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.