The question is whether Handke is Existentialist or Post Modern. This collection includes three of the best examples of mid-Twentieth Century European experimental fiction: The Goalie's Anxiety At The Penalty Kick; Short Letter, Long Farewell; and A Sorrow Beyond Dreams.
Peter Handke (* 6. Dezember 1942 in Griffen, Kärnten) ist ein österreichischer Schriftsteller und Übersetzer.
Peter Handke is an Avant-garde Austrian novelist and playwright. His body of work has been awarded numerous literary prizes, including the Nobel Prize in Literature in 2019. He has also collaborated with German director Wim Wenders, writing the script for The Wrong Move and co-writing the screenplay for Wings of Desire.
1) the goalie's anxiety at the penalty kick: ex goalie is fired from his factory job, wanders the city, meets up with a girl who works at a cinema box office, dispassionately murders her in her apt, wanders through german country side, observing things, never gets caught. it was like reading a german/austrian camus.
2) short letter, long farewell: european narrator is in america. starts off in providence, goes to new york, middle america, arizona, california. all the while he's being followed/chased by ex-girlfriend/wife who wants to kill him. this was like reading beckett, kafka, and david lynch all rolled into one.
3) a sorrow beyond dreams: basically a very brief meditation on the suicide of the narrator's mother. the power of this piece seemed in direct proportion to its brevity.
final note: handke writes amazingly precise descriptions. he reminds me of delillo that way. i'm hooked on handke. want to read more of his stuff.
Demonstrating the convergence of positivism and mysticism, or realism and meaninglessness, Handke's narratives pile up so much banality that the bizarre it sought to bury is all the more conspicuous. The facts are against You, all the evident is indelible evidence, nothing can be said in your defense. Delusions of interpretive mania are not mollified by the semblance of indifferent normality, no more than paranoia, dissociation, and guilt release their chokehold in boredom, physical proximity ("intimacy"), and exoneration. The Goalie slowly built momentum, Short/Long meandered, but Sorrow got right to the bloody point.
It turned out I had already read half of this book: the novella, Short Letter, Long Farewell in it's own edition. Besides this there are 2 other novellas in this book: The Goalie's Anxiety at the Penalty Kick which was made into a movie by Wim Wenders, and A Sorrow Beyond Dreams, a non-fiction piece by Handke about his mother and her suicide. By reading the non-fiction piece, which is deeply felt and beautifully realized, one can understand how Handke can come to write such a perverse piece like the Goalie's Anxiety. The sentence structure in this piece is often terse and compact, the narration taking odd turns. I had read this many years ago, and was happy to reread it.
I wasn't in the right mood when I read this book, but I rate it as I imagine my "normal" self would rate it. I recommend it if you like the kind of frightened European fiction where objects and subtle movements and strangers' glances and word games torture the narrator, who usually can not cope. Handke's ability to make everyday language sound bizarre and unnatural is fascinating, but certainly not elegant (which was never the point.)
Full of shame to the brim, I admit I finished with the book right after the first story not because I didn’t love it, but because I needed to take a break. The texts were too intense.
I’ve learned Handke works best like vodka: consume in small sips, never letting your taste buds get fully touched, just enough to get that pleasant soul-feeling and walk away unscathed. Drink it all at once, though, and it’ll take you a whole day to recover with that never-leaving taste, even if you threw up.
And I love vodka. So did I love reading Handke.
His words are almost physical. One character feels it exactly: “Everything he saw was cut off in the most unbearable way.” That’s how it hit me. Another line: “A fierce nausea gripped him… He vomited for a while, with no relief.” Not that I vomited but the feeling was close. The prose doesn’t just describe the world; it presses against you.
It’s not just the nausea: it’s the silence, the stillness, the way “everything all at once became unbearable.” Even perception turns into labor: “only now did he realize that he, as if compelled, was thinking of the word for each thing.” Reading Handke, you start doing the same. The chair. The key. The suitcase. Each object becomes a weight.
And then there’s this truth, plain and sharp: “All you can ever do is react.”
That’s why I had to stop. A book like this requires peace of mind and right now, that’s a luxury I don’t have.
I admired the closed-mouth madness of the first story, and marveled at the chatty madness of the second, but the third story did nothing for me. If you don't like seething, subcutaneous, European movies where nothing much happens and when something does happen, you aren't quite sure why it happened, then I wouldn't bother with these rather low-key cinematic equivalents.