On Poems
Ladies
and Gentlemen,
A
beginning has been made, and the foundation-stones of the first
misunderstandings have been laid. At the beginning the beginning seems
like the hardest part--but once you have finally started speaking, uttering a
thing or two, the continuation proves to be even more difficult. Such
being the case, I would prefer for us to go on a ramble rather than discuss
something specific, and as we ramble to and fro to bend over to pick up a word
that was dropped at the beginning.
There is
nothing more daunting for someone who has written poems himself than to present
a survey of contemporary lyric poetry; his knowledge is for the most part
slighter than one assumes; moreover, whatever new is being produced in other
countries will remain hidden from all of us for a long time; for the most part
we become familiar with it after a lag of one or two generations; we know
Eliot, Auden, and Dylan Thomas--perhaps simply because he died recently,
because he is a legendary drunkard; we know Apollinaire, Eluard, Aragon, René
Char almost as the most recent of the French poets; of the Italians we hardly
yet know Ungaretti and Montale, of the Russians Blok and Mayakovsky and finally
Pasternak, owing to a questionable political dust storm, and this is not merely
because poems are rather rarely translated; even if we happen to have another
language or several other languages at our command and try hard to keep a
watchful eye on the other side of every border, our present view of poems is
still very much a blurry one. When they possess a new power of
comprehension, this power is appreciable only within their respective languages
and does not manifest itself to the outside world like that of novels and
plays. There is scarcely a single new novel, a single new play, of whose
publication or performance in Paris or New York or Rome we would not expect to
receive speedy news; there is scarcely any such work that we do not speedily
set about reading or are not speedily forced to see. But poems also
happen not to be very marketable, and so their effect even within their own
language communities remains extremely minimal even when—as is asserted today
in a few countries, including Germany—the most vigorously gifted writers are to
be found among the lyric poets. Whether the assertion is accurate or not is
anybody’s guess--in any case, there is also another, more disagreeable, side to
this, for there is no setting in which dilettantism burgeons more abundantly
than in the lyric poem, and there is nothing that gives most readers a poorer
idea of whether or not this or that author has really “got something.”
And many people are even so disagreeable as to assume that no volume of
poetry in our language could ever have any effect but to encourage twenty more
young people to start writing poems themselves. I am more troubled by the
question whether confining ourselves to German poems as representative of
modern poetry is simply a mistake. I do not believe that it is, not in
this case, for of course they initially demand to be perceived as what they
truly are here and now and by us; their foreign words, their foreign bodies
wish first and foremost to be adopted by their own language.
Admittedly
you are not now going to become acquainted with all the modern poets in
existence--for that purpose, there are plenty of treatises in which they are
ranked and sorted into nature lyricists and lyricists of consciousness and God
knows what else, complete with examples; there are anthologies, reprints every
month in every magazine, and there are volumes of poetry that can be found in
the libraries; with these you can adequately brief yourselves. For I am
incapable of presenting them to you with individualized labels on them and
coining some pithy adage about each of them.
So on to
our rambles…
CONTEMPLATE
YOUR FINGERTIPS
Contemplate
your fingertips: is their color already changing?
One fine
day it’ll come back, that eradicated plague.
The
postman will chuck it like a letter into the rattling mailbox,
put it on
your dinner plate like a ration of herring!
the
mother will nurse with it like a breast.
What do
we do now that no one’s left alive
Who knew
well how to keep company with it?
He who is
good friends with the horrific
can await
its visit equanimously.
We keep
on preparing ourselves for happiness
but it
doesn’t willingly sit in our chairs.
Contemplate
your fingertips! When they change color to black
it is too
late.
This poem
is by Günter Eich. I hope that nobody is inclined--if such a thing were
possible--to raise his hand because he has been unsettled by the question, What
is the poet trying to say here? But what observations are we capable
of making; what could actually emerge from a preoccupation with this poem?
I for one am inclined to assume that this poet drafted his design in a
different way than poets a generation and two generations before him. It
is quite hard to picture him as a prophet or as an artist, as a magician, as
[---]; there is not a jot of self-importance, of presumption, in his conception
of himself, for throughout the work such a conception is evident; his claim,
his position, is constantly being asserted. Here there is already a
change in which one can observe that something has taken place here, namely an
alteration in the position of the producer himself. And yet despite the
resignation on so many [---] no abdication, no retreat is available to the
speaker even though the place from which he is speaking has been shifted into a
fatal solitude, shifted not voluntarily, not arrogantly, but rather as a
punishment imposed by a society in the midst of society, a place in which he
does not feel at home, and staying awake becomes difficult for a person who
must, can, will, be watchful. A watchful man is speaking; he is a
sleepless quarry of exposure dwelling in our midst...
When the
window is wide open
And the
earth’s ghastliness is blowing in
The
infant with two heads
--one of
them slumbering, the other screaming—
screams
at us from the world’s length
and
suffuses the ears of my beloved with horror.
The
vocables of reality simply are what they are [in Günter Eich’s poems]; their
stage is populated by window, garbage dumps, rubbish, freight
train, rain-, rust-, and oil-stains, thermos, bakery, factory, subway;
the world is questioned but not left at a loss for answers. The only
entity left at a loss for answers is this I, which is pursued, warned,
and asked to issue warnings of its own. What this specifically means,
ladies and gentlemen, is that nowadays there can no longer be any talk
whatsoever about a sacred song, about a mission, about a chosen community of
artists. By way of deliberately drawing your attention to an extreme
version of this tendency, I shall quote a profession of faith made by a member
of Stefan George’s circle during its heyday:
We are of
the proud belief that for these years we have not merely gathered the best that
a plenary assemblage of tribes in a specific domain of human ability was
capable of producing; rather, we hope that we have also paved the way in
pursuing which those who are to come and become after us will discover an
ever-purer artistic firmament. 1
But for
all the weightiness of this “pure artistic firmament”’s foundations, it proved
unsustainable, and these spirits, who at that time quite understandably rose up
against a trite, insipid school of naturalism and whose achievements we shall
not forget, have somehow managed to survive the collapse of their artistic
firmament. Expressionism soon dealt the first counterblow, and under the
impact of the First World War isolated human voices asserted themselves,
sometimes in execration, sometimes in exhaustion. And new aesthetic
revolts followed, revolts that must also be talked about, specifically because
they led to never-endingly influential linguistic discoveries and discoveries
about reality, although in one respect they have been disavowed for exemplifying
what we now regard as the worst tendencies.
I am
thinking here even of surrealism with its idea of beauty: the surrealists
insisted that beauty had to be terroristic, breathtaking, and demonically
bewildering, that surrealism was going to lead us to our deaths, and in the
second surrealist manifesto, André Breton, the spokesman for the new literary
movement, wrote that surrealism was by no means an artistic school, that,
rather, it was striving for total insubordination, for outright sabotage, that
everything must conspire to annihilate the ideas of the family, the fatherland,
and religion--so far, so good; this was quite impressive--but then came the
apodosis: that surrealism was striving for nothing other than power. “The most
simple surrealist act consists of picking up a revolver, going down into the
street, and shooting randomly into the crowd as long as one can.”
This
prescription was of course never subsequently put into practice by the
surrealists; oh, no; and yet you probably also know that all writers and
painters were discredited, ostracized, threatened with death under the German
dictatorship, and yet there remains an unexplained residue, a suspicion that
without realizing what they were doing, its victims allowed their language to
converge at its limits with the language of power. Naturally surrealism
had intellectual weight, an anti-bourgeois animus; it was serious about wishing
to shock; it had nothing in common with the factitious praxis of murder that
was carried out later on by a completely different party.
Much more
questionable still were the beauty-proclamations of the futurists, for they
called--understandably, to be sure, in a thrust, a violent burst of desire--for
the embracing of the technical world in its beauty and, to be sure, for
recognizing it as nothing but beauty. It was Marinetti who with a young
man’s flair for fanaticism cried:
We
declare that the splendor of the world has been enriched by a new beauty: the
beauty of speed. A racing automobile with its bonnet adorned with great tubes
like serpents with explosive breath ... a roaring motor car which seems to run
on machine-gun fire, is more beautiful than the Victory of Samothrace.
In the later futurist manifesto, which coincided with the
outbreak of the Ethiopian colonial war, one reads:
For twenty–seven years we Futurists have rebelled against the
branding of war as antiaesthetic.. . . Accordingly we state: ... War is
beautiful because it establishes man's dominion over the subjugated machinery
by means of gas masks, terrifying megaphones, flame throwers, and small tanks.
War is beautiful because it initiates the dreamt-of metalization of the human
body. War is beautiful because it enriches a flowering meadow with the fiery
orchids of machine guns. War is beautiful because it combines the gunfire, the
cannonades, the ceasefire, the scents, and the stench of putrefaction into a
symphony. War is beautiful because it creates new architecture, like that of
the big tanks, the geometrical formation flights, the smoke spirals from
burning villages, and many others. . . . Poets and artists of Futurism! . . .
remember these principles of an aesthetics of war so that your struggle for a
new literature and a new graphic art ... may be illumined by them!2
This is
the way the apotheosis of l’art pour l’art can sometimes look.
Here the flashover was formulated distinctly enough.
Please do
not suppose that I am so narrow-minded as to dwell insistently on questions of
guilt in artistic matters and to push such questions into the foreground.
Let us calmly take yet another step forward. I by no means regard
it as a matter of pure chance that Gottfried Benn and Ezra Pound---a writer
whom a few of our young poets must discover for themselves at this moment of
all moments, an American who had the most convoluted ideas about revitalization
and a renaissance of the Renaissance--that in the case of both of these poets
(and they are both poets; of this there can be no doubt), it was only a step
from the pure artistic firmament to currying favor with barbarism.
But
there is a maxim from which Karl Kraus can never be dissociated and which one
hopes never to tire of emphasizing: “Everything of any merit in a language is
rooted in morality.” And morality here does not signify anything that can
be popularized or liquidated, like bourgeois or Christian morality--not a
codex--but rather that airstrip on which the standard of truth and lies must be
established ever anew by every new writer. Just now we were hit by a
maxim: “War is beautiful because by means of gas masks,
flame throwers…” and so forth...
And
here is a poem of our time in which a gas mask also makes an appearance; this
poem has been included in an anthology of love poems from recent years, and you
can see the different sort of light into which its objects have been thrust; a
light that signalizes the shattering of an entire aesthetics of delirium: “Frog
Prince the Bridegroom” by Marie Luise Kaschnitz:
How
hideous
Your
bridegroom is
You
virgin Life
His
countenance a gas mask
His
girdle an ammunition pouch
His
hand
A
flamethrower
Your
bridegroom the frog prince
Rides
with you
(A bike
flies hither, once thither)
Over
the houses of the dead
Between
two
Apocalypses
He
presses himself
Into
your lap
Only in
the darkness
Do you
touch
His
wettish hair
Only at
daybreak
Only at
Daybreak
Only at
Do you
behold his
Mournful
Lovely
Eyes
The
only things that are still called beautiful here are the bridegroom’s eyes, his
mournful eyes. “Mournful” precedes the word “beautiful.” And at the
beginning this man with a flamethrower, with an ammunition pouch, this man with
a claim to power, is referred to in a line that reads “How hideous your
bridegroom is...”
There
are such things as new specifications that are met, new definitions, even in
poems.
At this
same moment, in Sweden, the oldest living German female poet is writing
something that applies to young people and likewise describes what they are
doing and what they have to do: this poet is Nelly Sachs.
Here
she is writing about a young man who lacks a sense of direction, a young man
who is in conflict with all the lights of heaven:
From the races
acclimatized to rocking chairs
he divests himself
having strayed outside himself
in his fiery helmet
he vulnerates the night.
(Reminding
us “who are building the new house,” of the foundation on which we are
building, of how many graves, how many sites of sins, this foundation consists;
and at the same time imploring us not to sigh, not to waste our minutes on
weeping, but rather to insure that our walls and equipment are as receptive as
Aeolian harps.)
But
here the prophetic and psalmodizing mode is not be confused with artistic
prophesying; this is no gesture, but rather a movement arising from the experience
of suffering. And could it be accepted in any other spirit? Have we not become
both quite sensitive and quite sober and excessively dismissive of intoxication
with language on the one hand and conservative verbal Biedermeiers on the
other; now affectedly ill and now affectedly healthy; are we not on the point
of being permanently impervious to fascination by any word at all? Do we
not perhaps desire nothing more than to establish a legal relationship between
language and humankind?
And
shall we not make use of this legality or of no legality whatsoever, and do we
wish to forge a path through the errors and the yielded truths, or no path
whatsoever?
What
does the literature that lies behind us really amount to?: words hewn from the
endocardium and a tragic silence, and fallow fields full of talked-to-death
words and sloughs of fetid, rotten silence; everything, language and silence,
has already been imparted, and in a twofold fashion. And we are constantly
being beckoned and tempted by both of them; our sympathetic participation in
error is of course fully secured, but where does our sympathetic participation
in a new truth begin?
How
does a poem--because we are trying to talk about new poems--how does a poem
begin to participate sympathetically in such a truth?
[Hans
Magnus] Enzensberger’s
THE
WOLVES’ PLEA TO THE LAMBS:
must
the vulture feed on forget-me-nots?
what do
you want the jackal to do,
skin
himself?—and the wolf? must
he pull
out his own teeth?
what
don’t you like
about
politruks and popes
what on
the lying TV are you
dumbly
peeping at from the laundry basket?
who
sews the stripe of blood
on the
general’s trousers? who
carves
the capon before the usurer
who
proudly hangs the tin cross
before
his snarling navel? who
takes
the gratuity, the silverling
the
hush-penny? there is
much
stolen, few thieves; who
rewards
them with applause, who
pins on
their insignias, who
pants
after their lies?
look in
the mirror: timid,
shrinking
from the labor of truth,
averse
to learning, consigning
all
thinking to the wolves
your
nose-ring your costliest jewel
no hoax
too unsubtle, no solace
too
feeble, extortion itself
is
always too kind to you.
you
lambkins are sisters,
interchangeable
ones, who bleat:
you
blend into one another.
brotherliness
rules
among
the wolves:
they
roam in packs.
all hail
the predators: you
enticements
to rapine throw
yourselves
on the fetid bed
of
obedience. lying even
as you
whimper. you long
to be
torn to bits. you
aren’t
changing the world.
“You aren’t changing the world.” Indeed. And what about poetry itself? What
effect does it have? Is it not perhaps the case that because a poem like
this makes us unhappy, because it manages to do this, and because there are new
poets who can make us unhappy, there is also a jolt within us, a jolt instinct
with insight, a jolt under whose influence we comprehend the larger one that is
taking place? There is a really wonderful letter by Kafka about what he
demands from a book:
"If the
book we’re reading isn’t waking us up with a punch to the skull, why are we
bothering to read the book? So that it will make us happy…? Good
Lord, we would be happy already if we didn’t have any books at all, and if push
came to shove we could always write the kinds of books that make us happy
ourselves...A book must be the ax for the frozen sea within us. I believe
this."
Perhaps
it has been bothering you for I while now that I have said nothing about the
new forms in the new poems, and hardly anything about the new language in them.
But in connection with this poem I would like to say something on these
topics in a roundabout way. There were recently published two books by a
man who was not really a literary historian but rather something of an outsider;
I am referring to the pair of studies entitled Die Welt als Labyrinth [The
World as a Labyrinth] and Manieirismus in der Literatur [Mannerism in
Literature] by Gustav René Hocke. These books deal with the authors I
have mentioned, along with many others, complete with illustrative quotations;
and the thesis propounded in them is basically as follows: the provocative
formal and thematic phenomena that we have been observing not only in
literature but also in the other arts since about 1850 are not new, and this is
not the first time that they have come upon the scene; rather, the modern
artists themselves have been adhering to a hidden tradition; their audacious
linguistic sallies and their “intellectual vices,” as he terms them, are
ultimately of Greco-Oriental origin. The second revolution took place in the
middle of the sixteenth century and faded away in the middle of the
seventeenth. In the domain of literature, the last such revolution dates
from Baudelaire’s debut. These three epochs have been subsumed under the
generic heading of “Mannerism” for the sake of more firmly defining the
anti-classical constant in European intellectual history. The poets of
these periods are trying to be “modern.” They are characterized as such:
they eschew immediacy, love obscurity, grant admittance to sensuous imagery
only in abstruse, highly camouflaged metaphors; an intellectual system of signs
is utilized towards the end of apprehending the real or super-real; their works
are enigmatic, hieroglyphic, and this is why they evade aesthetic scrutiny with
the help of classical standards. I have no intention of going beyond this
outline and can only urge you to read both studies, even at the risk of your
temporarily smelling a whiff of “mannerism” everywhere and in everything and
forgetting your judgment thanks to your astonishment. But this highly
stimulating book with its important findings has triggered an extremely
remarkable reaction. For it admittedly cannot exit the stage without
first letting a few drops of wormwood fall on the new linguistic
drilling-grounds, on the metaphor laboratories and the fission of verbal
nuclei. Because somebody has always stolen a march on this sort of thing,
whether in 1600 or in 1900. I hear tell that a couple of hundred years ago
a man by the name of Athanasius Kirchner constructed a metaphor machine that
could generate a complete poetic image out of nothing. We are now witnessing at
least the third occurrence of abstract orthography: letterism, which Isidor
Isou inaugurated as a last resort a couple of years ago in Paris in order to
slit open the alphabet in order to conjure up Being with the aid of a few new
supplementary characters, has a precursor in the third century, and another one
is Hugo Ball, who in the first year of Dadaism in Zurich wrote letterist poems,
admittedly with a different intention; namely, a polemical one. This
state of affairs seems a bit sad to many people who believe that revolutions
and reclamations of land in literature must be primarily sought in formal
experimentation and sometimes overlook the fact that the latter can only take
place in the aftermath of a new idea.
On the
other hand the discovery of “mannerism” was honey to many critics because they
were now at last being handed a couple of solid criteria for the judgment of
modern literature, criteria as applicable to verbal salad-mixing as to true
verbal might. Thank goodness, we’ve always already been here before; none
of it is actually new; we don’t need to be intimidated anymore when we run into
metaphors like “black milk”; of course the exact same thing can be found in
Marino’s “red sea” (of the sixteenth century); we’ve always already been here
before; ultimately we understand it, and understanding everything means
pardoning everything. Or else, if the critic is a member of a different,
barbed armor-clad species, it means this is all passé, and so it’s not
interesting anymore; this has already been done better, it’s a shoddy
imitation, a carbon copy; the Surrealists did this too, and did it better, the
Poètes maudits also did it better, and naturally the ancients did it better
still: remember Marino, remember Góngora, remember, remember.
But
whom should we resolve to remember as we reflect once again on this poem [“the
wolves’ plea to the lambs”]? Is its author a mannerist? He has
written poems in which neologisms like “manitypistin” and “stenoküre” occur, so
yes: he certainly is one (but with what intention?: that is the real
question!). And if we were compiling an anthology of younger authors, as
long as we stuck to hunting down formal structures, to gaping at metaphors, at
similarities, at the authors’ exploitation of an anonymous lexicon, at their
canny facility with certain fashionable cocktail recipes, we would certainly have
a very easy time figuring out what they were fundamentally all about. But
at the same time we would fail to see the most important thing; namely, when we
are dealing merely with affectations, with finger exercises, or merely
misbegotten trial runs, and we would fail to see when someone is actually
trying to commit a robbery and is being robbed by language and robbed by truth,
when the inimitable is devouring the imitable. Because of course all of
them, almost all of them, have, I believe, some tincture of the merely
fashionable about them, and we also keenly sense this when we take up older
works of long-established stature; we sense that their period lexica and period
figures of speech hold their own only thanks to the firm and fairly robust
context in which they appear.
But
why--and you are perhaps still unsure of the answer to this question--did I
happen to select these particular poems, and what am I trying to demonstrate by
discussing them? Perhaps the good “disposition” of these authors. This
conjecture is certainly plausible. But what is a disposition, and who
does not emphatically claim to have one? To be liberally and amicably
disposed, and from there it is no longer any great distance to well disposed,
but well-disposed to whom? And if the radicalness of every form of
aestheticism has bequeathed to us a certainty that is binding, it is the
certainty that with a good disposition it is no longer possible to produce a
good poem. I do not know whether it was really true, as a few people,
including Benn, believed, that it was necessary to remind the Germans of this
over and over again because they had still never managed to grasp it and were
still highly receptive to “versifying” and “atmospheric images.” So let
us remind ourselves of it one more time, even though, if one thinks of the
young people who have published poems in the last ten, fifteen years, one gets
the feeling that hardly anybody caters to this plebiscitic desire anymore.
Much more onerous is the desire of a few for art [----] critics with
their diagnoses and prognoses; for them everything is always in a crisis, they
demand that the crises should be overcome; and recently even mannerism has been
expected to be overcome, and then there are the crisis in the novel and the crisis
in the theater; everything is expected to be overcome or integrated to some
extent. But when one finally ponders these sentences one begins to get
cross, for who after all is expected to be overcome by whom here?
You can overcome an adversary or a pain or a weakness, but as for a crisis in the novel or in culture or in one of those flayed conceptual monsters—nobody can overcome such a thing. The statements are worthy ones; they are often creditable; they often hit the mark, but the questions that affix themselves to them are poorly framed, of practically no importance, and merely squeeze the former out of the small circle of genuine questions that are posable at all. Admittedly the sting of these questions can be felt only by the individual, and by those who have been more moved by a couple of apothegms from afar than by an entire assortment of problems, and one of those apothegms, apothegms that do not even ask to be vulnerated, is for example that of Bertolt Brecht: “What kinds of times are these when a conversation about trees is almost a crime because it encloses a silence about so many foul deeds?” This is why people of later birth are somewhat shy about showcasing their worries about form, about expression, about intellectual capacity, worries that have been agonizing from time immemorial.
In a few
passages in Günter Eich’s work there is talk about discomfort caused by beauty,
discomfort caused by happiness; that whole tension between horror and beauty,
which of course condition each other; the cult of beauty and of horror has
given way to another one. The poems, which are highly heterogeneous, are
not savory but rich in insight, as if in an age of extreme linguistic distress
they were obliged to make something out of their extreme contactlessness in
order to ablate the distress. From this achievement they derive a
dignity, a dignity that they do not even dare to aspire to.
Having
strayed outside themselves in their fiery helmet they vulnerate
the night. This is also true to a large extent of the poet about whom I
will speak in conclusion. About Paul Celan. He made his first
appearance among us with an epitaph, his “Death Fugue,” and with some highly
illuminating dark words that undertook a journey to the end of night. And
this I in these poems also forgoes an oppressive blueprint, an extorted
authority, and gains an authority, even as it asks for nothing for itself other
than: “Make me bitter, count me with the almonds, count me with…what was bitter
and kept you alive…”
But today I have brought along his most recent collection of poems, “Sprachgitter” [“Speech Grille”] because it tours a new and still little-known territory. The metaphors have completely vanished; the words have cast off every vestment, every veil; not a single word flies towards another one any longer; another one intoxicates. After a painful figure of speech, an extremely severe inspection of the references of word and world, it arrives at new definitions. The poems are entitled “Matière de Bretagne” or “Railway Embankments, Waysides, Waste Places, Debris,” or “Blueprint of a Landscape” or “Debris Barge.”
They are
uncomfortable, palpating, reliable, so reliable in being called what they are
that their titles must go exactly as far as they do and no further.
Poem:3
But
suddenly, on account of the severe retrenchment of scope, it is once again
possible to say something, to say it quite directly, unencryptedly.
It is possible for somebody who says of himself that he is chafing
at reality and questing for reality as he commences to speak with his
existence. At the end of his great poem “Engführung” [“Stretto”], there
is a particularly striking passage, and I would like to close with this
passage--and before I do, I would also like to mention that for Celan the stars
are “the work of man,” that here they are to be understood as a human
construct.
………….A
Star
still
has some light
Nothing,
nothing
is forsaken
- Blätter für die Kunst. 3 Folgen, 5 Bände, Auslese aus den Jahrgängen 1892–1898. Verlag Georg Bondi, Berlin 1899. Text aus der Einleitung. S. 24. [Art Journals. Three Series, Five Volumes, Selections from the Years 1892 to 1898. Georg Bondi Publications, Berlin 1898. Text from the introduction, p. 24.]
- As Bachmann’s editors point out, here she is quoting Marinetti indirectly (if at all [for they add that Marinetti’s daughter was unable to find the passage in her archive of her father’s works]) via Walter Benjamin’s essay “Das Kunstwerk im Zeitalter der technischen Reproduzierbarkeit” (“The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction”), which is also the source of the attribution of the context of the passage to the Ethiopian colonial war. The translation is Harry Zohn’s from the Hannah Arendt-edited collection entitled Illuminations.
- According
to the editors, in her typescript Bachmann did not indicate what poem was
to be read here.
THE END
Translation unauthorized but Copyright ©2018 by Douglas
Robertson
Source: Ingeborg Bachmann, Frankfurter Vorlesungen. Probleme
zeitgenössischer Dichtung [Frankfurt Lectures. Problems in
Contemporary Literature], Munich and Berlin: Piper, 2016. This is the
second of a series of five lectures that Bachmann delivered at Goethe
University Frankfurt during the 1959-1960 winter semester and recorded for
Bavarian Radio in April 1960.
1 comment:
Thank you, much appreciated.
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