by Peter Handke
XV
Kaspar sits there. He is quiet. You learn to hesitate with the sentence and with the sentence you learn that you are hesitating, and you learn to hear with the sentence and you learn with the sentence that you are hearing, and with the sentence you learn to divide time into time before and time after uttering the sentence, and you learn with the sentence that you are dividing time, just as you learn with the sentence that you were elsewhere the last time you uttered the sentence, just as you learn with the sentence that you are elsewhere now, and learn to speak with the sentence and learn with the sentence that you are speaking; and you learn with the sentence that you are speaking a sentence, and you learn with the sentence to speak another sentence, just as you learn that there are other sentences, just as you learn other sentences, and learn to learn; and you learn with the sentence that there is an order and you learn with the sentence to learn order.
XVI
The stage is blacked out.
You can still crawl off behind the sentence: hide: contest it. The sentence can still mean anything.
XVII
The stage becomes bright. Kaspar sits there quietly. Nothing indicates that he is listening. He is being taught to speak. He would like to keep his sentence. His sentence is slowly but surely exorcised through the speaking of other sentences. He becomes confused. The sentence doesn’t hurt you yet, not one word. Does hurt you. Every word does. Hurt, but you don’t know that that which hurts you is a sentence that. Sentence hurts you because you don’t know that it is a sentence. Speaking hurts you but the speaking does not. Hurt nothing hurts you because you don’t know yet what. Hurting is everything hurts you but nothing. Really hurts you the sentence does. Not hurt you yet because you don’t know yet that it is. A sentence although you don’t know that it is a sentence, it hurts you, because you don’t know that it is a sentence that hurts. You.
I want to be a person like somebody else was once.
Kaspar defends himself with his sentence:
I want.
I want to be like once.
I want to be a person like once.
Somebody else.
Like a person else.
Somebody. You begin, with yourself, you, are a, sentence you, could form, of yourself, innumerable, sentences, you sit, there but, you don’t, know that, you sit there. You don’t sit, there because you, don’t know that, you sit there you, can form, a sentence, of yourself, you sit in, your coat, is buttoned, the belt, on your, pants is, too loose, you have, no shoelace you, have no, belt your coat, is unbuttoned, you are not even, there you, are an un, loosed shoe, lace. You cannot defend yourself against any sentence:
He still maintains his sentence:
I want to be a person like somebody else was once.
He defends himself again:
Was I.
Somebody else like else.
Somebody else a person.
Be like I.
I be I.
Somebody was.
Be one.
I a person.
I want somebody else.
Like somebody else somebody.
Once like somebody.
Was somebody.
Like once.
I want to be somebody like. The shoelace hurts you. It does not hurt you because it is a shoelace but because you lack the word for it, and the difference between the tight and the loose shoelace hurts you because you don’t know the difference between the tight and the loose shoelace. The coat hurts you, and the hair hurts you. You, although you don’t hurt yourself, hurt yourself. You hurt yourself because you don’t know what is you. The table hurts you, and the curtain hurts you. The words that you hear and the words that you speak hurt you. Nothing hurts you because you don’t know what hurting is, and everything hurts, you don’t know what anything means. Because you don’t know the name of anything, everything hurts you even if you don’t know that it hurts you because you don’t know what the word hurt means:
The first divergence:
I want to be like somebody else like somebody else once was somebody else.
You hear sentences: something like your sentence: something comparable. You can play off your sentence against other sentences and already accomplish something: such as becoming used to the open shoelace. You are becoming used to other sentences, so that you cannot do without them any more. You can no longer imagine your sentence all alone by its self: it is no longer your sentence alone: you are already looking for other sentences. Something has become impossible: something else has become possible:
He resists more vehemently but with less success:
One.
Be.
Somebody.
Was.
Want.
Somebody else.
Somebody else like I like once I want to be.
He resists even more vehemently, but even less successfully:
Waswant!
Somelike!
Someonce!
Some I!
Besome!
Likeonce!
Elsh! Where are you sitting? You are sitting quietly. What are you speaking? You are speaking slowly. What are you breathing? You are breathing regularly. Where are you speaking? You are speaking quickly. What are you breathing? You are breathing in and out. When are you sitting? You are sitting more quietly. Where are you breathing? You are breathing more rapidly. When are you speaking? You are speaking louder. What are you sitting? You are breathing. What are you breathing? You are speaking. What are you speaking? You are sitting. Where are you sitting? You are speaking in and out:
Olce ime kwas askwike lein.
The prompters address Kaspar very vehemently:
Kaspar utters a very long e. Order. Put. Lie. Sit.
Kaspar utters an n for not quite as long a duration as the e. Put. Order. Lie. Sit.
Lie. Put. Order. Sit.
Kaspar utters a shorter s. Sit. Lie. Put. Order.
Kaspar utters a brief, formally difficult, r. Order. Put. Lie. Sit.
Kaspar utters a p, and tries to stretch the p like the other letters, an endeavor in which he of course fails utterly. Put. Order. Sit. Lie.
Sit. Lie. Order. Stand.
With great formal difficulties, Kaspar utters a t. Stand. Sit. Lie. Order.
With great effort, Kaspar utters a d. Lies. Stands. Sits. Completely ordered:
Kaspar seeks to produce some kind of sound by means of movements such as stomping his feet, scraping, shoving a chair back and forth, and finally perhaps by scratching on his clothes. The prompters are now speaking calmly, already sure of their success:
Hear?
Remain?
Open up?
Hear!
Remain!!
Open up!!!
Kaspar tries with all his strength to produce a single sound. He tries it with his hands and feet. He cannot do it. His strenuous movements become weaker and weaker. Finally he stops moving altogether. Kaspar has finally been silenced. His sentence has been exorcised. Several moments of quiet. The prompters let him mutely exert himself.
XVIII
Kaspar is made to speak. He is gradually needled into speaking through the use of speech material. The table stands. The table fell over? The chair fell over! The chair stands! The chair fell over and stands? The chair fell over but the table stands. The table stands or fell over! Neither the chair fell over nor the table stands nor the chair stands nor the table fell over?! You are sitting on a chair that fell over:
Kaspar is still mute. The table is a horror for you. But the chair is no horror because it is no table. But your shoelace is a horror because the broom is no chair. But the broom is no horror because it is a table. But the chair is no horror because it is the table as well as the shoelace. But the shoelace is no horror because it is neither a chair nor a table nor a broom. But the table is a horror because it is a table. But the table, chair, broom, and shoelace are a horror because they are called table, chair, broom, and shoelace. They are a horror to you because you
don’t know what they are called:
Kaspar begins to speak:
Fallen down.
He begins to speak a little:
Because.
Often.
Me.
Never.
Least.
Into.
Let.
Me.
Nothing.
Although.
How.
Because me here at least already. They continue to stuff him with enervating words: For a closet on which you sit is a chair, or not? Or a chair on which you sit is a closet when it stands on the place of the closet, or not? Or a table which stands on the place of the closet is a chair when you sit on it, or not? Or a chair on which you sit is a closet as soon as it can be opened with a key and clothes hang in it, even if it stands on the place of the table and you can sweep the floor with it; or not?
He comes closer and closer to uttering a regular sentence:
Into the hands.
Far and wide.
Or there.
Fell out.
Beat eyes.
No is.
Goes neither home.
To the hole.
Goat eyes.
Reservoir.
How dark.
Pronounced dead.
If I myself already here at least tell. A table is a word you can apply to the closet, and you have a real closet and a possible table in place of the table, and? And a chair is a word you can apply to the broom, so that you have a real broom and a possible chair in place of the chair, and? And a broom is a word you can apply to the shoelace, and you have a real shoelace and a possible broom in place of the shoelace, and? And a shoelace is a word you can apply to the table, so that you suddenly have neither a table nor a shoelace in place of the table, and?
Eel. Run.
Boiled. From behind.
Right. Later. Horse.
Never stood. Screams.
Faster. Puss. Thrashing.
Whimpers. The knee.
Back. Crawls.
Hut. At once.
Candle. Hoarfrost. Stretch.
Awaits. Struggles.
Rats. Unique. Worse.
Walked. Living. Farther.
Jumped. Yes. Should. The chair still hurts you, but the word chair already pleases you. The table still hurts you but the word table already pleases you. The closet still hurts you a little, but the word closet already pleases you more. The word shoelace is beginning to hurt you less because the word shoelace pleases you more and more. The broom hurts you less the more the word broom pleases you. Words no longer hurt you when the word words pleases you. The sentences please you more the more the word sentence pleases you:
Entered am chair without rags on the shoelace, which meantime talked to death struck the feet, without broom on the table, which are standing turned over some distance from the closet, barely two saving drops on the curtain.
Words and things. Chair and shoelace. Words without things. Chair without broom. Things without words. Table without thing. Closet without shoelace. Words without table. Neither words nor things. Neither words nor shoelace. Neither words nor table. Table and words. Words and chair without things. Chair without shoelace without words and closet. Words and things. Things without words. Neither word nor things. Words and sentences. Sentences: Sentences: Sentences:
Kaspar utters a normal sentence:
At that time, while I was still away, my head never ached as much, and I was not tortured the way I am now that I am here.
It becomes dark.
XIX
It becomes light, Kaspar slowly begins to speak: After I came in, as I see only now, I put, as I see only now, the sofa into disorder, whereupon, as I see only now, the closet door with which I, as I see only now, played, as I see only now, with my foot, was left open, whereupon I, as I see only now, ripped, as I see only now, the drawer out of the table, whereupon, as I see only now, I threw over another table, thereupon a rocking chair, as I see only now, also turned over, as well as a further chair and broom, as I see only now, whereupon I walked toward, as I see only now, the only chair still standing (as I see only now) and sat down. I neither saw anything nor heard anything, and I felt good. He gets up. Now I have gotten up and noticed at once, not just now, that my shoelace was untied. Because I can speak now I can put the shoelace in order. Ever since I can speak I can bend down to the shoelace in normal fashion. Ever since I can speak I can put everything in order. He bends down toward the shoelace. He moves one leg forward so as to be able to bend down better toward the shoelace. But because he was standing with the other leg on the shoelace, he stumbles as he moves the leg forward and falls after making a futile attempt to remain upright—for a moment it looks as though he might stop himself, but he doesn’t. In the process he also overturns the chair he had been sitting on. After a moment of silence: Ever since I can speak I can stand up in a normal fashion; but falling only hurts ever since I can speak; but the pain when I fall is half as bad ever since I know that I can speak about the pain; but falling is twice as bad ever since I know that one can speak about my falling; but falling doesn’t hurt at all any more ever since I know that I can forget the pain; but the pain doesn’t stop at all any more ever since I know that I can feel ashamed of falling.
XX
Kaspar sets in. He speaks slowly: Do remember that and don’t forget it!
Do remember that and don’t forget it!
Do remember that and don’t forget it!
Do remember that and don’t forget it!
Do remember that and don’t forget it!
Do remember that and don’t forget it!
Do remember that and don’t forget it!
Do remember that and don’t forget it!
Do remember that and don’t forget it!
Do remember that and don’t forget it!
Do remember that and don’t forget it!
Do remember that and don’t forget it! Ever since you can speak a normal sentence you are beginning to compare everything that you perceive with this normal sentence, so that the sentence becomes a model. Each object you perceive is that much simpler, the simpler the sentence with which you can describe it: that object is a normal object about which no further questions remain to be asked after a short simple sentence: a normal object is one which is entirely clarified with a short simple sentence: all you require for a normal object is a sentence of three words: an object is normal when you don’t first have to tell a story about it. For a normal object you don’t even require a sentence: for a normal object the word for the object suffices. Stories only begin with abnormal objects. You yourself are normal once you need to tell no more stories about yourself: you are normal once your story is no longer distinguishable from any other story: when no thesis about you provokes an anti-thesis. You should not be able to hide behind a single sentence any more. The sentence about your shoelace and the sentence about you must be alike except for one word: in the end they must be alike to the word.
XXI
A spotlight follows Kaspar’s hand which is slowly approaching the loose shoelace. It follows Kaspar’s other hand, which is also approaching the shoelace. He slowly crosses one shoelace over the other. He holds the crossed ends up. He winds one end precisely around the other. He holds up both ends, crossed. He draws the shoelaces together, slowly and deliberately. He elaborately makes a noose with one lace. He places the other lace around the noose. He pulls it through underneath. He draws the noose tight. The first order has been created. The spotlight is extinguished. The table stands. With the word table you think of a table which stands: a sentence is not needed any more. The scarf is lying. When the scarf is lying, something is not in order. Why is the scarf lying? The scarf already requires other sentences. Already the scarf has a story: does the scarf have a knot tied at one end, or has someone thrown the scarf on the floor? Was the knot ripped off the scarf? Was someone choked to death with the scarf? The curtain is falling just now: at the word curtain you think of a
curtain that is falling just now: a sentence is not needed any more. What is worth striving for is a curtain that is just falling.
XXII
The spotlight follows Kaspar’s hand, which, by pushing up the jacket, approaches the belt, which may be very wide. The spotlight follows Kaspar’s other hand, which also moves toward the belt. One hand slips the belt end out of very many belt loops. One hand holds the prong of the buckle while the other draws the belt away from the prong. This hand pulls the belt tight while the other hand puts the prong through the next hole. The belt end, which has become even longer through the tightening of the belt, is again passed carefully through the many loops until the pants fit as they should obviously fit. The spotlight darkens. A sentence which demands a question is uncomfortable: you cannot feel at ease with such a sentence. What matters is that you form sentences that you can at least feel at ease with. A sentence which demands another sentence is unpretty and uncomfortable. You need homely sentences: sentences as furnishings: sentences which you could actually save: sentences which are a luxury. All objects about which there are still questions to be asked are disorderly, unpretty, and uncomfortable. Every second sentence (the words are timed to coincide with the loops through which Kaspar is passing the belt) is disorderly, unpretty, uncomfortable, irksome, ruthless, irresponsible, in bad taste.
XXIII
The spotlight follows Kaspar’s hand which is buttoning his jacket from top to bottom. One button is left over at the bottom. The spot points to the leftover button, as does Kaspar’s hand. Then it follows the hand as it unbuttons the jacket from bottom to top, but more rapidly than it buttoned it. Then it follows Kaspar’s hand as it buttons the jacket once more, even more quickly. This time he succeeds. The spot and Kaspar’s hands both point to the bottommost button. Then the hands release the button. The spot reveals that everything is in order. Then it goes out Every object must be the picture of an object: every proper table is the picture of a table. Every house must be the picture of a house. Every proper table is (the words are timed to coincide with the buttoning) orderly, pretty, comfortable, peaceful, inconspicuous, useful, in good taste. Each house (the words coincide with the buttoning) that tumbles, trembles, smells, burns, is vacant, is haunted is not a true house. Every sentence (the words again coincide with the buttoning) which doesn’t irk, doesn’t threaten, doesn’t aim, doesn’t ask, doesn’t choke, doesn’t want, doesn’t assert is a picture of a sentence.