by Peter Handke
Because the snow was white and because snow was the first white I saw, I called everything white snow. I was given a handkerchief that was white, but I believed it would bite me because the white snow bit my hand when I touched it, and I did not touch the handkerchief, and when I knew the word snow I called the white handkerchief snow: but later, when I also knew the word handkerchief, when I saw a white handkerchief, even when I uttered the word handkerchief, I still thought the word snow, because of which I first began to remember. But a brown or gray handkerchief was not snow, just as the first brown or gray snow I saw was not snow, but the first gray or brown that I saw, for example animal droppings or a sweater. But a white wall was snow, and just as much as absolutely everything became snow when I looked into the sun for a long time, because I then saw only snow. Finally I even used the word snow, out of curiosity, for something that was not white, to see whether it would turn to snow because of my uttering the word snow, and even if I did not say the word snow I was thinking it and remembered at every sight if not the snow itself at least the word snow. Even while falling asleep or while walking along a country lane or while running in the dark I kept saying the word snow all the time. But finally I reached the point where I no longer believed not only words and sentences about snow, but even the snow itself when it lay there in front of me or was falling, did not believe any more and held it neither for real nor as possible, only because I no longer believed the word snow.
The landscape at that time was a brightly colored window shutter. As of the time that I saw the shadow a chair cast on the floor, I have from that time on always designated a fallen chair on the floor as the shadow of a chair. Each movement was running because at that time I wanted to do nothing but run and run away from everything; even swimming in the water was running. Jumping was running in the wrong direction. Even falling was running. Every liquid, even when it was calm, was a possible running. When I was afraid, the objects ran very quickly. But nightfall at that time was becoming unconscious.
When I did not know where to turn next, it was explained to me that I was afraid when I did not know where to turn, and that is how I learned to be afraid; and when I saw red it was explained to me that I was angry; but when I wanted to crawl away to hide I was ashamed; and when I leapt into the air I was happy; but when I was near bursting I had a secret or was proud of something; and when I nearly expired I had pity; but when I knew neither left nor right I was in despair; and when I did not know what was up or down I was confused; but when my breath stopped I was startled; and when I became ashen-faced I was afraid of death; but when I rubbed my hands together I was satisfied; and when I stuttered it was explained to me that I was happy when I stuttered; when I stuttered I was happy.
After I had learned to say the word I, I had to be addressed as I for a time because I did not know I was meant by the word you, since I was called I; and also, when I already knew the word you I pretended for a time that I did not know who was meant, because I enjoyed not understanding anything; thus I also began to enjoy responding whenever the word you was uttered.
When I did not understand a word I doubled it and doubled it once more, so that it would no longer bother me. I said: war, war; rag, rag. I said: war, war, war, war; rag, rag, rag, rag. Thus I became accustomed to words. Meantime, one of the Kaspars has taken a large file out of his carton and rasped once across the carton. Thereupon he also begins to file on the Kaspar sitting next to him. The sound produced by the filing is of the kind that drives one wild. All the Kaspars wear some kind of material which, if a file, knife, or nail is applied to it, produces all manner of excruciating noises. Up to this point, only one of these noises has been produced, and briefly. The Kaspars might have on their clothing pieces of foam rubber, tin, stone, slate, etc. All these are in the carton. One might also use the noise produced by crumpling the wrapping paper. The noises now become increasingly more frequent and louder because all the Kaspars in back begin to work on the cartons and on each other with their files, knives, slate pencils, nails, fingernails, etc. One by one, they get up and form a tight, wrangling huddle. However, each noise is distinct from the others: none is produced indiscriminately; nor do they drown out the words of Kaspar 1 at the microphone; on the contrary, they make them even more distinct.
I first saw only one person. Later, after I had seen this one person, I saw several other persons. That certainly surprised me.
I saw something sparkle. Because it sparkled, I wanted to have it. I wanted to have everything that sparkled. Later I also wanted to have what didn’t sparkle.
I saw that someone had something. I wanted to have something like it. Later I also wanted to have something.
When I woke up I ate. Then I played and also spoke until I fell asleep again and woke up again.
Once I put my hands in my pockets and could not pull them out again.
Once every object seemed to me to prove something, but what?
Once (he tries to swallow) I was unable to swallow.
Once (he tries to sneeze) I was unable to sneeze. The sounds become increasingly more ample and prolonged. For instance, one will hear the sound of a door scraping along a stone floor, of a metal bar slipping along a polar bear’s claws in a circus, of a sled running its runners from snow onto gravel, of chalk or a fingernail on slate, of a knife scraping a plate, of people scraping a marble floor with nails in their shoes, of a saw cutting through new wood, of a fingernail scraping across a pane of glass, of cloth tearing, etc. (Leave something to the imagination, but not too much.) As these noises are produced, and as the various objects in the cartons (foam rubber, etc.) are cut up, the Kaspars gradually come to the front of the stage.
Once (he tries to yawn) I was unable to yawn.
Once—(with effort he tries to speak the following sentence to the end) pursue the others … I caught … no one vanquished … the objects were … I drove … no one caressed … the others stormed … the objects had … no one pushed … I shoved … the others showed … the objects became … I moved … the others ripped … no one lowered … the objects are … the objects have … the others rub … no one hits … I drag … the objects become … no one chokes … the others get …—I was unable to speak a sentence to the end.
Once made slip slip … once madip slip slip … once madip slin slin … monce mamin m:m:m …—I made a slip of the tongue, and they all looked at each other.
Once I was the only one who laughed.
Once I sat down on a fly.
Once I heard everyone scream murder! but when I looked I only found a peeled tomato in the garbage can.
All at once I distinguished myself from the furnishings.
Already with my first sentence I was trapped.
I can make myself understood. I think I must have slept a long time because I am awake now. I go to the table and use the table, but look at that—the table continues to exist after it has been used. I can appear because I know where my place is. I cannot fall asleep with dry hands, but when I spit into my hands they become even drier. By saying: the chair is harmless, it is all over with the chair’s harmlessness. I feel good when the door, having stood open for long, is finally closed. I know where everything belongs. I have a good eye for the right proportion. I don’t put anything into my mouth. I can laugh to three. I am usable. I can hear wood rotting over long distances. I no longer understand anything literally. I cannot wait until I wake up, whereas earlier I could not wait to fall asleep. I have been made to speak. I have been converted to reality. —Do you hear it? (Silence.) Can you hear? (Silence.) Psst. (Silence .)
The stage becomes dark.
Silence.
LXV
As the stage becomes bright once more, the events on stage are again divided into three parts: together with Kaspar’s speech as follows, the prompters come on again. Whispering, they repeat something like this: If only. Own future. Now every second one as opposed to every fourth one at one time. A possible object. If only. Make life easier. If only.
Development. If only. In reality. If only. In constantly growing numbers. If only. Serves the. If only. Bears dangers. If only. It is necessary for that. If only. Finally, they repeat over and over again, until the end, speaking softly: If only. If only. If only. Meanwhile, the Kaspars come forward (filing, etc.) and proceed to manhandle the speaking Kaspar with their files, etc. They make particular fun of one object, say a chair, laughing at it, imitating it, costuming it, dragging it off and imitating the sound it makes as it is being dragged across the floor, thus making it utterly ridiculous and making it and all other objects COMPLETELY IMPOSSIBLE. Kaspar 1 has gone on speaking:
I can hear the logs comfortably crackling in the fire, with which I want to say that I do not hear the bones crackling comfortably. The chair stands here, the table there, with which I mean to say that I am telling a story. I would not like to be older, but I would like for much time to have passed, with which I mean to say that a sentence is a monster, with which I mean to say that speaking can help temporarily, with which I mean to say that every object becomes ticklish when I am startled. I say: I can imagine to be everywhere now, except that I cannot imagine really being there, with which I mean to say that the doorknobs are empty. I can say: the air snaps shut, or: the room creaks, or: the curtain jingles, with which I mean to say that I don’t know where I should put or leave my hand, while I when I say that I don’t know where to put my hand mean to say that all doors tempt me only under the pretense that they can be opened, which sentence I would like to use in the sense of: my hair has gotten into the table as into a machine and I am scalped: literally: with each new sentence I become nauseous: figuratively: I have been turned topsy-turvy: I am in someone’s hand: I look to the other side: there prevails an unbloody calm: I cannot rid myself of myself any more: I toss the hat onto the meathook: every stool helps while dying: the furnishings are waterproof: the furniture is as it ought to be: nothing is open: the pain and its end come within sight: time must stop: thoughts become very small: I still experienced myself: I never saw myself: I put up no undue resistance: the shoes fit like gloves: I don’t get away with just a fright: the skin peels off: the foot sleeps itself dead: candles and bloodsuckers: ice and mosquitoes: horses and puss: hoarfrost and rats: eels and sicklebills:
Meantime, the other Kaspars are producing an infernal noise with their various tools which they have applied to the objects they have brought with them and to Kaspar 1. They are giggling, behave like crowds in crowd scenes in plays, ridicule Kaspar 1 by speaking in the same rhythm as he, etc. Kaspar 1 had also produced a file and makes similar noises by scraping with the file against the microphone while he is speaking his sentences. But now, all at once, an almost complete silence sets in. The Kaspars merely flap their arms about a little and gesticulate. They wriggle a little. They snuffle. Then Kaspar says:
Goats and monkeys With that, the curtain jolts a little toward the center, where the Kaspars are wriggling. The jolt produces a shrill sound.
Goats and monkeys With an even shriller sound, the curtain jerks a little farther toward the middle.
Goats and monkeys With an even shriller sound, the curtain jerks still farther toward the middle.
Goats and monkeys With an even shriller sound, the curtain moves still more toward the center.
Goats and monkeys With the shrillest possible sound, the curtain makes one final jerk toward the center, where the Kaspars are still wriggling a little. The curtain slams into them the moment Kaspar 1 says his last word: it topples all of them. They fall over, but fall behind the curtain, which has now come together. The piece is over.
NOTE ON OFFENDING THE AUDIENCE AND SELF-ACCUSATION
The speak-ins (Sprechstücke) are spectacles without pictures, inasmuch as they give no picture of the world. They point to the world not by way of pictures but by way of words; the words of the speak-ins don’t point at the world as something lying outside the words but to the world in the words themselves. The words that make up the speak-ins give no picture of the world but a concept of it. The speak-ins are theatrical inasmuch as they employ natural forms of expression found in reality. They employ only such expressions as are natural in real speech; that is, they employ the speech forms that are uttered orally in real life. The speak-ins employ natural examples of swearing, of self-indictment, of confession, of testimony, of interrogation, of justification, of evasion, of prophecy, of calls for help. Therefore they need a vis-à-vis, at least one person who listens; otherwise, they would not be natural but extorted by the author. It is to that extent that my speak-ins are pieces for the theater. Ironically, they imitate the gestures of all the given devices natural to the theater.
The speak-ins have no action, since every action on stage would only be the picture of another action. The speak-ins confine themselves, by obeying their natural form, to words. They give no pictures, not even pictures in word form, which would only be pictures the author extorted to represent an internal, unexpressed, wordless circumstance and not a natural expression.
Speak-ins are autonomous prologues to the old plays. They do not want to revolutionize, but to make aware.
Peter Handke
In translating the invective at the end of Offending the Audience, I translated the principle according to which they are arranged—that is, I sought to create new acoustic patterns in English—rather than translate each epithet literally, which would only have resulted in completely discordant patterns.
To the assortment of moral truisms of which the prompters have a choice when they address Kaspar, I have added a number of American platitudes; the imaginative reader will have no difficulty in supplying even more. Certain liberties have also been taken to make Kaspar’s rhymes sort of rhyme. In nearly every other respect, these are translations and not adaptations. Peter Handke himself has cut the last sentence in Self-Accusation and also Kaspar’s final sentence which appeared in the original version.
M.R.
ALSO BY PETER HANDKE
The Goalie’s Anxiety at the Penalty Kick
Short Letter, Long Farewell
A Sorrow Beyond Dreams
The Ride Across Lake Constance and Other Plays
A Moment of True Feeling
The Left-Handed Woman
The Weight of the World
Slow Homecoming
Across
Repetition
The Afternoon of a Writer
Absence
The Jukebox and Other Essays on Storytelling
English translations copyright © 1969 by Farrar, Straus and Giroux, Inc.
All rights reserved
Self-Accusation originally published in German under the title Selbstbezichtigung, © Suhrkamp Verlag, Frankfurt am Main, 1966; Offending the Audience originally published in German under the title Publikumsbeschimpfung, © Suhrkamp Verlag, Frankfurt am Main, 1966; Kaspar, © Suhrkamp Verlag, Frankfurt am Main, 1967
Published in Canada by HarperCollinsCanadaLtd
First published in 1969 by Farrar, Straus and Giroux
This edition first published in 1989 by Hill and Wang
Designed by Kay Rexrode
eISBN 9781466810242
First eBook Edition : January 2012
Library of Congress catalog card number: 78—103704
Seventeenth printing, 1995
Amateur or professional performances, public readings, and radio or television broadcasts of these plays are forbidden without permission in writing. All inquiries concerning performing rights should be addressed to Joan Daves, 21 West 26th Street, New York, N.Y. 10010
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