Ergo

by Jakov Lind, Ralph Manheim (Translator)

"Lind is a writer—one of the best—who has chosen to speak in a different tongue. It is amazing that he is witty; it is not at all surprising that he is profound."— New York Times Wacholder lives and works at Custom House No. 8 with his adopted son Aslan and a lodger named Leo. Aslan spends his days copying out the novels of Kleist, Schiller, Goethe, and Mann; Leo, never leaving his bed, mentally composes his philosophical masterwork, Placental Theory of Existence; and Wacholder's only apparent responsibility is keeping watch over a towering mountain of paper. Wacholder's consuming passion, however, is his only true friend and nemesis, Würz. Wüürz hasn't left his home in over seventeen years. He lives there, in a cocoon of cleanliness and order, with his wife Rita and Rita's two grown sons, Arnold and Arnulf. Würz has dedicated his life to perfecting his home and eliminating every last atom of dirt. His happiness is disturbed only by the letters, 74 in all, Wacholder has sent him over the years. These letters—dictated by Wacholder, written by Aslan, and full of every kind of insanity and invective—are intended to smoke Würz out of his hole, both for his own good and to stop him from plotting against Wacholder. When the 74th letter seemingly has no effect, Wacholder turns to other increasingly outlandish schemes to defeat his rival, even staging a rally to declare Würz's non-existence. A feverishly comic carnival, Ergo is Jakov Lind's most experimental work and the final novel he wrote in German. Jakov Lind was born in Vienna and survived the Second World War by fleeing into Germany, where he disguised himself as a Dutch deckhand. Regarded in his lifetime as a successor to Beckett and Kafka, Lind was posthumously awarded the Theodor Kramer Prize in 2007. Ralph Manheim was one of the great translators of the twentieth century. He translated Günter Grass, Bertolt Brecht, Louis-Ferdinand Céline, Hermann Hess, Peter Handke, and more. In 1982, PEN American Center created an award for translation in his name.

Genres: German Literature

150 pages, Paperback

First published January 1, 1967

Reviews

[Chuck LoPresti · Rating 3 out of 5]

Among the least coherent and tolerable reads I've endured, Ergo is Lind's frolic in the puke pile of the depravity of mental illness - I think. I would not suggest anyone read this. Very little of it makes any linear sense - not that sense is the recipe for a good book - but it does make for an easier read. Not since reading Bernhard's Correction have I so wanted to climb inside a book and beat the ever-loving shit out of the writer. Lind treats his reader to every form of disgust you can imagine. Incest, cannibalism, and nothing less than god's cock is here to revolt and reveal what I'm not so sure. There seems to be some notion of purging/justifying some German-Austrian post-war self-loathing and there's no doubt that Lind has great descriptive skill. But in his quest to shove your face into a pile of feces and call it a book he has done little to help the reader understand these characters at all. If it ended 20 pages in - it would have the same effect. Why bother with this unless you are some sort of Lind completest? I was revolted by Soul of Wood as well - but Soul of Wood is a great book and worth the suffering. This is probably best served to those that see Nitsch as the Santa that will cure us all from our meat-guilt. Having said all that - just like a good case of stomach flu can help you drop a few pounds and expunge old flora - Lind's work is powerful, cathartic and I must say it was just as hard to put down as it was to keep reading. I think Lind would be happy with such a reaction - but I also think that if Lind could have forced each reader to stick his hand up his ass and smell the fruits of his efforts instead - he would have never written Ergo. Some will call this humor - and there was a few chuckles - but unless you giggled your way through Cannibal Holocaust - my guess is you won't be laughing. Read it - I dare you. If you are trying to curry the attention of your local mental health professional - get them this for Christmas.

[Theresa · Rating 3 out of 5]

I had to think about whether I liked this book or not. It is bizarre, hard to follow, and kind of...well, gross. But somehow it kept my interest up juuuust enough that it wasn't entirely a chore to read it.

It was like listening to an inebriated stranger tell you about his dreams; mostly disjointed, ridiculous, and long-winded. But at the same time, vaguely humorous and a little compelling. Eh.

[Ronald Morton · Rating 2 out of 5]

Two small tangents:

1. I cannot come up with any literary comparisons that I distrust more than comparisons to Kafka or Beckett. I'd likely include Joyce in this list, but I tend to see that comparison made more in GR reviews (which I already inherently distrust), than in actual published reviews (which I also distrust, but to a lesser extent. One has to get recommendations somewhere). But damn do reviewers love comparing difficult authors to Kafka and Beckett. And truthfully, I almost never understand the Kafka references, and I only understand the Beckett references to mean "I didn't understand it". I only came across the comparison of Lind to BOTH Kafka and Beckett at the end of this book (it's in the author Bio) but would certainly have been more wary of this book had I seen it upfront.

2. This is the third disappointing Open Letter book that I've read at this point. The first Open Letter book I read was The Golden Calf, which was utterly incredible, but everything else I've tried by them since has been decent at best. Which is unfortunate, as I really like the Three Percent blog (University of Rochester's translation focused blog) and this is their "translation press". It's also unfortunate as I own 5 or so other books of theirs, and I'm progressively less excited to read them with each disappointing book of theirs I read.

Those things aside - and as already referenced - this was a pretty disappointing read. The synopsis:

The consuming passion of Wacholder, the star of Lind's most playful work, is his only true friend and nemesis, Würz, who hasn't left his house in 17 years. When Wacholder's 74th letter seemingly has no effect, he turns to other increasingly outlandish schemes to defeat his rival, even staging a rally to declare Würz's non-existence. A feverishly comic novel.

make it sound like it's going to be a delight, which it decidedly was not.

Though there are funny moments, and there are a few clever arcs (the passages around Leo's plan to cause Wurz's nonexistence come to mind). There is also a lot of nonsensical stream of consciousness, convoluted and ploddingly banal passages, and general tedium. In fact, that makes up most of the book. Thankfully it was only like 150 pages long (even though it felt like 300), as the bad far outweighs the good here.

[Aaron McQuiston · Rating 2 out of 5]

The first two thirds of this was a concept and execution that I really enjoyed. A man feels threatened by someone who hasn't left his house in 17 years so he writes him letter after letter taunting him. The son whom is working on a novel with only five pages completed, and the downstairs flat partner who lies in bed all day making up nonsense. Lind works all the angles of this and for the most part, it is interesting.

And then something happens. Something bad. The last fifty pages are an absolute struggle of nonsense, experimental, stream of consciousness blather that really has no conclusion or does not turn into any cohesive ideas. I can struggle through rough reading if it has a meaningful payoff in the end, but unfortunately this does not. Some of these sentences are interesting. Some are quotable, but none of it means anything in context with the story that was set up, so it is just garbage. It's sad because I really really liked this book until it fell apart, but I have never seen a book fall apart like this one.

[Jim · Rating 2 out of 5]

This is a difficult book to like. It has potential which is why I’d give the author a second chance but it wasn’t my cup of tea even though I very much expected it to be. One review described it as "a wild, strange, bawdy book for lovers of paradox and black comedy" which is a very glass-half-full view of the book. I could replace every word with a far less charitable synonym and leave the sentence equally valid.

You can read my full review on my blog here.

[M.R. Dowsing · Rating 3 out of 5]

A tough read, this one. I fluctuated between thinking it was brilliant and thinking it was a pile of crap. Ultimately, I think there are some interesting things here if you're prepared to make the effort, but Lind doesn't make it easy, disdaining the use of quotation marks and other punctuation. If you like sympathetic characters and conventional narratives, forget it. If, on the other hand, you're an admirer of Burroughs, Beckett and the later Joyce, this may be up your street.

[Cody · Rating 3 out of 5]

i wasn't particularly feeling this book up until the last 40 pages. at which point i think there are a number of great set pieces - i really loved the stream-of-consciousness clarion voice of god coming down like an orbital laser and sizzling off our various skins and disguises. that said a lot of it is a marshy mess and the less impassioned and more bawdy bits kind of drag.

[Tom · Rating 3 out of 5]

I need to give this a second reading, which would probably boost my rating of it. On the first go-around, the novel's situations are too dense and hermetic for me to sort through and appreciate. "Soul of Wood"--the other recently re-printed book by Lind--was more readily accessible.

[Lori · Rating 1 out of 5]

I'm not dumb. Seriously. I like books that make you think.

But I don't even know where to begin with this one. Ergo, first published in 1966, is my second Jakov Lind book after Landscape in Concrete, which wasn't the greatest book I ever read although I liked it well enough. Had a very Catch-22 feel to it. But Ergo . . .

To put it simply: this guy Wacholder is obsessed with this other guy Würz who hasn't left his house in seventeen years. He has obvious symptoms of what we would recognize today as severe OCD (he's obsessed with germs, cleanliness, and order). Convinced that Würz is a menace to society, Wacholder has been trying to "smoke him out" through a series of annoying, threatening, or otherwise obnoxious letters, some 74 in total over the years. Wacholder, meanwhile, lives in a pile of paper in the dilapidated Custom House No. 8 with his son Aslan and a bedridden philosopher named Leo. He then gets a bunch of government workers together for dinner and an orgy, following which he will hold a rally to collectively declare Würz's non-being, pursuant to Leo's placental theory of existence.

Now, um, I guess there is some obvious comedic source material here. But . . . look, here is a sample:

Dear Würz, although dominant inclinations might have permitted another step forward and the pertinent instrumental suggestion and advance of effective knowledge, it cannot be denied that not always before we take such a step, I, in this connection, ask someone who is above all doubt to develop his theory superficially but thoroughly and unintelligibly, especially to the scientist, that what has actually happened and is universally known simply cannot, that the contemplation and opportunity for experiments have assumed enormous proportions in connection with statistical truth, where concepts are not, that in many cases blood-pressure readings and stool samples often no longer or even conversely produce deleterious effects if the greatest danger is eliminated and really worthwhile ailments are cured by the incomprehension of the psychiatrist. . .

I am seriously not sure if Wacholder's letters are really supposed to be nonsense or not. Part of what Lind is trying to get at is that people are insane and that civilization is insane. (I don't know what the other part is.) So is this book supposed to be completely confusing? Is this, like, some kind of reflection of Lind's argument as to the innate incongruity of various aspects of German-Austrian small-town life in the 1960s?

Plus, there are some pretty crude moments in the narrative that give the whole thing a really icky feel that I just could not shake off the entire time I was reading it.

So. . . I hate to be That Person but is there anyone who can explain this to me?

Review Copy

Original Review

[Ferris · Rating 5 out of 5]

In Jakov Lind's "Ergo", therefore never arrives. This novel is reminiscent of "Waiting for Godot". If you choose to read it, be ready for a stream of consciousness roller coaster ride. Enough said.

[Bram · Rating 3 out of 5]

2.5