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Froschnacht
Franz Thalmann ist Pfarrer, Ehemann und Familienvater, bis eines Tages sein Reißverschluss klemmt. Denn Kezi, seine »schiefe Bahn«, versteht sich auf Reißverschlussprobleme - ein Umstand, den weder Thalmanns Frau noch der Präsident des Kirchenstandes tolerieren können, am wenigsten aber Franzens Vater. Der sucht den »Schandfleck der Familie« allmonatlich heim, als Frosch im Hals des Sohnes, und bringt ihn zum Reden.
151 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1985
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667 people want to read
About the author
Markus Werner
19 books47 followersMarkus Werner (December 27, 1944 in Eschlikon, canton of Thurgau) was a German-speaking Swiss writer, the author of Zündels Abgang (Zündel’s Departure).
Life
Markus Werner was born in Eschlikon (canton of Thurgau). In 1948 the family moved to Thayngen (canton of Schaffhausen) where Werner finished school and passed the general qualification for university entrance in 1965. At the University of Zürich he studied German, Philosophy, and Psychology. In 1974 he completed a doctorate on Max Frisch, whose writing has an important influence on Werner. From 1975 to 1985, he worked as a main teacher, and from 1985 to 1990 as an assistant professor at the Kantonsschule (= preparatory high school) in Schaffhausen. He has dedicated himself exclusively to writing since 1990. Werner died on 3rd July 2016 in Schaffhausen.
Performances
The protagonists of Werner’s novels, have quit their jobs. Out of their eyes' view, Werner laconically describes everyday life astonished, with distress and with humour. The results are a lot of strictly calculated scenes and episodes, in which the course of the world appears in too sharp and sometimes laughable details, that Werner’s protagonists cannot deal with. Just this seemingly harmless everyday perfidies let them break down: the deaf ears of their fellow men, their cold, headstrong souls. Human deficiencies are described in a tragicomical way. Werner sees the self-evident as something strange, is astonished and wonders like a child. His protagonists want the right to make mistakes and have deficiencies (“self-assuredness is the sign of the yokel”, in: Die kalte Schulter, a Chinese saying). They crave for love, but at the same time curse the world, their fellow men and themselves.
Awards
1984 Prize of the Jürgen Ponto-foundation
1984 and 1993 singular work prize of the Swiss Schiller foundation
1986 Georg-Fischer-Prize of the city Schaffhausen
1990 Alemannic Literaturpreis
1993 Thomas Valentin-Literature price
1995 Prix littéraire Lipp; International Bodensee-Literature price
1997 Prize of the SWR-best-of-list
1999 Hermann Hesse-price
2000 Joseph Breitbach-price (jointly with Ilse Aichinger and W.G.Sebald)
2002 Johann Peter Hebel-price of Baden-Württemberg
2005 complete work prize of the Swiss Schiller foundation
2006 Bodensee-Literature prize of the city Überlingen
Works
Bilder des Endgültigen, Entwürfe des Möglichen. Zum Werk Max Frischs, Univ. Diss. 1974 (literally: “Pictures of the definitive. Drafts of the possible. About Max Frisch’s work”)
Zündels Abgang, novel, 1984, ISBN 3-7017-1385-5 (Zündel’s Departure)
Froschnacht, novel, 1985, ISBN 3-7017-0424-4, ISBN 3-423-11250-6 (literally: „Frog night“)
Die kalte Schulter, novel, 1989, ISBN 3-423-11672-2 (literally: „The cold shoulder“)
Bis bald, novel, 1992, ISBN 3-7017-0758-8, ISBN 3-423-12112-2 (2005/2006 in the book series Schweizer Bibliothek) (literally: „Good bye“)
Festland, novel, 1996, ISBN 3-7017-0969-6, ISBN 3-423-12529-2 (literally: „Mainland“)
Der ägyptische Heinrich, novel, 1999, ISBN 3-7017-1174-7, ISBN 3-423-12901-8 (literally: „The Egyptian Heinrich“)
Am Hang, novel, 2004, ISBN 3-10-091066-4 (literally: „Near the cliff“)
Life
Markus Werner was born in Eschlikon (canton of Thurgau). In 1948 the family moved to Thayngen (canton of Schaffhausen) where Werner finished school and passed the general qualification for university entrance in 1965. At the University of Zürich he studied German, Philosophy, and Psychology. In 1974 he completed a doctorate on Max Frisch, whose writing has an important influence on Werner. From 1975 to 1985, he worked as a main teacher, and from 1985 to 1990 as an assistant professor at the Kantonsschule (= preparatory high school) in Schaffhausen. He has dedicated himself exclusively to writing since 1990. Werner died on 3rd July 2016 in Schaffhausen.
Performances
The protagonists of Werner’s novels, have quit their jobs. Out of their eyes' view, Werner laconically describes everyday life astonished, with distress and with humour. The results are a lot of strictly calculated scenes and episodes, in which the course of the world appears in too sharp and sometimes laughable details, that Werner’s protagonists cannot deal with. Just this seemingly harmless everyday perfidies let them break down: the deaf ears of their fellow men, their cold, headstrong souls. Human deficiencies are described in a tragicomical way. Werner sees the self-evident as something strange, is astonished and wonders like a child. His protagonists want the right to make mistakes and have deficiencies (“self-assuredness is the sign of the yokel”, in: Die kalte Schulter, a Chinese saying). They crave for love, but at the same time curse the world, their fellow men and themselves.
Awards
1984 Prize of the Jürgen Ponto-foundation
1984 and 1993 singular work prize of the Swiss Schiller foundation
1986 Georg-Fischer-Prize of the city Schaffhausen
1990 Alemannic Literaturpreis
1993 Thomas Valentin-Literature price
1995 Prix littéraire Lipp; International Bodensee-Literature price
1997 Prize of the SWR-best-of-list
1999 Hermann Hesse-price
2000 Joseph Breitbach-price (jointly with Ilse Aichinger and W.G.Sebald)
2002 Johann Peter Hebel-price of Baden-Württemberg
2005 complete work prize of the Swiss Schiller foundation
2006 Bodensee-Literature prize of the city Überlingen
Works
Bilder des Endgültigen, Entwürfe des Möglichen. Zum Werk Max Frischs, Univ. Diss. 1974 (literally: “Pictures of the definitive. Drafts of the possible. About Max Frisch’s work”)
Zündels Abgang, novel, 1984, ISBN 3-7017-1385-5 (Zündel’s Departure)
Froschnacht, novel, 1985, ISBN 3-7017-0424-4, ISBN 3-423-11250-6 (literally: „Frog night“)
Die kalte Schulter, novel, 1989, ISBN 3-423-11672-2 (literally: „The cold shoulder“)
Bis bald, novel, 1992, ISBN 3-7017-0758-8, ISBN 3-423-12112-2 (2005/2006 in the book series Schweizer Bibliothek) (literally: „Good bye“)
Festland, novel, 1996, ISBN 3-7017-0969-6, ISBN 3-423-12529-2 (literally: „Mainland“)
Der ägyptische Heinrich, novel, 1999, ISBN 3-7017-1174-7, ISBN 3-423-12901-8 (literally: „The Egyptian Heinrich“)
Am Hang, novel, 2004, ISBN 3-10-091066-4 (literally: „Near the cliff“)
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April 19, 2025I made a BIG mistake! I posted my review of MULE BOY under this book, what an error! I haven't even read this as yet. I apologize, and please, if you liked it, like the correct book, too.
April 7, 2025
I have to confess to a reading error while reading this. I skipped the obligatory nyrb Introduction and went right to page one. I quickly became confused. Was Franz, who begins as narrator, a defrocked clergyman turned therapist, or did he milk cows the old-fashioned way? Did he marry and get divorced (his fault) from Helen, or did he stay married to Gret until she passed. And was Paul his brother, or his son? And yet, my confusion notwithstanding, I was enjoying the reading, taking copious notes. I plunged ahead. This is what males of the species do: we bolt our food, run upstairs, hurry, hurry. This is how we often injure ourselves; or miss the point.
And yet, I felt the author was taking his time putting it all together, so I paused, and went back to that skipped intro. There it was explained to me that the novel was written in alternating chapters, one by the son, Franz, followed by one by the father, Klement. I wished I had known that sooner, and better readers would have gone back to the beginning and started over. I mostly didn't.
My error did not prevent me from enjoying this. Those notes I kept taking were filled with observant profundities, and funny.
Funny how?
-- The cult of women and other persons of respect is put in handy perspective if one remembers: They too have digestive processes. This was a revelation of my younger years. My dear brother Paul, by contrast, found it a disabling insight that kept him from ever getting married.
-- Whoever has lived fifty, sixty, or seventy years and can't get his head around who's in charge of the planet and who's conniving to blow it up should have four more holes drilled in his butt instead of the eyes and ears he doesn't need and doesn't use.
-- (Of Paul): He needs a wife. Most bachelors are a bit peculiar, especially in their later years. Some turn to drink, others read their Bibles, others again are a deviled egg short of a picnic.
-- Authority has two faces, one kindly, one menacing. Whoever can protect me can also punish me. The shepherd's crook promises security, but God help the lamb bleating out of turn.
-- Her voice is a woman's most doubtful organ.
and . . .
-- Anyone saying "and yet" deserves to get smacked.
Wait, what?
As you can see, it matters little whether it's father or son who spouts such wisdom.
I mentioned above that Franz was married and divorced, the latter being his fault. It was, though Franz was moved to reflect on this bit of marital history:
Once, in the fourth year of my marriage, I got home late for some reason or other. Helen had been in bed for hours. A note was left for me on the lid of the lavatory, on a heart-shaped piece of paper. I felt pleased. Such things, as one may know, are what keep a marriage supple. What met my eyes was the following: "This WC has been newly scrubbed, and asks to be treated with respect." . . . Some eleven years later, I would not have hesitated to produce my pecker and willfully aim astray. Puddles on the Floor by I.P. Squint.
Now that I know what the author's method was, I really should go back to the beginning and start over. And I might, I just might. And yet . . .
And yet, I felt the author was taking his time putting it all together, so I paused, and went back to that skipped intro. There it was explained to me that the novel was written in alternating chapters, one by the son, Franz, followed by one by the father, Klement. I wished I had known that sooner, and better readers would have gone back to the beginning and started over. I mostly didn't.
My error did not prevent me from enjoying this. Those notes I kept taking were filled with observant profundities, and funny.
Funny how?
-- The cult of women and other persons of respect is put in handy perspective if one remembers: They too have digestive processes. This was a revelation of my younger years. My dear brother Paul, by contrast, found it a disabling insight that kept him from ever getting married.
-- Whoever has lived fifty, sixty, or seventy years and can't get his head around who's in charge of the planet and who's conniving to blow it up should have four more holes drilled in his butt instead of the eyes and ears he doesn't need and doesn't use.
-- (Of Paul): He needs a wife. Most bachelors are a bit peculiar, especially in their later years. Some turn to drink, others read their Bibles, others again are a deviled egg short of a picnic.
-- Authority has two faces, one kindly, one menacing. Whoever can protect me can also punish me. The shepherd's crook promises security, but God help the lamb bleating out of turn.
-- Her voice is a woman's most doubtful organ.
and . . .
-- Anyone saying "and yet" deserves to get smacked.
Wait, what?
As you can see, it matters little whether it's father or son who spouts such wisdom.
I mentioned above that Franz was married and divorced, the latter being his fault. It was, though Franz was moved to reflect on this bit of marital history:
Once, in the fourth year of my marriage, I got home late for some reason or other. Helen had been in bed for hours. A note was left for me on the lid of the lavatory, on a heart-shaped piece of paper. I felt pleased. Such things, as one may know, are what keep a marriage supple. What met my eyes was the following: "This WC has been newly scrubbed, and asks to be treated with respect." . . . Some eleven years later, I would not have hesitated to produce my pecker and willfully aim astray. Puddles on the Floor by I.P. Squint.
Now that I know what the author's method was, I really should go back to the beginning and start over. And I might, I just might. And yet . . .
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July 12, 2025Ein scheußliches Duett
Franz Thalmann hat seinen toten Vater im Hals. Nein, er ist kein einfacher Menschenfresser. Er leidet jedoch an einer Art kannibalisch-ödipalem Komplex. Wenn es so etwas in der postmodernen Psychologie noch nicht gibt, möchte ich diesen neuen Begriff gerne servieren…
Der Vater, Klemens, der trotz der Etymologie seines Namens kein posthumes „Clemens“ für seinen Sohn ist, sondern mit seinem ganzen Wesen nur in Franz’ Gurgel klemmt, ist der „Frosch“ in dessen Hals. Der Sohn bekommt seinen Vater nicht runter. Immer wieder quakt dieser dort drinnen direkt in Franz’ Kopf hinein. Der Vater findet nach seinem Tod keine Ruhe – weder im Hals noch im Bewusstsein seines Sohnes. Ja, beide lassen einander nicht mehr zur Ruhe kommen. Sie sind eingeschlossen in ein höllisches inneres Duett, einen unmöglichen, kopfwirbelnden Dialog, in dem sich zwei untrennbar verbundene Stimmen ewig kreuzen – in einem Teufelskreis, der wie ein Mühlrad in einem Bewusstseinsstrom kreist, fast ohne Ende und ohne Person. Einer ist das Opfer des anderen – und umgekehrt. Beide sind im Leben kläglich gescheitert.
Klemens Thalmann war Bauer und irgendwo zwischen seinen Kühen verschlammt; sein Lebens- und Kampfgebiet war begrenzt von Weiden, von den verdammten Melkmaschinen seiner Nachbarn, von der modernen Zeit überhaupt, die er zutiefst hasste – die Vergangenheit war immer besser als die Gegenwart, deren stumpfer Horizont ja eng genug ist, um deutlich in Zeitung und Radio hineinzupassen.
Franz Thalmann hat wegen Unzucht sowohl Beruf als auch Weib verloren. Er war Pfarrer. Jetzt ist er auch ein „Lebensberater“ – aber nicht mehr im Dienst Gottes. Nach seinem Fall wurde er zum „Anti-Theologen“, zu einem scharfzüngigen Psychologen, einem teuflischen Therapeuten, der luzid und verbittert über alles zwischen Himmel und Erde sinniert.
Die unaufhörliche Lamentatio in zwei Stimmen ist die einzige Virtuosität von Vater und Sohn – und vielleicht das Letzte, was sie noch miteinander anzufangen wissen. Oder?
Für Markus Werner ist Froschnacht jedenfalls ein sehr gelungenes Buch-Lied, das eine paradoxe Wirkung entfaltet: eine harmonische Dissonanz – oder eine disharmonische Assonanz –, getragen von einer wahnsinnigen Prosa, die sich dem Leser in den Kopf bohrt wie ein tiefdringender Ohrwurm.
Post Scriptum:
Ich habe feinkulturelle Begriffe wie Duett, Dialog und Lamentatio verwendet, um die Rabiosomusik zu beschreiben, die Pater und Filius machen – jeder für sich und gleichzeitig gegen den anderen. Dabei habe ich fast vergessen, dass es in diesem Buch nur einen Hals für zwei Männer gibt... Wenn der eine spricht, ist der andere wie gegurgelt – und wartet seinen Auftritt im Hals bis zum nächsten Kapitel ab. So geht das hin und her – wie in einem Rap Battle: Erst rappt der Sohn seine Schimpfimprovisatio, dann quakt der Vater seine zurück.
Sie haben unterschiedliche Stile, aber angesichts der zeitgenössisch frischen Sprachgewalt ist der Vergleich mit Rap gar nicht so abwegig, finde ich.
Um noch ein kleines Adagio oder Correctio einzuflechten: Ich hatte den Eindruck, dass vielmehr der Sohn quakt als der Vater. Seine Jammerweise ist manchmal abgehackt, sie kommt in kurzen Wortsprudeln, wirkt fragmentarisch – wie ein Schimpf-Schluckauf (bedingt durch den Frosch im Hals und die ödipalen Hemmungen).
Wenn aber der Vater zu Wort kommt, nutzt er den Hals seines Sohnes frei und rücksichtslos – wie ein echtes Sprach- und Ablaufrohr für ein ganzes Scheißleben, das post mortem in einen Schimpfstrom verwandelt worden ist.
Trotz aller Generations-, Kultur- und Bildungsunterschiede – und trotz der psychischen, physischen und geistigen Kommunikationsbarrieren zwischen ihnen – erscheinen sowohl Vater als auch Sohn trostlos klug und tief melancholisch. Franz und Klemens Thalmann sind weit mehr ineinander eingeschlossen als voneinander getrennt. Sie scheinen einander manchmal zu antworten oder sich sogar zu wiederholen – obwohl die Stimmen und die Worte verschieden sind –, und nicht sofort, sondern mit Abstand, über viele Seiten hinweg. Zur Illustration lasse ich nur zwei ihrer Tiraden folgen:
Sohn:
Im allgemeinen aber wächst das Erwachsensein sich aus, die Fähigkeit, Naßkaltes zu verkraften und sich ihm anzubiedern, schwindet, und es erneuert sich der frühe, alte Sinn für das Bedrohliche. Dem Nach-Erwachsenen wird wieder vieles ungeheuer, und vieles, was ihm schwer durchschaubar scheint, kommt neu hinzu und steigert sein Gefühl der Fremdheit: Was habe ich verloren in einer Welt, die Tag für Tag zunimmt um Millionen Dinge, die ich nicht verstehe, um Taten und um Theorien, die mir dunkel bleiben? Was weiß ich über Mikroelektronik mehr, als daß sie piepst? Wer faßt und ortet sich noch selbst, wenn um ihn lauter Rätselhaftes wimmelt? Wer widersteht der Ohnmacht wie? Wer wird warum nicht dumm?
So fragt der Nach-Erwachsene fast flehend, und die Erwachsenen verziehen ihren Mund und tauschen Blicke.
Vater:
Jaja, kein Mensch wird aus den Menschen schlau, da kannst du hundert Bücher lesen, du kommst nicht weiter, das ist meine Meinung, und früher hab ich stets gedacht: Wenn ich dann älter bin, durchschau ich manches. Du siehst, solang du jung bist, die alten Männer mit den weißen Haaren und denkst: Sie sind zwar alt und abgehalftert, doch haben sie Erfahrung und wissen über Lebensdinge dies und das, sie schwimmen nicht wie wir und sind wahrscheinlich weise. Und plötzlich bist du selber alt und grau und merkst, daß du sonst nichts bist, nur alt und grau und ahnungslos wie eh und je, drum sage ich: Bescheid weiß keiner. Ich denke oft, man sollte alles mal von oben sehn, von ganz weit oben sollte man das Weltgetümmel einmal mustern, wer weiß, was man da alles sähe, was für Zusammenhänge, was für ungeahnte Brücken und Verkoppelungen sich da zeigten, vielleicht auch umgekehrt: Was für ein finstrer Wirrwarr, welch ein konfuser Schimmelpilz, ich weiß es nicht. So oder so, man sähe alles ungefähr so zwergig, wie es wohl letzten Endes ist, und würde vielleicht Tränen lachen, ich weiß es nicht, ich sehe nur die Menschen, die schon geflogen sind und die es also wissen müßten, ich sehe, wie sie scharenweise aus dem Flugzeug steigen und auf der Erde weiterkrabbeln, als wäre nichts gewesen, der Mensch lernt nichts und will auch gar nichts lernen und grunzt herum[...]
Franz Thalmann hat seinen toten Vater im Hals. Nein, er ist kein einfacher Menschenfresser. Er leidet jedoch an einer Art kannibalisch-ödipalem Komplex. Wenn es so etwas in der postmodernen Psychologie noch nicht gibt, möchte ich diesen neuen Begriff gerne servieren…
Der Vater, Klemens, der trotz der Etymologie seines Namens kein posthumes „Clemens“ für seinen Sohn ist, sondern mit seinem ganzen Wesen nur in Franz’ Gurgel klemmt, ist der „Frosch“ in dessen Hals. Der Sohn bekommt seinen Vater nicht runter. Immer wieder quakt dieser dort drinnen direkt in Franz’ Kopf hinein. Der Vater findet nach seinem Tod keine Ruhe – weder im Hals noch im Bewusstsein seines Sohnes. Ja, beide lassen einander nicht mehr zur Ruhe kommen. Sie sind eingeschlossen in ein höllisches inneres Duett, einen unmöglichen, kopfwirbelnden Dialog, in dem sich zwei untrennbar verbundene Stimmen ewig kreuzen – in einem Teufelskreis, der wie ein Mühlrad in einem Bewusstseinsstrom kreist, fast ohne Ende und ohne Person. Einer ist das Opfer des anderen – und umgekehrt. Beide sind im Leben kläglich gescheitert.
Klemens Thalmann war Bauer und irgendwo zwischen seinen Kühen verschlammt; sein Lebens- und Kampfgebiet war begrenzt von Weiden, von den verdammten Melkmaschinen seiner Nachbarn, von der modernen Zeit überhaupt, die er zutiefst hasste – die Vergangenheit war immer besser als die Gegenwart, deren stumpfer Horizont ja eng genug ist, um deutlich in Zeitung und Radio hineinzupassen.
Ich pfeif auf Weisheit. Ich pfeif drauf, hier zu sitzen auf dem Melkstuhl und jede Schurkerei mit Heilandslächeln zu quittieren. Wo führt das hin. Wo führt es hin, wenn jeder Schwachsinn, jeder miese Kabis zuerst geduldet, dann verziehen wird? Schau dich doch um, dann siehst du’s. Lies Zeitung. Höre Radio. Alles lädiert. Saustallgeplapper und Reportagen aus der Güllengrube, dazwischen Fußball, fertig. Und wenn man dann im Löwen hockt und sagt, wie’s wirklich ist, dann heißt es: Bist ein Sauertopf, wir sind zum Jassen hier, kannst deine Referate deinen Kühen halten.
Franz Thalmann hat wegen Unzucht sowohl Beruf als auch Weib verloren. Er war Pfarrer. Jetzt ist er auch ein „Lebensberater“ – aber nicht mehr im Dienst Gottes. Nach seinem Fall wurde er zum „Anti-Theologen“, zu einem scharfzüngigen Psychologen, einem teuflischen Therapeuten, der luzid und verbittert über alles zwischen Himmel und Erde sinniert.
Neunundvierzig. Spannkraft läßt nach, stülpst dich kaum noch um, hin die Seligkeit. Thalmann. Saufbruder, abverreckter Pfaff, Lebensberater seither, verflucht erfolgreich. An Froschtagen geschlossen, sonst aber quillt die Praxis über. [...]
Vater ist tot, hat mich verdammt und hat mich ausgelöscht in sich. Mit seinen Kühen sprach er über alles, nicht über Franz, nicht über Franzens große Sünde. Sein Stolz war ich und später seine Schande. Ein Pfarrer, handkehrum ein geiler Weiberschnüffler, der blindlings Frau und Kind verläßt. Zuviel, zuviel für Klemens Thalmann selig.
Die unaufhörliche Lamentatio in zwei Stimmen ist die einzige Virtuosität von Vater und Sohn – und vielleicht das Letzte, was sie noch miteinander anzufangen wissen. Oder?
Für Markus Werner ist Froschnacht jedenfalls ein sehr gelungenes Buch-Lied, das eine paradoxe Wirkung entfaltet: eine harmonische Dissonanz – oder eine disharmonische Assonanz –, getragen von einer wahnsinnigen Prosa, die sich dem Leser in den Kopf bohrt wie ein tiefdringender Ohrwurm.
Post Scriptum:
Ich habe feinkulturelle Begriffe wie Duett, Dialog und Lamentatio verwendet, um die Rabiosomusik zu beschreiben, die Pater und Filius machen – jeder für sich und gleichzeitig gegen den anderen. Dabei habe ich fast vergessen, dass es in diesem Buch nur einen Hals für zwei Männer gibt... Wenn der eine spricht, ist der andere wie gegurgelt – und wartet seinen Auftritt im Hals bis zum nächsten Kapitel ab. So geht das hin und her – wie in einem Rap Battle: Erst rappt der Sohn seine Schimpfimprovisatio, dann quakt der Vater seine zurück.
Sie haben unterschiedliche Stile, aber angesichts der zeitgenössisch frischen Sprachgewalt ist der Vergleich mit Rap gar nicht so abwegig, finde ich.
Um noch ein kleines Adagio oder Correctio einzuflechten: Ich hatte den Eindruck, dass vielmehr der Sohn quakt als der Vater. Seine Jammerweise ist manchmal abgehackt, sie kommt in kurzen Wortsprudeln, wirkt fragmentarisch – wie ein Schimpf-Schluckauf (bedingt durch den Frosch im Hals und die ödipalen Hemmungen).
Wenn aber der Vater zu Wort kommt, nutzt er den Hals seines Sohnes frei und rücksichtslos – wie ein echtes Sprach- und Ablaufrohr für ein ganzes Scheißleben, das post mortem in einen Schimpfstrom verwandelt worden ist.
Trotz aller Generations-, Kultur- und Bildungsunterschiede – und trotz der psychischen, physischen und geistigen Kommunikationsbarrieren zwischen ihnen – erscheinen sowohl Vater als auch Sohn trostlos klug und tief melancholisch. Franz und Klemens Thalmann sind weit mehr ineinander eingeschlossen als voneinander getrennt. Sie scheinen einander manchmal zu antworten oder sich sogar zu wiederholen – obwohl die Stimmen und die Worte verschieden sind –, und nicht sofort, sondern mit Abstand, über viele Seiten hinweg. Zur Illustration lasse ich nur zwei ihrer Tiraden folgen:
Sohn:
Im allgemeinen aber wächst das Erwachsensein sich aus, die Fähigkeit, Naßkaltes zu verkraften und sich ihm anzubiedern, schwindet, und es erneuert sich der frühe, alte Sinn für das Bedrohliche. Dem Nach-Erwachsenen wird wieder vieles ungeheuer, und vieles, was ihm schwer durchschaubar scheint, kommt neu hinzu und steigert sein Gefühl der Fremdheit: Was habe ich verloren in einer Welt, die Tag für Tag zunimmt um Millionen Dinge, die ich nicht verstehe, um Taten und um Theorien, die mir dunkel bleiben? Was weiß ich über Mikroelektronik mehr, als daß sie piepst? Wer faßt und ortet sich noch selbst, wenn um ihn lauter Rätselhaftes wimmelt? Wer widersteht der Ohnmacht wie? Wer wird warum nicht dumm?
So fragt der Nach-Erwachsene fast flehend, und die Erwachsenen verziehen ihren Mund und tauschen Blicke.
Vater:
Jaja, kein Mensch wird aus den Menschen schlau, da kannst du hundert Bücher lesen, du kommst nicht weiter, das ist meine Meinung, und früher hab ich stets gedacht: Wenn ich dann älter bin, durchschau ich manches. Du siehst, solang du jung bist, die alten Männer mit den weißen Haaren und denkst: Sie sind zwar alt und abgehalftert, doch haben sie Erfahrung und wissen über Lebensdinge dies und das, sie schwimmen nicht wie wir und sind wahrscheinlich weise. Und plötzlich bist du selber alt und grau und merkst, daß du sonst nichts bist, nur alt und grau und ahnungslos wie eh und je, drum sage ich: Bescheid weiß keiner. Ich denke oft, man sollte alles mal von oben sehn, von ganz weit oben sollte man das Weltgetümmel einmal mustern, wer weiß, was man da alles sähe, was für Zusammenhänge, was für ungeahnte Brücken und Verkoppelungen sich da zeigten, vielleicht auch umgekehrt: Was für ein finstrer Wirrwarr, welch ein konfuser Schimmelpilz, ich weiß es nicht. So oder so, man sähe alles ungefähr so zwergig, wie es wohl letzten Endes ist, und würde vielleicht Tränen lachen, ich weiß es nicht, ich sehe nur die Menschen, die schon geflogen sind und die es also wissen müßten, ich sehe, wie sie scharenweise aus dem Flugzeug steigen und auf der Erde weiterkrabbeln, als wäre nichts gewesen, der Mensch lernt nichts und will auch gar nichts lernen und grunzt herum[...]
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July 7, 2025Franz Thalmann hat einen "Frosch im Hals". Die Ursache ist sein Vater Klemens. Die schwierige Beziehung lebt nach dem Tod des Vaters in Form des Frosches weiter und der sucht ihn jeden Monat für genau drei Tage heim. Nach meiner Erfahrung sorgt so ein Frosch im Hals eher für Redehemmung, bei den Thalmanns ist offenbar das Gegenteil der Fall.
Abwechselnd lamentieren Vater und Sohn in zehn Kapiteln über Gott und die Welt und ihren Hader mit beidem. Dabei zeigt Markus Werner gekonnt sein messerscharf geschliffenes Mundwerk, dass es vor Witz, Ironie und Kalauern nur so blitzt. Vater Klemens war Bauer und spricht beim Melken mit seinen Kühen, er ätzt über seine Nachbarn und ihre Melkmaschinen, das Land, die Religion, die Hast moderner Zeiten, die Verblödung wie Sport und Fernsehen.
Franz war Pfarrer bis ihm eine laue Sommernacht sein Kirchenamt kostete und einen Tripper bescherte. Seine Frau liess sich scheiden und er verdingt sich jetzt als Lebensberater. Auch er nimmt sich kein Blatt vor den Mund, sinniert und deklamiert wortreich über Ehe, Familie und Beruf, über Autorität und Kontrolle, Schuld und Versagen, bis zum Verlust von Glaube und Sinn.
Mir hat vor allem die direkte, authentische Sprache gefallen, und ganz besonders die rhythmische Phrasierung des Texts. Noch nicht ganz ein Rap, aber kunstvoll und auf den Punkt getimed.
Inhaltlich bietet die Tirade wenig Überraschungen, ein Rundumschlag gegen alles, viel Beziehungskiste, thematisch halt sehr in den 80er Jahren. Aber es steigert sich und gegen Ende - Vater Thalmann hat seine Tochter Anna und seine Frau verloren, bekommt die Geschichte auch emotional Tiefgang.
Insgesamt waren die 150 Seiten ein durchaus erfreuliches, originelles und kurzweiliges Leseerlebnis.
Abwechselnd lamentieren Vater und Sohn in zehn Kapiteln über Gott und die Welt und ihren Hader mit beidem. Dabei zeigt Markus Werner gekonnt sein messerscharf geschliffenes Mundwerk, dass es vor Witz, Ironie und Kalauern nur so blitzt. Vater Klemens war Bauer und spricht beim Melken mit seinen Kühen, er ätzt über seine Nachbarn und ihre Melkmaschinen, das Land, die Religion, die Hast moderner Zeiten, die Verblödung wie Sport und Fernsehen.
Franz war Pfarrer bis ihm eine laue Sommernacht sein Kirchenamt kostete und einen Tripper bescherte. Seine Frau liess sich scheiden und er verdingt sich jetzt als Lebensberater. Auch er nimmt sich kein Blatt vor den Mund, sinniert und deklamiert wortreich über Ehe, Familie und Beruf, über Autorität und Kontrolle, Schuld und Versagen, bis zum Verlust von Glaube und Sinn.
Mir hat vor allem die direkte, authentische Sprache gefallen, und ganz besonders die rhythmische Phrasierung des Texts. Noch nicht ganz ein Rap, aber kunstvoll und auf den Punkt getimed.
Inhaltlich bietet die Tirade wenig Überraschungen, ein Rundumschlag gegen alles, viel Beziehungskiste, thematisch halt sehr in den 80er Jahren. Aber es steigert sich und gegen Ende - Vater Thalmann hat seine Tochter Anna und seine Frau verloren, bekommt die Geschichte auch emotional Tiefgang.
Insgesamt waren die 150 Seiten ein durchaus erfreuliches, originelles und kurzweiliges Leseerlebnis.
March 27, 2025
In some moments this felt dominated by a sort of Bernhard-ian cynicism (and dare I say misanthropy), but it nearly always redeemed these sentiments, which is the difference between outright cynicism and a frustration with modernity borne of a redemptive love of humanity. Which is to say that the book does a lot for 120-ish pages!
November 17, 2025
At first I thought this was destined for the DNF pile, but then I found myself settling into the rhythm of how each chapter is structured. A masterpiece.
April 4, 2025
Bernhard’s loser gets lost in Beckett’s labyrinth of lookings and his paragraph-length run-on disquisitions end up broken and fragmented on the rocks. But Werner’s ex-minister keeps his heart (if not his faith) regardless what the world throws at him:
“In spite of all, persistence of positive, almost tender feelings. No hatred, only a sort of counter-grouse from time to time. Also impatience: Father, abandon me. No need to kill the fatted calf for your disgraceful son, just let him breathe a little easier. Why so unforgiving. You were hardly without stain yourself. You were human as well.”
“In spite of all, persistence of positive, almost tender feelings. No hatred, only a sort of counter-grouse from time to time. Also impatience: Father, abandon me. No need to kill the fatted calf for your disgraceful son, just let him breathe a little easier. Why so unforgiving. You were hardly without stain yourself. You were human as well.”
June 17, 2025
There's good prose here, and quite a few funny moments. But from the description, I was hoping for something more quirky and dark.
May 24, 2025
“Authority has two faces, one kindly, one menacing. Whoever can protect me can also punish me.
The shepherd’s crook promises security, but God help the lamb bleating out of turn.”
-
“I promise you one thing, though: One day I’ll be sitting under a grapevine, or maybe a fig tree. I’ll draw deep and satisfying breaths through my shamelessly open mouth, and the sun will warm my tonsils, and no one will stop me. You’ll be lying off to the side in the grass, still just about wiggling, but little more than a corpse.”
The shepherd’s crook promises security, but God help the lamb bleating out of turn.”
-
“I promise you one thing, though: One day I’ll be sitting under a grapevine, or maybe a fig tree. I’ll draw deep and satisfying breaths through my shamelessly open mouth, and the sun will warm my tonsils, and no one will stop me. You’ll be lying off to the side in the grass, still just about wiggling, but little more than a corpse.”
April 19, 2025
As a serial grump, it's nice to feel represented in literature
January 25, 2021
Der Frosch besetzt den Hals und erzwingt die Lebensbeichte. Steckt dahinter denn der Geist des toten Vaters? Wie auch immer, Markus Werner lässt in "Froschnacht" seine Hauptperson Franz Thalmann einen schonungslosen Bericht ablegen. Der fremdgehende Pfarrer, der mogelnde Lebensberater - die über allem schwebende Last seiner Familie. Durchzogen mit misogynen Kommentaren und einer ungeschönten Sprache ist der Roman mehr Aufzeichnung als erzählende Geschichte.
Was zum Teil wunderbar funktioniert und besonders dann, wenn der Vater von Franz die zentrale Position einnimmt und den ehemaligen Alltag in der Schweiz unverblümt darlegt, ist oft etwas wirr und unfokusiert. Trotz der Kürze hatte ich längere Zeit Mühe, Rhythmus und Vergnügen bei der Lektüre zu finden.
Was zum Teil wunderbar funktioniert und besonders dann, wenn der Vater von Franz die zentrale Position einnimmt und den ehemaligen Alltag in der Schweiz unverblümt darlegt, ist oft etwas wirr und unfokusiert. Trotz der Kürze hatte ich längere Zeit Mühe, Rhythmus und Vergnügen bei der Lektüre zu finden.
October 13, 2016
Ein Roman? Es wirkt eher wie weitgehend unglaubliche und doch sehr lebensnahe autobiografische Tagebuchnotizen. Dies von einem pessimistischen Cholderi und Nörgeler. Schon der Sprachrhythmus fällt auf: kein Walzer, kein Tango, ein Foxtrott eher, mit festem, stapfendem Schritt, etwas holpernd und stolpernd. Aber er passt erstaunlich gut zu diesem ehemaligen Pfarrer, der nach der Verführung durch eine Dirne aus der Bahn geworfen wird. Der Grundtenor ist durchaus misogyn, die Frauen kommen nicht gut weg. So schleppt sich dieser Antiheld durch die verkommene, verlogene, verstunkene Welt, knapp am Suizid vorbei dem baldigen Ende zu. Der Sprachwitz und die konzise Formulierung rettet dem Buch den einen oder anderen Stern.
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April 10, 2025she squeezed me, and i may say, wildly, and with abandon. i knew at once and for the first time: you stern man, now you have no choice, the only possible way forward for you is sin, and therefore it is no sin.
whatever is left of a person who avoids so-called sin is barely worth mentioning. but let me mention it anyway: a savorless gobbet of wretchedness.
[]
soul--the quintessence of duration--inheres only in what is lasting, for which reason Christianity, following in the wake of platonism, only tolerates the act of love in the context of a stable marriage. nowadays, the progressive theologian allows true love. he says: the desire for permanence is in its nature, and, so saying, gilds a thing that last about half an hour.
i am neither a zoologist nor a historian. hence, i am unable to say just when the act ceased to be self-validating, at what point, in other words, it became ambitious, at what point the desire seized it to become expressive and to see itself as the indicator of an emotional vibration. anyway, the autonomy of the flesh that we may witness in dogs and in the monkey house is over. a visa requirement has been introduced: love. on the one hand set up as a barrier to unbridled lust, on the other as a free pass for pleasure and a guarantee that it can function without conscience spasms, supposing that it is working in the legitimate service of something altogether nobler.
nothing against love, faithfulness, marriage. nothing against duration and quality. as a human being, i'm in favor of all that. only, it's not much of a draw.
[]
in the morning i'm miserable, at night i'm scared, and during the day i'm at pains not to attract attention, putting one foot in front of the other, forming sentences, not killing myself, showering regularly. and i give advice to people and listen to them and feel moved by their confidence in me. i sit around, i drink, i brood. i pat myself down for flaws and find many and each evening i say: starting tomorrow i'm going to get a grip.
i waver between conflicting feelings. one: you need to change everything. the other: true love transcends circumstances. chaos is waiting to be kissed by god, without the sun what's frozen stays frozen. it's as though what's neglected pricks up its ears as not to miss the word of love. love that transcends circumstances is not, as one might fear, conservative. after all, it doesn't conserve, it alters, thaws, makes movement and transformation possible. it should all be different.
the ability to love is grace.
whatever is left of a person who avoids so-called sin is barely worth mentioning. but let me mention it anyway: a savorless gobbet of wretchedness.
[]
soul--the quintessence of duration--inheres only in what is lasting, for which reason Christianity, following in the wake of platonism, only tolerates the act of love in the context of a stable marriage. nowadays, the progressive theologian allows true love. he says: the desire for permanence is in its nature, and, so saying, gilds a thing that last about half an hour.
i am neither a zoologist nor a historian. hence, i am unable to say just when the act ceased to be self-validating, at what point, in other words, it became ambitious, at what point the desire seized it to become expressive and to see itself as the indicator of an emotional vibration. anyway, the autonomy of the flesh that we may witness in dogs and in the monkey house is over. a visa requirement has been introduced: love. on the one hand set up as a barrier to unbridled lust, on the other as a free pass for pleasure and a guarantee that it can function without conscience spasms, supposing that it is working in the legitimate service of something altogether nobler.
nothing against love, faithfulness, marriage. nothing against duration and quality. as a human being, i'm in favor of all that. only, it's not much of a draw.
[]
in the morning i'm miserable, at night i'm scared, and during the day i'm at pains not to attract attention, putting one foot in front of the other, forming sentences, not killing myself, showering regularly. and i give advice to people and listen to them and feel moved by their confidence in me. i sit around, i drink, i brood. i pat myself down for flaws and find many and each evening i say: starting tomorrow i'm going to get a grip.
i waver between conflicting feelings. one: you need to change everything. the other: true love transcends circumstances. chaos is waiting to be kissed by god, without the sun what's frozen stays frozen. it's as though what's neglected pricks up its ears as not to miss the word of love. love that transcends circumstances is not, as one might fear, conservative. after all, it doesn't conserve, it alters, thaws, makes movement and transformation possible. it should all be different.
the ability to love is grace.
September 22, 2025
Told from the perspectives of a father and a son. They represent two different generations and, at first, represent contrasting points-of-view about society, marriage, and culture. However, by the end, their existential thoughts cohere in many ways about sporadic joy in life, the seeming insignificance of single human life in the grand scheme of the world, and anxieties about the afterlife.
December 10, 2025
Blijkbaar was de kikker een metafoor
March 29, 2025
Alternating monologue of a defrocked priest now counsellor and his deceased farmer father. Births, deaths and suicide across generations. Occasionally comic, oddly dispiriting and bleakly memorable.
"We grope for the wall like the blind, and we grope as if we had no eyes: we stumble at noonday as in the night, we are in desolate places as dead men."
Elderflower in a graveyard.
"We grope for the wall like the blind, and we grope as if we had no eyes: we stumble at noonday as in the night, we are in desolate places as dead men."
Elderflower in a graveyard.
November 12, 2025
I had a hard time reading this. The alternating son/father episodes got to be confusing.
August 1, 2025
Father-son duo yells at clouds
October 30, 2025
First half was watching men ruminate on the self hatred and emasculation the world makes them feel. Whether it be god, fathers or men they don’t know. Then it became Something something wanting/believing noble values but failing to live up to the occasion something something Original Sin. In the final chapter/s it became for me how a cruel and meaningless world beats down the spirit, which for me redeemed it some.
Spells it out on the last page: “Man lives badly.”
Spells it out on the last page: “Man lives badly.”
August 5, 2025
Simultaneously heavy and hilarious.
July 10, 2025
Markus Werner’s Froschnacht (The Frog in the Throat) presents a narrative voice or voices which illustrate Swiss perspectives on life over two generations. While the task can seem gratuitously daunting and initially perplexing to a reader, a scrupulous one will be rewarded. The voices are bitter and, very often, funny in the same vein as Austrian curmudgeon Thomas Bernhard’s. The scope of the book is enormous, covering a time span from the 1920’s to the mid-1980’s in a meandering stream of consciousness, non-chronological fashion which relates the humdrum details of human existence. And despite this, the book clocks in at a mere 122 pages (151 in the German original). Every sentence is dripping with meaning and a vague odd precision that is utterly compelling.
I became aware of Markus Werner (1944-2016) only recently when his English language translator, Michael Hoffman,* wrote a review touting his new translation of the above for the NYRB. Always on the lookout for a reasonably contemporary German language book, I bought an early hardbound printing of Froschnacht from a Swiss dealer. I pride myself on reading German language literature in the original and, although my language abilities have deteriorated since living in Switzerland during the early 90’s, I need to regularly expose myself to a range of German language authors, their syntax, and vocabularies in order to merely tread water and not metaphorically drown in German. As with most foreign language readers, I will always have some lacunae and gaps. I strive to read without translating in my head, but if the lacunae become overwhelming, I grab my trusty PONS dictionary. One of the reasons I continually turn back to Thomas Bernhard is because I identify with his narrators and their Weltanschauung so thoroughly that I can mostly read Bernhard’s works without a dictionary at all. On the other end of the spectrum, I avoid straight German philosophy. It is best that I stick to English language translations of Nietzsche or Walter Benjamin, if I am intrepid and inclined.**
My literary aesthetic leaves me strongly biased towards stream of consciousness works, which present unique obstacles as I grapple with them in a non-native tongue.*** Without a linear plot, a non-native reader lacks anchors to help with knowledge gaps.
While on some level I feel that I am cheating, sometimes I swallow my pride and read a German or French work in translation (or side by side with texts in both English and the source language within reach). I grappled with Froschnacht for a couple of weeks but never seemed to get beyond page 30 in the German. I felt like I “got” the narrative theme and point, yet I felt like Werner presents such unique and precise voices that I didn’t want to miss the least detail. There is a complexity and subtlety to the voices that Werner creates that I feared overlooking the most seemingly insignificant detail. Thus, I ordered Hoffman’s English translation from my local bookstore and absorbed it in two sittings. Such is the brilliance of Werner that I will immediately reread the work in German after finishing this review, freed of any angst that I may overlook anything due to my atrophied German language ability.
In short, Froschnacht is a masterpiece. Werner’s second novel deals with the generation gap between father and son, a gap that is further emphasized by the advanced formal cosmopolitan education of the minister son and main protagonist Franz Thalmann as compared to simple rural dairy farmer world of his father Klement, who has been deceased for half a year. Despite being dead, Klement haunts his son by appearing regularly as a “frog in his throat,” an unwanted intrusive thought. Thus, the two world views collide or, rather, coalesce since, as both the German and English expressions proclaim, Der Apfel fällt nicht Weit vom Stamm (the Apple doesn’t fall far from the tree). While some readers might complain that the overlapping voices are hard to distinguish, this is precisely Werner’s intent. Both voices are bleak and cynical, dripping with mordant wit that is thoroughly deadpan and bitterly Swiss. Although the father disowned Franz for a sexual escapade with the town strumpet that led to his son being defrocked and losing his wife and children, the tones of the disgraced son and deceased father are virtually indistinguishable in their pessimistic sorrow and abnegation of any sort of spiritual salvation for mankind. Both veer towards scatological statements and a frank acceptance of excreta as a metaphor. While the son reminisces, but without any discernable regret, about losing his family and the absurdity of his once having given relationship and marriage advice as a minster and counselor to his flock, the father ruminates as he milks his cows; Klement is the last representative of an old guard that still milks by hand and thus has a lot to say about technological “advances.”
Markus Werner studied German at the Universität von Zurich and wrote his thesis on the pre-eminent Swiss writer of his generation, Max Frisch. He wrote his early novels, including his second, Froschnacht, while working as a teacher in a Kantonschule. His humble yet accomplished life and ability to present difficult themes in a vague and surreal manner, i.e. a father haunting his son’s thoughts monthly, harkens comparisons to Franz Kafka. The voices in Froschnacht are an example of Modernism at its finest. There are plenty of details specific to Swiss German life, yet the details all have a universality that makes them eternally pertinent. Michael Hofmann does a masterful job localizing in his translation, grappling with the thorny issues of difficult-to-translate aspects of Swiss life and culture. The father and son duo of Franz and Klement may be archetypally Swiss, but their woes and life observations are immediately relatable to readers from Western cultures.
*Hofmann is—perhaps—the foremost German to English literary translator working today. If Hofmann chooses to translate a work, it is—as a rule—worthy of a read.
**I have not attempted either in the original in over 3 decades.
***This was recently the case when I was mired in a second reread of Nelly Arcan’s fabulous debut novel Putain, a first-person narrative of an escort presented as a monologue to the protagonist’s therapist. I opted to eventually switch to the English translation Whore to save time. Add the confusion of a “second” voice in Frog in the Throat and I made a similar decision.
I became aware of Markus Werner (1944-2016) only recently when his English language translator, Michael Hoffman,* wrote a review touting his new translation of the above for the NYRB. Always on the lookout for a reasonably contemporary German language book, I bought an early hardbound printing of Froschnacht from a Swiss dealer. I pride myself on reading German language literature in the original and, although my language abilities have deteriorated since living in Switzerland during the early 90’s, I need to regularly expose myself to a range of German language authors, their syntax, and vocabularies in order to merely tread water and not metaphorically drown in German. As with most foreign language readers, I will always have some lacunae and gaps. I strive to read without translating in my head, but if the lacunae become overwhelming, I grab my trusty PONS dictionary. One of the reasons I continually turn back to Thomas Bernhard is because I identify with his narrators and their Weltanschauung so thoroughly that I can mostly read Bernhard’s works without a dictionary at all. On the other end of the spectrum, I avoid straight German philosophy. It is best that I stick to English language translations of Nietzsche or Walter Benjamin, if I am intrepid and inclined.**
My literary aesthetic leaves me strongly biased towards stream of consciousness works, which present unique obstacles as I grapple with them in a non-native tongue.*** Without a linear plot, a non-native reader lacks anchors to help with knowledge gaps.
While on some level I feel that I am cheating, sometimes I swallow my pride and read a German or French work in translation (or side by side with texts in both English and the source language within reach). I grappled with Froschnacht for a couple of weeks but never seemed to get beyond page 30 in the German. I felt like I “got” the narrative theme and point, yet I felt like Werner presents such unique and precise voices that I didn’t want to miss the least detail. There is a complexity and subtlety to the voices that Werner creates that I feared overlooking the most seemingly insignificant detail. Thus, I ordered Hoffman’s English translation from my local bookstore and absorbed it in two sittings. Such is the brilliance of Werner that I will immediately reread the work in German after finishing this review, freed of any angst that I may overlook anything due to my atrophied German language ability.
In short, Froschnacht is a masterpiece. Werner’s second novel deals with the generation gap between father and son, a gap that is further emphasized by the advanced formal cosmopolitan education of the minister son and main protagonist Franz Thalmann as compared to simple rural dairy farmer world of his father Klement, who has been deceased for half a year. Despite being dead, Klement haunts his son by appearing regularly as a “frog in his throat,” an unwanted intrusive thought. Thus, the two world views collide or, rather, coalesce since, as both the German and English expressions proclaim, Der Apfel fällt nicht Weit vom Stamm (the Apple doesn’t fall far from the tree). While some readers might complain that the overlapping voices are hard to distinguish, this is precisely Werner’s intent. Both voices are bleak and cynical, dripping with mordant wit that is thoroughly deadpan and bitterly Swiss. Although the father disowned Franz for a sexual escapade with the town strumpet that led to his son being defrocked and losing his wife and children, the tones of the disgraced son and deceased father are virtually indistinguishable in their pessimistic sorrow and abnegation of any sort of spiritual salvation for mankind. Both veer towards scatological statements and a frank acceptance of excreta as a metaphor. While the son reminisces, but without any discernable regret, about losing his family and the absurdity of his once having given relationship and marriage advice as a minster and counselor to his flock, the father ruminates as he milks his cows; Klement is the last representative of an old guard that still milks by hand and thus has a lot to say about technological “advances.”
Markus Werner studied German at the Universität von Zurich and wrote his thesis on the pre-eminent Swiss writer of his generation, Max Frisch. He wrote his early novels, including his second, Froschnacht, while working as a teacher in a Kantonschule. His humble yet accomplished life and ability to present difficult themes in a vague and surreal manner, i.e. a father haunting his son’s thoughts monthly, harkens comparisons to Franz Kafka. The voices in Froschnacht are an example of Modernism at its finest. There are plenty of details specific to Swiss German life, yet the details all have a universality that makes them eternally pertinent. Michael Hofmann does a masterful job localizing in his translation, grappling with the thorny issues of difficult-to-translate aspects of Swiss life and culture. The father and son duo of Franz and Klement may be archetypally Swiss, but their woes and life observations are immediately relatable to readers from Western cultures.
*Hofmann is—perhaps—the foremost German to English literary translator working today. If Hofmann chooses to translate a work, it is—as a rule—worthy of a read.
**I have not attempted either in the original in over 3 decades.
***This was recently the case when I was mired in a second reread of Nelly Arcan’s fabulous debut novel Putain, a first-person narrative of an escort presented as a monologue to the protagonist’s therapist. I opted to eventually switch to the English translation Whore to save time. Add the confusion of a “second” voice in Frog in the Throat and I made a similar decision.
April 14, 2025
NYRB April 2025 book club pick.
I didn’t know what I was getting into when I started this short, quirky novel, and I enjoyed it more than I expected. There are some lovely passages that I read multiple times to fully savor them.
Some favorite quotes:
“Love that transcends circumstances is not, as one might fear, conservative. After all, it doesn’t conserve, it alters, thaws, makes movement and transformation possible. The de-icing beam of love gives it a revolutionary thrust.”
“Humor is warm and dark green, in the midst of futility it blooms. Bravely and enigmatically.”
“In bright, hyperalert moments, I have a sense: Everything is worth loving, even Franz. Then again, I have other moments, equally sharp and equally sensitive. And in these other moments, I have the sense: Everything is worth hating, especially Franz.”
I would recommend that readers take the time to read Hofmann’s introduction before starting the book.
I didn’t know what I was getting into when I started this short, quirky novel, and I enjoyed it more than I expected. There are some lovely passages that I read multiple times to fully savor them.
Some favorite quotes:
“Love that transcends circumstances is not, as one might fear, conservative. After all, it doesn’t conserve, it alters, thaws, makes movement and transformation possible. The de-icing beam of love gives it a revolutionary thrust.”
“Humor is warm and dark green, in the midst of futility it blooms. Bravely and enigmatically.”
“In bright, hyperalert moments, I have a sense: Everything is worth loving, even Franz. Then again, I have other moments, equally sharp and equally sensitive. And in these other moments, I have the sense: Everything is worth hating, especially Franz.”
I would recommend that readers take the time to read Hofmann’s introduction before starting the book.
April 20, 2025
This was the April 2025 New York Book Review (NYBR) selection. The book follows, Franz, a defrocked Swiss minister, haunted by his father, as a frog in his throat. Franz succumbed to a sexual enticement and he now opines on what that misadventure cost him, bemoaning, exposing and commenting on the many foibles of his age (the book was published in 1985) and himself (many of which are extremely funny). This alternates with the thoughts of his father, Klemens, a socialist dairy farmer (some of the comments about the cows and milking are hilarious) who expounds and philosophizes on his religious and social convictions. These two voices are “irresistible” as one critic wrote. Each attempts to justify his existence and in so doing develops a “wry treatise on modern masculinity.” Does either viewpoint win? That’s for you the writer to determine. An enlightening read.
October 27, 2025
I have read some 40 pages so far...and it's stuck like a frog in my throat.
The problem is the style. It's not SoC, but it's kinda SoC. It's too choppy, too slangy, it jabs and crags, it's neurotic and fitful.
It has an uneven tempo, that doesn't let you settle as a reader. And not in a good way. It's like I have to fight my way through it.
And for what? For the petty shock of commonplace witticisms in every third line? It's like he is trying to hard. Like a horny male bower bird strutting around and popping his plumes, his butt for a desperate bit of coiting.
I don't know if I will finish it. I might. And maybe it gets better? Maybe it gets comfy in the same way your clothes do after a while, when a baby you are cuddling to sleep relieves itself on you, a sort of stinking warmth.
But I don't fancy reading anything else by Mr. Werner. Ever.
The problem is the style. It's not SoC, but it's kinda SoC. It's too choppy, too slangy, it jabs and crags, it's neurotic and fitful.
It has an uneven tempo, that doesn't let you settle as a reader. And not in a good way. It's like I have to fight my way through it.
And for what? For the petty shock of commonplace witticisms in every third line? It's like he is trying to hard. Like a horny male bower bird strutting around and popping his plumes, his butt for a desperate bit of coiting.
I don't know if I will finish it. I might. And maybe it gets better? Maybe it gets comfy in the same way your clothes do after a while, when a baby you are cuddling to sleep relieves itself on you, a sort of stinking warmth.
But I don't fancy reading anything else by Mr. Werner. Ever.
July 6, 2025
probably have to reread at least three times to properly separate Franz and Klement. big feelings. lots to consider.
banger quotes include:
"In the morning I'm miserable, at night I'm scared, and during the day I'm at pains not to attract attention..."
"I sit around, I drink, I brood, I pat myself down for flaws and find many and each evening I say: Starting tomorrow I'm going to get a grip on myself."
"Loving-kindness needs to remain a hobby, otherwise it acquires something oleaginous."
"Happiness is remote. What's close is the head and within it the conscience that rampages harder the better behaved you are. Either/or: self-scrutiny or happiness, choose one."
"A good deed is easily accounted for: There is nothing complex about decency."
banger quotes include:
"In the morning I'm miserable, at night I'm scared, and during the day I'm at pains not to attract attention..."
"I sit around, I drink, I brood, I pat myself down for flaws and find many and each evening I say: Starting tomorrow I'm going to get a grip on myself."
"Loving-kindness needs to remain a hobby, otherwise it acquires something oleaginous."
"Happiness is remote. What's close is the head and within it the conscience that rampages harder the better behaved you are. Either/or: self-scrutiny or happiness, choose one."
"A good deed is easily accounted for: There is nothing complex about decency."
April 14, 2025
Hmmm…I didn’t love this book, but I did really enjoy it. It earned more than 3 stars from me, but not quite 4. It’s a quick read, but I recommend taking your time with it. I think my main criticism of it is my own fault. I feel like I need to go back and reread it. In the beginning I feel like I was rushing through it. I got to about chapter 5 when I realized I was doing it wrong. Just take each chapter at a time and think about what you’re reading. The story is dark and very funny and clever. It’s one of those books where nothing really happens, which I love.
September 28, 2025
This was a little too wordy -- even for such a small novel. The whole "Frog in the throat" bit was too much of a metaphor and too little of a real thing, and why a frog? If we're to read this as a metaphor, I would have hoped for an explanation of the significance of that particular animal. There were a few very memorable scenes throughout, more so toward the ending of the book. The story of Franz's sister, the daughter of the family Anna, was particularly sad and touching.
April 27, 2025
Interesting read. I don't think I've read a story like this one before. The back-and-forth battle between the son and father was executed well. There were even parts that came across as humorous. Wasn't bad, but wasn't great. Maybe upon revisiting I'll find it better.
I'd recommend to someone who wants a quick read.
3/5
I'd recommend to someone who wants a quick read.
3/5
April 28, 2025
Vastly enjoyable, sui generis. Talk about heteroglossia.
At any rate: periodically Frank’s dead father takes over his throat. His father is quite disapproving of Frank, an unfrocked minister, and spends a lot of time contemplating the livestock he’s milking. It’s not as gimmicky as it sounds. It’s funny and dark, as might be expected.
At any rate: periodically Frank’s dead father takes over his throat. His father is quite disapproving of Frank, an unfrocked minister, and spends a lot of time contemplating the livestock he’s milking. It’s not as gimmicky as it sounds. It’s funny and dark, as might be expected.
May 13, 2022
Beeindruckend, wie Markus Werner schreiben konnte. Ich bin seit meiner frühsten Jugend ein grosser Fan von seinen Büchern. Gerade in diesem Roman erkenne ich so viele Gefühle wieder, mit denen ich auch nicht klarkomme. Nur bleibt bei mir der Frosch länger als drei Tage.
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