Τα βραβεία μου

by Thomas Bernhard, Σπύρος Μοσκόβου (Translator), Τόμας Μπέρνχαρντ

Ο Αυστριακός συγγραφέας Τόμας Μπέρνχαρντ (1931-1989) ανήκει στα τρομερά παιδιά της γερμανόφωνης μεταπολεμικής λογοτεχνίας. Ένας ιδιόρρυθμος αναχωρητής με φυγόκεντρη ψυχή και άρρωστο σώμα - έπασχε από χρόνιο πνευμονικό νόσημα. Ό,τι περισσότερο απεχθανόταν ήταν ο αυστριακός μικροαστισμός, η περιρρέουσα υποκρισία και η -κατά τη γνώμη του αθεράπευτη από τον γερμανικό βάκιλο- γερμανική ψυχή. Η αδυναμία της προσωπικής ευτυχίας και η άπωση για τον κοινωνικό περίγυρο διοχετεύθηκαν σε μια λογοτεχνία γεμάτη σαρκασμό και υπαρξιακή μελαγχολία. Τα πεζά και τα θεατρικά του Μπέρνχαρντ μοιάζουν εκ πρώτης όψεως με έργα "μισανθρώπου". Μέχρι να αφουγκραστείς πίσω τους το ανατριχιαστικό κλάμα για τη χαρά που δεν ήρθε ποτέ.

Το βιβλίο "Τα βραβεία μου" βρέθηκε στα κατάλοιπα του συγγραφέα και εκδόθηκε για πρώτη φορά πέρυσι, είκοσι ακριβώς χρόνια μετά το θάνατό του. Αποτυπώνει την αποστροφή του Μπέρνχαρντ για τους ακαδημαϊκούς επαίνους, τους λογοτεχνικούς θεσμούς και τις τιμές. Παρ' όλα αυτά δέχθηκε τη δεκαετία του '60 μια σειρά διακρίσεων, από το Αυστριακό Κρατικό Βραβείο μέχρι το Βραβείο Μπύχνερ, τη σημαντικότερη λογοτεχνική διάκριση του γερμανόφωνου χώρου. Τα παρέλαβε όλα, αν και τα υποτιμούσε. Δεν περιφρονούσε όμως τα χρηματικά έπαθλα, που τον βοηθούσαν να αντιμετωπίζει έστω και προσωρινά τις μόνιμες οικονομικές δυσκολίες του.

Λίγο πριν από κάθε βράβευση ο Μπέρνχαρντ καταλαμβάνεται από αφόρητο άγχος, ιδίως όταν οφείλει να εκφωνήσει και κάποια ομιλία με τις στοιχειώδεις, έστω, ευχαριστίες. Αισθάνεται ανίκανος να προετοιμάσει αυτές τις ομιλίες, καταφέρνει το πολύ πολύ να κρατήσει μερικές σημειώσεις στο τραπέζι του πρωινού λίγο πριν από την τελετή. Έτσι προέκυψαν τα σχεδόν παραληρηματικά λογύδρια που ο μεγάλος συγγραφέας εκφώνησε όντως σε ακαδημίες και σεβαστά πνευματικά ιδρύματα προκαλώντας ουκ ολίγα σκάνδαλα.

Με την απόσταση του χρόνου, ωστόσο, τα σύντομα πεζά για τις βραβεύσεις και οι ομιλίες που περιλαμβάνονται σ' αυτό το βιβλίο αποκτούν μιαν άλλη διάσταση: Γίνονται ένα πικρόχολο σχόλιο για την πνευματική ζωή κάθε τόπου.

Genres: Nonfiction, Essays, Memoir, Biography, German Literature, Literature, 20th Century

134 pages, Paperback

First published January 1, 2009

About the author

Thomas Bernhard was an Austrian writer who ranks among the most distinguished German-speaking writers of the second half of the 20th century.

Although internationally he’s most acclaimed because of his novels, he was also a prolific playwright. His characters are often at work on a lifetime and never-ending major project while they deal with themes such as suicide, madness and obsession, and, as Bernhard did, a love-hate relationship with Austria. His prose is tumultuous but sober at the same time, philosophic by turns, with a musical cadence and plenty of black humor.

He started publishing in the year 1963 with the novel Frost. His last published work, appearing in the year 1986, was Extinction. Some of his best-known works include The Loser (about a student’s fictionalized relationship with the pianist Glenn Gould), Wittgenstein’s Nephew, and Woodcutters.

Reviews

[Lisa · Rating 5 out of 5]

It's a shame and a pity that Thomas Bernhard died before the notoriously slow Nobel Committee could make him a Nobel Laureate.

Not necessarily because the prize has prestige, and Bernhard is one of the most worthy candidates in the German-speaking sphere, but because he would have created such a brilliant report on the ridiculous ceremony and its bonfire of vanities. He would have been able to buy all kinds of cars and houses and clothes for the prize money, and he would have been able to stare down the worst ostrich in the Academy until he'd put his head in the sand.

As it is, he collected quite a few memories of prizes he got, and they offer an insight into the world of literature that few people dare to show: after all, we don't bite the hand that feeds us if we are not fed to do just that - like the notoriously biting writer Thomas Bernhard. Tamed, he wouldn't receive a single honour. Wild, he tears the honours apart and makes fun of his own bad character in the process. He's not an idealist. He wants a car. So he accepts the prize he despises! And then he produces unforgettable prose describing how the car crashed and he survived to tell the tale.

To be read by the whole world, preferably on the Eve of the Nobel Banquet!

[David · Rating 3 out of 5]

That dipshit Jean-Paul Sartre actually declined the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1964—no doubt for some ostensibly high-minded reason. ('It is not the same thing if I sign Jean-Paul Sartre or if I sign Jean-Paul Sartre, Nobel Prize winner. A writer must refuse to allow himself to be transformed into an institution, even if it takes place in the most honorable form.' Okay, Jeanny Boy. Sure. But how is one 'transformed' by being the first and, at that time, only Nobel Laureate to refuse the prize? And imagine the humanist causes you might've furthered by donating the substantial monetary award that comes with the prize...)

Enter Thomas Bernhard. The antidote to such piety. No, certainly Bernhard was never offered the Nobel, and if he had lived to a ripe old age, it's extremely unlikely he would have been considered. But if he had lived and had been awarded the prize, I can assure you that he would have done two things: (1) groused and kvetched about the imbeciles responsible for awarding the prize, as well as about many of the horrible, 'dilettante' writers who had received the prize before him, and (2) immediately purchased his plane ticket for Stockholm in order to collect the loot—because he was either in debt or desirous of purchasing a new sports car or double-paned windows for his house.

My Prizes is Bernhard's very brief anecdotal recounting of some of the awards he had received and some of the (mostly disastrous) awards ceremonies that accompanied them. For the most part, Bernhard received his major awards only before people understood who Bernhard was—that is to say, an ungrateful, unpatriotic curmudgeon who belittled the award while he pawed at the money. (Please understand that this would be the German-language literary establishment's opinion of him, not mine. I happen to think he was a badass.)

The highlight/lowlight of the collection is probably the Austrian State Prize for Literature ceremony, at which Bernhard's speech results in the presiding Minister of Culture, Art, and Education storming from the hall and slamming the door, followed by the greater part of the attending audience. Of course, in his description, Bernhard is shocked by the Minister's behavior and feigns incomprehension, but the actual speech is appended to the book, and it clearly offends the propriety of such occasions. Either Bernhard is being ironic or disingenuous here. Nevertheless, I applaud his ballsiness.

This is a fascinating little book, but I can only give it three stars because of its insubstantiality. It isn't very important or affecting. It's more like a little first-hand gossip. My only regret is that Bernhard is not alive to receive any proceeds from the publication of it. I'd like to imagine him buying an airplane ticket to Stockholm with the money.

[Özgür · Rating 5 out of 5]

Okuduğum en eğlenceli Bernhard kitabıydı.

[Nick Grammos]

Read this while staying indoors, Greece is infernal, even by the water. But this particular little Bernhard work is breezy to read at 70+ pages and a very focused narrative for what is ultimately a memoir. It's kind of funny. He wants to say no to every prize because, as his narrators always say, the state is debased, corrupt, insipid, stupid, in cahoots with the church, sanctimonious and incapable of judging anything. But what makes this funny? Well, he needs the money, realises it's better to have it than not and make even absurd decisions like buy a white stag sports car with one and a derelict farmhouse draped in fog on the spot with only the means for a downpayment. So life's OK.

In one case, he so loathes the prize he is given in Austria that he singles out the state the issued it as a bunch of idiots causing the minister to flee the building with his entourage in train, emptying the whole event in minutes leaving him alone on the stage with only his loving aunt, a few friends, the catering staff and all the food that no one will eat. Seething, the Minister hadn't even had a proper brief and call all the facts about Bernhard wrong in his introduction. But he has further just cause to say what he wants. At his first prize ceremony, the pompous idiots who arranged it didnt even have an itinerary for him on arrival. As the honoured guest no one noticed him, no one told him where to sit, what to do on arrival, provide an assistant on the night, so he waited in the middle of the audience, not by the stage where the two empty seats where and waited while the ceremony got under way and finally someone noticed during speeches by eminent people that the author for whom the prize was to be awarded was nowhere and much murmuring later, someone spotted him in the audience and tried embarrassingly to get him down to the podium. Now who would believe the state was anything but a bunch of bumbling boobies as Dr Smith used to say in Lost in Space.

But, it's quite fun, and rarely reaches the vitriolic states of a Bernhard narrator. And he has such a lovely relationship with his elderly aunt (his parents died when he was young) that it is endearing as are his friendships which pop up as fun times here and there after ceremonies. Worth a read, a curiosity.

And, he loves getting prizes in Germany because he loves cities like Hamburg because he gets treated well, fed well, good intelligent press. In Austria he wonders if his grants are given out like vendettas and no one covers his work in the press.

[Argos · Rating 4 out of 5]

Ölümünün 20. yıldönümünde ilk kez yayımlanan “Ödüllerim’de, Thomas Bernhard aldığı ödülleri ve onların öykülerini ironik/alaycı bir dille anlatırken herşeye karşı huysuz bir ihtiyar söylemiyle edebiyat ödüllerine, ödül jürilerine verip veriştiriyor. Ancak bunları yaparken de kendisini küstah ve kendini beğenmiş olarak gördüğünü yazmaktan da kaçınmıyor.

Bernhard yaşamı boyunca çok sayıda yapıt verdi. Dokuz roman, beş novella, dört ciltlik kısa öyküler, beş ciltlik özyaşamöyküsü, on sekiz sahne oyunu, üç şiir kitabı.
”Bu eserleriyle şu ödülleri aldı: 1964’te Julius Campe Ödülü, 1965’te Bremen Edebiyat Ödülü, 1968’de Avusturya Devletinin Ödülüyle Anton Wildgans Ödülü, 1970’de Alman Dil ve Edebiyat Akademisinin Georg Büchner Ödülü, 1972’de Franz Theodor Csokor Ödülü ve Adolf Grime Ödülü, 1974’te Hannover Tiyatro Ödülü ve Prix Seguier’i, 1976’da da Avusturya İktisatçılar Birliğinin Edebiyat Ödülü. Kitapta üç ödül töreni konuşması da yer alıyor.

Özellikle devletin ve bağlı kuruluşların edebiyat ödüllerine ödül olarak orta dereceli bir yerel yöneticinin kötü seviyeli aylığını verdiklerini ve bunun ne kadar haince ve sapıkça olduğunun farkına varmayan bir kamuoyu önüne çıktıklarını, ödülleri ve verenleri küçük gördüğünü, ama ödülleri kesinlikle geri çevirmediğini yazıyor. Her şeyi, hatta kendisini de iğrenç olarak gördüğünü, törenlerden nefret ettiğini ama törenlere katıldığını, ödül verenlerden nefret ettiğini, ama ödül paralarını aldığını pek de rahatsız olmadan yazıyor.

Ödülleri kabul etmemekten geçtim, paralarını geri çevirse yazdıkları alaycı sözleriyle bu kitabı “edebiyat ödülleri reddiyesi- karşı manifesto” olarak nitelendirebilirdim. Ama bu haliyle başarılı bir düzyazıdan başka birşey değil.

[Jimmy · Rating 4 out of 5]

One thing is clear after reading My Prizes (if it weren't already clear long before)... and that is that literary prizes do not serve the ones they are 'honoring'. In the first story here, Bernhard shows up with his aunt and for some reason nobody receives them or tells them where to sit. So they just amble in like all the other audience members, and sit in the very middle of the theater. Even though he is the supposed reason for the ceremony. And soon the officials are running around like madmen trying to find this 'Bernhard'. But while reading this account, I thought that it would serve both parties (Bernhard AND the audience AND the prize givers) much better if they had just hired someone to pretend to be Bernhard. Afterall, nobody at such ceremonies would know the difference. They probably have never read a word Bernhard has ever written. The whole award is an excuse to appear cultured and generous. Meanwhile, in my scheme of things, Bernhard would not have to buy a new suit, nor would he have to show up and try to give an awkwardly pessimistic speech about the degenerative state of human affairs. Instead, an actor would walk briskly up on stage and deliver a shining speech on how Austria is the beacon of the cultural world, etc. etc. Everyone would be happy. As long as Bernhard still gets his check, of course.

Whoever offers money has money and it should be taken from him, I thought.

This is such a funny book, and such a funny idea for a book. Coincidentally, I read this book right after reading Felisberto Hernández's excellent book Lands of Memory. In the foreword of that book, Esther Allen talks about an idea Felisberto had:

Someone has had the idea of changing the Nobel Prize so as to give the writer who wins it 'a more authentic happiness,' and prevent the fame and money currently attendant upon it from disrupting his life and work. The new idea consists of not revealing the identity of the winner even to the winner himself, but using the prize money to assemble a group of people--psychologists, for the most part--who instead would secretly study and promote the writer and his work for the duration of his life. The conferral of the prize would be publically announced only after the winner's death.

I think Bernhard would have liked that idea. Except for the lack of cold hard cash, that is...

[Archibald Tatum · Rating 5 out of 5]

Elfogadjunk-e vagy ne fogadjunk el-e díjakat?-e?

Thomas Bernhard azt mondja, negyvenéves kor fölött ne fogadjunk el díjakat, vagyis nem ezt mondja, hanem hogy ő addigra már annyira megundorodott a díjaktól is, hogy nem fogadott el díjakat. De tíz évvel korábban még elfogadott díjakat, elsősorban mert azok pénzzel járnak, és szeretett volna egy kis sportos autót, aztán meg szeretett volna egy házat is, meg volt például tartozása, vagy a nagynénjének a születésnapja egybeesett Georg Büchnerével, akiről elneveztek egy díjat, és azt annak a születésnapján adták át, tehát megörvendeztethette egyben a nagynénjét is. Szóval különböző motivációi vannak egy díj elfogadásának, és ezek éppen azok, amiket Montecuccoli a háborúhoz tartott szükségesnek.

Mindenestre szórakoztató, ahogyan Bernhard átvette ezeket a díjakat, a legnevezetesebb eset az Oszták Állami Irodalmi Díj, pontosabban az Állami Kisdíj átvétele, amikor is az agrárszektorból érkező kulturális miniszter a köszönő beszéd közben elvörösödött, felállt, rákáromkodott Bernhardra, és dotáltjai kíséretében elhagyta a díjátadást. A beszéd szövege a könyv végén található, és annyira nem is tűnik agráriusnak a miniszter, ha értette a szöveget. Azt egyébként, hogy pontosan mit mondott a miniszter, Bernhard nem írja le, mert, állítása szerint, nem értette, de a wikin az a kifejezés szerepel, bár nem az esethez, hanem B.-hoz úgy általában kapcsolva, hogy „Nestbeschmutzer”, vagyis valaki, aki sáját Nestjébe beschmutzerol. Erről egy ismerősöm jutott eszembe, akivel együtt focizgattam, és időről időre kedvesen, de tényleg kedvesen azt találta ennek vagy annak mondani: „Te, olyan spílerből, mint te, kéne ide kettő vagy három!”, és amikor az ez vagy az erre szelíd mosollyal igyekezett hárítani a szavait, lemondón hozzátette: „Na de tíz van...”, szóval, hogy megvilágítsam a példázatot, olyan Nestbemschmutzerből, mint Bernhard, több kellett volna, de h��t Nestbeschmutzerből meg ugye millió van.
Mára ennyi Bernhardozást.

[Brodolomi · Rating 5 out of 5]

Prva poznata književna nagrada zabeležana u evropskoj kulturi bilo je parče svinjetine koju je Odisej dao aedu Demodoku za pesmu o trojanskom ratu. Homer kaže da je Demodok bio vrlo zadovoljan svojom nagradom. Nakon 2500 godina Tomas Bernhard dobija gotovo sve važnije nemačke nagrade, a sa novčanim premijama je mogao da kupi puno svinjskog pečenja. E sad ne znam da li je Bernhard voleo da jede prasetinu, ali „Moje nagrade ” su jedan vrlo masni i slasni prezir prema društvu. Kako Bernhard u jednom trenutku zapaža gledajući sve te ljude na nekoj od dodela „Sve je nabreklo od znoja i časti”, a pošto časti nema na čitavom svetu onda ispadne da je „čast perverzija”, što sve akademije, nagrade, žiriji i književna društva u osnovi i jesu. Histerično do krajnje samoparodije.

P. S. Srce za „Tetku”. <3

[Laura Gotti · Rating 4 out of 5]

Brillante, arguto, ironico, cinico, spietato. Insomma, Bernhard.

Mi piacerebbe leggere la stessa cosa di un autore italiano, uno che è andato a ritirare i premi perché gli servivano i soldi per comprarsi una lussuosa macchina sportiva senza che fino al giorno prima ne sentisse la minima necessità, uno che va lì e dice due parole e fa incazzare tutti, uno che è perennemente incazzato con il suo paese e chi lo governa e lo sa scrivere come un intellettuale vero.

Esiste? Dubito.

[João Reis · Rating 5 out of 5]

Two authors always make me laugh out loud on my own: Céline and Bernhard.
A wise reader can easily understand that prizes don't always combine with a great regard for literature and art, but Bernhard is so funny while showing us once more the world is nothing short of a pathetic whorehouse that I wouldn't mind breaking one of my golden rules and go to one of the prize ceremonies just to talk to him. Hilarious.

[Zeynep T. · Rating 4 out of 5]

Thomas Bernhard sırf yanında verilen para için kabul ettiğini açıkça söylediği ödüllerinden bahsediyor kitapta. Törende uyuyan ve ödül verdiği kişiyi tanımayan bakan, Yahudi olduğu için ödül verilmeyen yazar, konuşması yüzünden tehdit edilen Thomas Bernhard gibi ayrıntılarla bu ödül işlerinin her yerde aynı maskaralığa tekabül ettiği mükemmel şekilde anlatılmış. Bizde ödüller nasıl bir sirke dönmüş bilmek isteyenler Taylan Kara'nın Edebiyatla Ahmaklaştırma Felsefeyle Çökertme serisinin ilk iki kitabını okuyabilir.

Çeviren Sezer Duru'nun, kitap editörü Fahri Güllüoğlu'nun, düzeltiyi yapan Ömer Şişman'ın, kapak tasarımını yapan Nahide Dikel'in emeklerine sağlık.

[Korcan Derinsu · Rating 4 out of 5]

Ödüllerim, Thomas Bernhard’ın bugüne kadar kazandığı ödüllerin “perde arkasını” anlattığı hikayelerinden oluşuyor. Yazar kendine has üslubuyla gerek ödülleri gerekse ödül veren kurumları bir güzel ters yüz ediyor. Bernhard’a has öfke ve mizantropi bu defa kara mizaha bulanıyor, ortaya da okuması hem keyifli (bunu bir Bernhard kitabı için söylediğime şaşkınım ama doğru) hem de eğlenceli (okuduklarım arasında kesinlikle en eğlenceli olanı) bir kitap çıkıyor.

[Myriam V · Rating 4 out of 5]

”Las personas desgraciadas no salen nunca de su desgracia, me dije, pensando en mí”.

Esta no es la mejor obra del autor pero complementa a la perfección sus libros autobiográficos y la disfruté mucho.

Bernhard nos habla de los premios desafortunados que recibió, entre ellos el premio Nacional que ya mencionó en El sobrino de Wittgenstein y que terminó en escándalo tras un discurso del cual estábamos todos, o casi todos o yo sola, intrigados por conocer el contenido, y del que, para gran alegría de todos o al menos mía, acá están los retazos.

Hay otros momentos memorables pero no pienso contar todo.

Voy a lo que fue importante para mí. Una tía de Bernhard lo acompaña a recibir el primer premio y entonces yo lo creí. Esta tía sigue apareciendo por todas partes y me di cuenta de que no era su tía, sino una mujer a la que él se refiere en otros lados como “el ser de mi vida”. Apenas terminé el libro me puse a buscar información sobre esta mujer –cosa que ya había hecho una vez pero me dieron ganas de nuevo- y vi que en efecto también se refería a ella como “mi tía”. Se trata de Hedwig Stavianicek, 37 años mayor que Bernhard y a la que él conoció cuando tenía 19 años para acompañarse y cuidarse hasta el fin. En una entrevista él habla de lo que significó ella, me conmovió e hizo que este libro fuese, aparte de la historia de sus premios, la historia de un amor, pero no una historia de amor que Bernhard no escribiría.

Una felicidad haber leído este libro, la felicidad que siempre me da Bernhard. Y más ganas de leerlo y releerlo.

[Rudi · Rating 5 out of 5]

Das war genau das richtige Quantum bernhardsches Gegrantel als Ausgleich zur sontäglichen (!) Intellektualität.

[Laurent De Maertelaer · Rating 4 out of 5]

Meesterlijke ironie en scherts van 'overdrijvingskunstenaar' Bernhard. In enkele zinnen zet hij het hele literaire establishment van Oostenrijk en Duitsland in zijn hemd.

[Erma Odrach · Rating 5 out of 5]

Austrian writer Bernhard writes about the literary prizes he has won during his lifetime, and he writes with vitriol and biting humor. For the Grillparazer Prize, where he wears a suit one size too small, he receives no money; for the Julius Campe Prize in Hamburg, he gives the first interview of his life, but is self-conscious that he is an Austrian; for The Austrian State Prize for Literature, while almost 40, surprisingly, he receives a prize that had "become customary to award ... to twenty-year-olds." Prizes were most important to Bernhard because normally they came with money and money was what he was after - money allowed him to pay off his debts, buy a house, a luxury car, and live a life of adventure. This short bio is not only farcical at times but full of originality and imagination - and it's really entertaining. I love his writing and look forward to reading more of his works.

[Ana RLQP · Rating 4 out of 5]

Libro cortito ameno, diferente y que acerca a la personalidad de este gran escritor. Seguiré leyendo más de el. 😉

[Oscar · Rating 3 out of 5]

Con la singular prosa que le caracterizaba, no exenta de pesimismo y obsesión, y también humor, así como del descreimiento tanto en el género humano como en el Estado (austríaco), Thomas Bernhard nos ofrece su particular mirada sobre los premios literarios que recibió, asociados la mayoría a una suma económica que ciertamente le hacía más gracia que el susodicho premio. El libro se completa con algunos de sus discursos a la hora de recoger los premios.

[Οδυσσέας Μουζίλης · Rating 5 out of 5]

... δεν ξέρουμε αν πρόκειται για τραγωδία προς χάρη της κωμωδίας ή για κωμωδία προς χάρη της τραγωδίας...

https://pepperlines.blogspot.gr/2017/...

[Truls Haugen Sletvold · Rating 5 out of 5]

Det er - for meg - imponerende at med den eder og galle som gjennomsyret Thomas Bernhard (1931-1989) sitt syn på verden, at han ikke tok «reper’n» (les: hang seg) iløpet av hans nokså korte liv. For Bernhard er det ikke snakk om at verden går til helvete, den har alt gått til helvete, for lengst. Og for Bernhard er det alt menneskene fortjener.

Mine priser er en kort bok (131 sider) som omhandler 9 av de 13 prisene Bernhard mottok i sin levetid, både for enkelte verk og for sitt forfatterskap. Kapitlet om Büchner-prisen - Tysklands mest gjeve litteraturpris - er selve indrefileen i boka, og Bernhards senere nådeløse brev til akademiet i Darmstadt er fornøyelig giftig.

For det er hele establisjementet, samfunnet og alle menneskene som får gjennomgå i Bernhards bok. En prisutdeling der Bernhard blir forvekslet med en dame (han blir kalt Frau Bernhard), en annen der Bernhards statskritikk blir mildt sagt IKKE godt mottatt av en østerrisk kulturminister, er bare noen eksempler fra denne fornøyelige og JÆVLIG pessimistiske boka.

[Yuko Shimizu · Rating 5 out of 5]

It was a surprise hit.
Embarrassingly admitting, I didn't know who Thomas Bernhard was. I Also embarrassingly admit that I bought this book purely for the cover. OK, maybe that is not exactly accurate. I picked this book up because this (US Knopf hardcover edition) is a perfection of a book design. The size, binding, cover design, cover stock, use of metallic ink, composition, the wide inside flap, size and choice of text font..., everything is a perfection. I am a book design nerd after all.
Therefore, I didn't have much expectation from the content of the book itself, especially it is a book by a famous Austrian writer I don't know anything about, and he talks about various awards he had received over the years.
I was pleasantly surprised that I was wrong. It was a fantastic read. I actually laughed out loud, on the subway during my commute, more than a few times.
This book tells so much about who Thomas Bernhard was. I have never read a book this honest, or never met anyone this honest. People, in general, decide not to be honest, because life is so much easier that way. He was committed to being honest and to not take BS. He must have had a hard life because of that. But the readers also learn how much love he had to those who he loved and respected. I love rare species like him.
Finishing this book actually made me want to read his novels.

PS: if you are politically correct and easily offended type, DO NOT pick this book up.

[Stephen Rowland · Rating 4 out of 5]

Fucking hilarious.

[Neşet]

Thomas Bernhard'la ilk tanışma. Yazarın üzerine yapıştırılan ''huysuz, nefret saçan'' gibi yaftalar yüzünden sanırım kafamda hep okuru mutsuzluğa sürükleyen bir imajı vardı. Okumaya bu yüzden yaklaşmamıştım. Öyle değilmiş, en azından bu otobiyografik kitabında. Bernhard, 2. Dünya Savaşı'nın içinden sürünerek geçmiş. Geçirdiği hastalık(zatülcenp), yaşadığı kaybı(dedesi) ve annesi, babası tarafından sahiplenilmemesi, faşizmin gölgesinde Avusturya böyle bir yazarı içinden çıkarmış.
Yaşama tutkun birisi. İlk aracını aldığında neredeyse tüm coğrafyayı gezmek istiyor. Oradan oraya bisikleye kavuşmuş çocuk gibi aracını sürüyor.

Kitabın fikri çok iyi Bernhard ödüllerden nefret ediyor ama para ödülüne hayır diyemiyor. Ödüllerden tiksinirken bir anda kazandığı parasıyla birlikte bir süre rahat bir nefes alıyor.

Genel olarak çok iyi ama Julius-Campe Ödülü ve Avusturya Devlet Edebiyat Ödülü en favori bölümler oldu. Kitapta art arda geliyor bu iki bölüm. Özellikle Avusturya Devlet Edebiyat Ödülü için yaptığı konuşma (kitabın sonunda eklenmiş) çok iyi. Bernhard ödül konuşmasını yaptıktan sonra utanmaz Kültür Bakanı'nın neden üzerine dövmek için yürüdüğünü az çok anlıyorsunuz.

Yapılan iyilikleri unutmuyor. Hamburg'u seviyor Bernhard ve Teyze'sini. Teyzesi öz teyzesi değil. Birbirini sahiplenmişler. Anne gibi hayatında kalıyor ölene kadar(Kitap sonrasında internette yapılan magazin turu)

Kitaba koyulan bir istifa metni var. Çok iyi olsa da kitaba koymak biraz gereksiz olmuş. Bu editoryal bir seçimmiş. Bernhard'ın ölümümden sonra yayımlandığı için kitap bu metni koyup koymamakta karasız kalmışlar ve Bernhard kitabın bir yerinde eklenmesine dair gönderme yaptığı için kitabın sonuna eklemişler.

Ödüllerim'e Oldtimer Okuma Grubu sayesinde başladım. Grupta dönen yazışmaları okumak da çok güzel.

[Enrique · Rating 5 out of 5]

Los premios muestran la sinceridad de Bernhard

Cioran solo que con talento literario. Bernhard en tu juventud te llena de dura realidad, vuelves a leerlo cuando ya tienes canas, y vuelves a quererlo.

Los premios relatan lo qué hizo Bernhard con el dinero, la ambición de tenerlo, los errores cometidos, los golpes de tragedia que terminan en golpes de suerte.

Y su pelea con el estado Austriaco, con el funcionario, el burócrata servil que quiere besos en sus manos y tus rodillas en el suelo.

Que suerte tuvo de nacer en Austria, en un país de estos su cadaver estaría flotando camino a algún océano.

Genial lectura, un bálsamo de sinceridad.

[S̶e̶a̶n̶ · Rating 5 out of 5]

Thomas Bernhard was a writer who fashioned his own truth, while at the same time also claiming that there is no such thing as truth. He elaborates on this seeming paradox in his memoir Gathering Evidence :

Whatever is communicated can only be falsehood and falsification; hence it is only falsehoods and falsifications that are communicated. The aspiration for truth, like every other aspiration, is the quickest way to arrive at falsehoods and falsifications with regard to any state of affairs. And to write about a period of one’s life, no matter how remote or how recent, no matter how long or how short, means accumulating hundreds and thousands and millions of falsehoods and falsifications, all of which are familiar to the writer describing the period as truths and nothing but truths.

In a way this book is also a memoir, although how much of it is really true, if one believes in truth, can never be known. As when reading anything else written or said by Thomas Bernhard, it's best to suspend all traditional notions of truth, of what is real or exaggerated, and simply enjoy what he has to say in his unique tone of affable acerbity.

Bernhard is sitting squarely in his element here, recounting the absurd circumstances in which he was awarded various literary awards throughout his writing career (mostly in the early stages, for he eventually swears off of award acceptance altogether). In these essays, glowing with his trademark aplomb, he gleefully eviscerates various public officials and cultural institutions as his initial affronts at being misquoted, misattributed, and misgendered eventually fade into a steady, yet still often prickly, resignation. He realizes that to get the money, he must endure the associated shameful and/or potentially enraging proceedings. For it's all about the money. He needs the money and he wants the money. He initially uses some prize money to put a down payment on a decrepit farmhouse in Upper Austria, the first house he looks at (and not even that closely), not knowing how he'll come up with the balance of the sale price. Later on, the monetary award from another prize represents the welcome possibility of new storm windows, which will, after all, provide a good return on investment in the form of savings on heating costs in winter. Yet another prize funds the purchase of a new English sports car, which leads to a regrettable tragedy that is, however, ultimately vindicated after much personal grief. It is hard to say, in fact, which was more interesting to read: how a prize was awarded or how Bernhard describes spending the associated monetary award.

By reducing all of these awards to their base economic value, Bernhard neatly skewers the pompous purveyors of so-called 'art' and 'culture' who in their ceremonial introductions routinely (and unknowingly) malign the nature and titles of his works, reassign his gender, and generally behave in an odious manner of haughty disrespect. It is abundantly clear that Bernhard is enjoying himself immensely as he relates the blundering errors of these officials, exposing the farcical nature of the award ceremonies, ultimately stripping away the intended prestige and reshaping the value of the prizes themselves into one of a much more practical nature, namely, that of fixing up his falling-down farmhouse.

Bernhard's personality comes through strongly in this book, possibly even more so than in Gathering Evidence. Part of this could be due to the difference in subject matter, for the nature of this book allows for his humor to shine brighter. It could also perhaps be a result of the difference in chronological distance between the events and their recounting. In Gathering Evidence, Bernhard writes of his childhood from the vantage point of an adult, which can both alter perspective and create a tonal distance as the recollecting observer looks back from a point far in the future. In contrast, he is writing in this book of events in more recent memory, ones that occurred after he became an adult and a published writer (though, according to him, these recollections would be no less riddled with falsehoods). His authorial voice here is confident and self-assured, almost in a relaxed way not found in Gathering Evidence, while his tone also seems warmer here than in the memoir.

Following the essays on each individual prize, the book concludes with the transcripts of Bernhard's acceptance speeches, of which he only alludes to within the essays themselves. This is a perfect way to end the book, for the reader is finally able to grasp the full context of what at least one official had so viscerally reacted to in Bernhard's speeches. The bold, uncompromising nature of these speeches is striking, underlining the strong will of this man who refused to accept the status quo, to prostrate himself before the would-be commodifiers of culture; a writer who discerned and accepted the limitations of language while still wielding it to cut new and twisted paths; a person who, in his own words, 'listened to everything and conformed with nothing'.

[Raúl · Rating 3 out of 5]

No está entre sus mejores obras. Son unas cien páginas que realmente merecen la pena. Perturbador y genial siempre.

["Robert Ekberg" · Rating 2 out of 5]

Och då gillar jag ju ändå anekdoter.

Äre verklien så kass då, undrar du. Nä – två krumelurer indikerar ju okej, godkänt – okej, okej? Som en mugg ljummet vatten, kanske lite kallare än ljummet. 

Blire aldri bra da, undrar du. Johohoda– rätt ofta, men inte tillräckligt ofta för att att det ska komma upp i den treplussighet som, för en dåres monomana envishets krav på analogi, är att liknas vid ett glas kranvatten som fått spola ett tag till ingen nytta förutom ens egen banala djävla törst.

[Brandon · Rating 4 out of 5]

I just finished My Prizes by Thomas Bernhard. I love Thomas Bernhard. I woke up in a Bernhard mood today, you might say. Although, lately, I’ve been reading Scott Fitzgerald. I’ve been in a Scott Fitzgerald mood lately, you might say. I love Scott Fitzgerald, but not as much as I love Thomas Bernhard. However, as much as I love Thomas Bernhard, I haven’t been in a Bernhard mood lately. Lately I’ve been in a Fitzgerald mood and have loved being in a Fitzgerald mood because I love Fitzgerald. But not as much as I love Bernhard. My love for Fitzgerald is a lesser love, you might say, than my love for Bernhard. My Bernhard love is superior, you might say, to my Fitzgerald love. It’s a love of a different order, you might say, my Bernhard love, as opposed to my Fitzgerald love, which is a lower and more common type of love, you might say. Nevertheless, for weeks now I’ve been reading Fitzgerald, my Fitzgerald love having put me in a Fitzgerald mood. Indeed, I’ve been in a Fitzgerald mood for so long I began to think another mood would never come and replace it, not even a Bernhard mood, even though my love for Bernhard far surpasses my love for Fitzgerald. Perhaps the relative weakness of my Fitzgerald love, you might say, is the reason it has been able to sustain my Fitzgerald mood for weeks on end; whereas a stronger love, like my Bernhard love, is destined to use itself up in a matter of days, or even hours, enough time to be classified a mood, surely, but not a long mood, a sustained mood, like my Fitzgerald mood. Thus, notwithstanding my superior Bernhard love, I didn’t think my Bernhard mood would return any time soon, or any other literary mood for that matter. But then today, against all odds, I woke up in a Bernhard mood. Which is why I finished reading My Prizes today, instead of continuing to read Gatsby, Fitzgerald’s masterpiece, a work I’ve read a half dozen times already and have awarded five stars on Goodreads, not to mention a spot on my “Favorites” shelf. However, while Gatsby may be one of my favorite books, Fitzgerald is not one of my favorite authors, despite my love for him. My Prizes on the other hand is not one of my favorite books, I didn’t even award it a full five stars, and yet Bernhard is one of my favorite authors. Love is a funny thing, you might say, even literary love, but here my review ends. I’m no longer in the mood to write like Bernhard, but I am in the mood to keep reading him. So I will keep reading him as long as my Bernhard mood holds out, which shouldn’t be long, since my love for him is so strong, far stronger than my Fitzgerald love.

[Chris Molnar · Rating 5 out of 5]

I purchased a hardcover copy of My Prizes on the year of its publication in English by Knopf, in 2010, from the beloved location at 3rd Avenue and Stuyvesant of the famed and dearly missed St. Mark's Bookshop, where it sat in the cut-out bin for the still-legible and quite reasonable price of $4.99.

Having spent eight or so of the intervening years working in bookstores, occasionally privy to battles with the credit departments of various suppliers, I now know that means they were no longer purchasing new books on a returnable basis, both as the volume was and is undamaged, and because I later heard after St. Mark's Bookshop's untimely demise that they had gradually ceased paying their bills publisher by publisher until the time at which they were in their final location on 3rd St. between 1st and A, where Karma Books is now, buying only from the wholesaler Baker & Taylor (also no longer with us, although not missed) at a low discount before closing altogether.

At any rate, the handsome, Mendelsund designed book sat on my shelf through eight moves, all in the East Village except for one to and from Las Vegas (where I moved to help open The Writer's Block bookshop, inspired not a little by St. Mark's), and the current in our hot, confounding top-floor room in Los Angeles. I read The Loser, my first Bernhard, while at the Columbia University Master of Fine Arts program, during a seminar by Erroll Mcdonald - the famed editor, most relevantly here at Knopf - in 2017, after returning from Las Vegas and The Writer's Block to my adopted home in New York, the excuse being a final acceptance of the reality that for someone with no connections, an MFA, particularly this one, would be what I needed to continue or rather begin my career as a writer.

I enjoyed the book very much, reminiscent or in fact anticipating as it does some of my favorites, Sebald and Krasznahorkai, two other Middle European authors of gloomy and brainy repute, although the bloody singlemindedness of it, without Sebald’s historical peregrinations or Krasznahorkai’s epic narratives, didn’t encourage me to continue reading his other books right away, and even perhaps reminded me a bit disturbingly of my own brooding in an unflattering way.

Whatever the reason, I came away with a feeling of affection towards Bernhard, midwifed by the incomparable Mcdonald, a man of impeccable taste and standing in the literary industry, as that’s what it is here, an industry, increasingly built around selling sentimental, surface level works as high literature. Whereas, for Bernhard, throughout this book, as he recounts the charmingly minor awards of the German-language literary world which he won, there is no industry, it is a matter of the State, and while certain aspects are familiar, such as the effect of friends and relatives and other connections in the procurement of any award or publishing contract, the effect of an avidly interested State (and to a lesser but still notable degree, Press) in the fortunes and hijinks of Bernhard is not; part of living in a small country with a Culture for sure, but also in a time where literature Mattered.

I finally picked the book up, my second Bernhard, after eight moves, during a short vacation to German speaking lands (beginning it yesterday in the perfect atmosphere of a large "textile-free" spa in Berlin, cracking it open in the slightly chilly outdoor area where I lay in a robe with a towel over my feet, nude men and women of Germanic descent shuffling around me), which felt like as good a time as any to start the short book, which perhaps might have felt a bit smug on précis as well, particularly from the perspective of a writer without any renown or publication like myself. However, that was as incorrect as a subconscious read could possibly have been, given the firm and even a bit emotional portrait of the emerging artist we are given. Each recounting has a warm basis in the loving relationship he has with his “aunt”, or rather much older patron, whom he had an obscure relationship with and often brings to these ceremonies when she is not lunching him or taking him for a vacation. The ceremonies themselves are a source of comedy in the unpreparedness of both Bernhard and the dim functionaries, not to mention the meaninglessness of the event altogether, both cosmically and within the literary world, which he is acutely aware of, and inevitably there is a denouement of some dark comedy considering what he did with the money, small as it may be (including the purchase and inevitable wrecking of a small car) or the result of his self-consciously pained attempts to reconcile an antagonism to the State, subsidies, and any group that would have him as a member with a need for money and at first for validation.

What this amounts to is a very quick and digestible memoir through a particular and hilarious lens, oddly enough for a book packaged as a stocking stuffer and already relegated to the bargain bin on release in the literary capital of America, perhaps a perfect introduction to Bernhard for those allergic to more doomy declarations, still as coolly, clearly written, full of insight into writing and the human condition, and never without a self-deprecating eye. If available now, not to mention through the large American house Knopf, where authors of his particular kind of very funny, darkly brilliant writing are not often seen, even with a sympathetic eminence like Mcdonald near the helm, it is because of his long fought for stature and firm beliefs against the status quo, controversial then but canonical now, of which this is a glimpse. Perhaps books such as this are hard to make and sell (ironically for Bernhard, in his anti-subsidy stance, the cruel world of the free market would await him without His Prizes), though their difficult births make them more worthwhile. Needless to say I’m glad to have bought this one, in 2010 at the St. Mark's Bookshop, inspiration to writers and readers and booksellers everywhere, fished from among the beached whales of the cut-out at the time like Joshua Cohen’s Witz, even if read only in 2022, at a nudist spa in Berlin, and as long as one way or another publishers are publishing and stores are carrying and readers are buying this sort of thing, there’s hope for thought and words and peripatetic young people with inchoate dreams and firm ideas about how things should or more specifically should not be.

[Tosh · Rating 5 out of 5]

What one considers to be the greatest writer in the German language and here he is pooping on all the major (and not minor) prizes in Austria he had won. The total distain, and moments of clear thinking, with a touching tribute of sorts to an old professor of his - is quite entertaining.

The beauty (if one can call it that) is his clear vision of a silly world getting sillier. Cynical on a hysterical level, he is also a writer where you can feel the weather and the moment of his narrative. His detail observation on clothing he chose for particular award presentations is humorous, especially with his Aunt being his companion on his many adventures to the stage to receive one award or another.

And it is fascinating how he sees the awards system as just another crazy wrench in the system. The book is a small and compact version of one man's hell. But for the reader (and I suspect Bernhard) a great adventure in the nutty world of prize giving.