gerhard Roth

This piece of fiction has been translated from German by Tristram Wolff and is part of Burning Deck's Dichten series which focuses on contemporary German writers.

The Will to Sickness is Gerhard Roth's classic 1973 novella. It reveals Roth's "objective prose" at its finest, where aggregates of particular impressions merge with a quasi-scientific emphasis on individual minute details.

"Shutting the window Kalb caught sight of himself for a moment in the mirror of the windowpane: his eyeballs looked exactly like a set of fried eggs"

The effect of this prose is surreal with an undertone of Angst that perceives anything as strange and menacing, the product of a hard-edged exploration of the strangeness of perception itself.

Genres: Fiction

113 pages, Paperback

First published January 1, 1973

About the author

Gerhard^Roth (this Austrian author)
Gerhard^^Roth (German Neurobiologist)
Gerhard^^^Roth (German travel guide books)

Gerhard Roth is perhaps the most important writer to emerge from that “hot-bed of geniuses,” the Forum Stadtpark, which has radically influenced German letters in the last two decades. His broad range of works, from experimental novels to plays and a children’s book, has earned him a number of major prizes, and several of his books have been filmed. An uncomfortable writer whose work revolves around extreme mental states and behaviour.

Reviews

[Nate D · Rating 4 out of 5]

How did Kalb endure the inconclusive events of his brain? The word fragments that were caught incessantly by his ear, his absorption of idiosyncratic time, bits of incidents, snippets of events? What made him suffer through this uninterrupted series of fragments? What made him experience these agonizing circumstances as normal?

THE MOST TEDIOUS DETAILS ARE ALWAYS THE MOST DREAMLIKE.

Nate boarded a bus. He was holding a book. Words crawled on the page, their edges crisply delineated against a white field. A closer examination revealed inconsistencies in the edges; their meanings, at this scale, were less clear. There was a flash of orange. It occurred on the outer surface of a backpack being worn by a child of eight or nine. The other prominent color occupying Nate's field of view was an unhealthy pink, shared equally across a dress being worn by the elderly women across the aisle, and the signage of a submarine sandwich merchant glimpsed beyond the window. The bus moved. The shop became occluded by the outer edge of the window, while the dress remained static. It occurred to Nate that at precisely this angle of incidence he sunlight penetrating the interior of the bus from behind him was nearly indistinguishable from the interior electric lighting. It occurred to him that this particular minute would be ideal for photography. This moment, of course, would occur at variable times on subsequent days, modified by season and weather. Finally, he reflected that Gerhard Roth was brilliant, possibly essential. If he was born in Austria, and wrote in German, was he still writing in Austria, as an Austrian writer, or had he moved to Germany at some point? Nate believed that Austrian was more or less a dialect of German anyway. If Roth was in fact writing in Austria, perhaps he had encountered Konrad Bayer at some point, though Bayer would have been somewhat older. A smell of exhaust suddenly overtook the bus interior. Gleaming metal pipes and rails formed a series of similar angles. Nate had yet to realize that he had already read and enjoyed Roth's later novel On the Brink. Once he did, he would still consider the dissecting-scalpel of ordinary perception contained within the book he was at that moment reading vastly superior, even.

[Greg · Rating 4 out of 5]

So I picked a short book, because I didn't want to spend too long reading my current book. This one weighing in at 120 pages, and having lots of pages with less than a half page of text seemed perfect. Little did I know it would take me one subway ride to work to finish the whole book, which sort of was too short for how long I wanted to spend on the book, but oh well.
Anyway, the book itself is kind of weird. I can see people not liking it, but I thought it was incredibly amusing. Basically a phenomenological novel, you know like the famous scene in Sartre's Nausea where he sees the mug of beer as something alien and sets the narrator off on his existential adventure. That's kind of what this book is like, but even more phenomenological (to be designated as P), or more P in it's totality, but not really quite as P as in Sartre, since the character in this book doesn't place the his entire subjectivity in a bracket, so to speak of course, but sees the entire world in a surreal medical world devoid of meaning most of the time. I found myself laughing out loud (well little chuckles, I was on a subway for the duration of the book) a few times, but they were probably things only semi-depressed aloof dorks would find funny, I thought I'd quote some of these things, but then I'd feel obligated to describe why they are funny, and it's never fun for anyone to go through that.
Hurrah for experimental literature.

[S̶e̶a̶n̶ · Rating 5 out of 5]

His urbane brain cut the most magnificent capers, as, chloroformed by fatigue, it directed its incoming perceptions along the most absurd paths and enjoyed the utter senselessness of its associations.

Hyper-consciousness of everything around, of everything inside, beneath the skin (organs, fluids, all sloshing together), tenuous connections with the outside world beyond the incessant observations and processing of said observations. Precise descriptions of the visceral appearance of bodies, preventing true/real connection, microscopic focus on parts not whole. Immaculate control of language, cinematic feel of the prose, like watching not reading Kalb and his (dis)orientation with the world around him, his desire/inability to sustain connection. Sickness as (un)conscious justification for symptomatic over-perception, this awareness both stimulating and stifling.

Kalb leaned back in his chair. He felt his shoulder-bones. The menu was laid before him. But Kalb had no money. The waiter’s sleeve brushed his hand. Kalb was on his own. His observations accumulated. The waiter’s suit was black. The determinacy of appearances and processes hovered threateningly, waiting to be recognized. He was silent. The words grew like ulcers in his head. At last he seized his opportunity to disappear inconspicuously.

[W.B. · Rating 5 out of 5]

A spectacularly successful example of the short novel. Dismal but fascinating for the rather Sartrean disembodiment of its narrator, and the jaundiced eye he casts on the world. Another novel in which "things" somehow take on a life of their own, and become frighteningly real in their ability to shape consciousness, and--it is suggested-- perhaps ARE our very consciousness. Imploding Cartesianism.

[Simon · Rating 5 out of 5]

Sartre's Nausea + Scott Walker's The Drift + Buñuel's Un Chien Andalou + Details + Details + Details + Details + Details + Details + Details + Details + Details + Details + Details + Details + Details + Details + Details + Details + Details + Details + Details + Details + Details + Details + Details = The Will To Sickness.

[Jim Elkins · Rating 3 out of 5]

Aha, a book with no review on Amazon (as of 2008) and no cover picture (again, on Amazon, in 2008). Always a good sign. This is not a very strong book, but it is full of sharp and unpleasant ideas. An intriguing writer.

[Loocuh Frayshure · Rating 4 out of 5]

Life, when looked at with a scalpel and atommic level microscope, becomes pretty fucking weird. That’s the gist of this “novel” that, despite its 110 pages, is really more like 30-40 since most pages are only 1/5 full of text. It’s an incredibly interesting writing style that reminds me of that mathematical and objective section of Ulysses sans anything but kind of bleak depression? Don’t expect a plot here—just go along with the ride and appreciate the artistry.

A solid 7/10.

[J.R. Moore · Rating 5 out of 5]

A short and fragmentary phenomenological nightmare. A man adrift in a world of disconcerting and disconnected objects. Shades of Sartre's Nausea and Handke's The Goalkeeper's Fear of the Penalty with a more grotesque edge to the imagery.

Highly recommended.

[Scott · Rating 2 out of 5]

Mercifully, it was very short.

[Moran Likely · Rating 2 out of 5]

Hmm....well, that was interesting.