If literature is dead, if the author is dead, if literary theory and criticism are dead — all of which the literary Jedi Masters assure us — why do literary little boys refuse to surrender half the literary galaxy to their legally entitled sisters?
NATIONALITY
At a social gathering in Berlin I once met a Roma community representative, a fellow countryman. I say representative because the guy held a position of importance in a European Roma association. Our common homeland had fallen apart, the savagery in Bosnia continued apace, and I had made my way abroad, but still didn’t have anywhere I might call home. At a given moment I think every immigrant feels like an orphan, although most never admit it. In any case, even if I meant it more in jest than in seriousness — or, who knows, maybe it was a serious thing said in jest — in a moment of weakness I blubbered out. .
“Couldn’t you Berlin Roma take me under your wing?”
“What do you mean?”
“You could ‘adopt’ me, declare me a Roma writer. .”
“Eh, sister, that’s a no-go. .” said the Roma representative.
“Why not then?”
“Well, for a start, you’re not Roma!”
I don’t know why I thought the Roma — easily the most discriminated against ethnic minority in Europe — might be receptive to the idea. But on the subject of rejection, I’ve had a few of those in my life, and they keep coming. It’s a no-go, sister, you’re not a Croat. No way, sister, you’re not a Serb. Forget it, sister, you’re not Bosnian, you’re not even American. Oh c’mon, sister, you’re not Dutch. It’s not that I’m especially pushy; people just like putting the boot in.
Hey, Slavs was the national anthem of the country where I was born.3 Having repeated the words so many times, I should know them by heart, but I don’t. I was never able to remember them. There were so many occasions, from primary school on into adulthood, when we’d rise from our seats and open our mouths like fish, half-speaking along. The words remain a mystery to me to this day, but they start with something about grandfathers and sons (Hey, Slavs, our grandfathers’ spirits burn bright / so long as sons’ hearts beat for the nation). Then a collective voice tells an invisible listener that the Slavic spirit will endure for the ages (the Slavic spirit will live on / endure for the ages), irrespective of the fact that it’s threatened by catastrophes such as the abyss of hell and the roar of thunder. The collective Slavic spirit calls forth the storm to swallow all in its wake, for an earthquake to crack stone and shatter wood (May the storm rip the sky / may the stone crack, the trees split asunder / may the earth quake). In this climatic drama the Slavs stand as resolutely as cliff faces, like extras in a cinematic biblical spectacle. But filming was wrapped up long ago and everyone’s gone home, apart from the Slavs who are still standing there, probably waiting for someone to tell them they’re also free to go. And then, like a thunderbolt in a clear sky, the line damned be the traitor to his homeland! rings out. The damned traitor’s identity remains a mystery — it’s only natural catastrophes giving the Slavs hell. My guess is that the traitor is anyone with a ticket in his or her pocket, the coward who refuses to live in a country threatened by the abyss of hell and the roar of thunder, anyone who doesn’t find life as a cliff face particularly exciting. The traitor could be the extra who first remembers to go home, on whose head the terrifying curse damned be the traitor to his homeland! rains down.
It’s easy to be wise in retrospect, but when you repeat lines like these for a good part of your schooling, they’re definitely what we might call formative. The melody — the medium carrying the message — gives you goosebumps to this day, yet the content remains as hazy as ever. The Croatian anthem, Our Beautiful Homeland, is no better, and though it only cherry-picks a few verses from the full version of the song, it’s still longer than the Yugoslav anthem. Regardless of the fact it was written almost two hundred years ago (in 1835), its verses are eerily reminiscent of a tourism promo clip, the kind countries make for the Eurovision Song Contest — jump shots of mountains, waterways, wheat fields, and similar telegenic material. The anthem’s buzzwords are “glory,” “unique,” and “fearless,” and there’s even a little gothic detail about ancestors who bypass their graves and go straight to heaven, the family tomb apparently a favourite Croatian picnic spot. As the anthem dates from a time before telecommunication networks, the maritime Croat implores the sea to send a message out to the world that a Croat loves his homeland.
To me, the words of every anthem and every prayer border on the incomprehensible, which is how they were intended. The tribal shamans, the religious fathers of the people, they all know that the communal chanting and vacuous repetition of an incomprehensible text only increases its magical power. As systems of authority, the institutions of homeland and church harness fuzzy language and the melodic release of vocal cords to dazzle their subjects; citizens, worshippers, whomever.
Although it’s dependent on the situation, the trouble and merriment really begin when the three “Ps” get together, when the Politician and the Priest get their other buddy, the Poet, to sing along. Let’s be frank here, the Poet is the weakest link, and can be drummed from the holy trinity at the Priest or Politician’s whim. Many writers have described the intoxication of belonging (to a home, a homeland, a country, a faith) and the trauma of unbelonging. Thomas Mann treats the latter in Tonio Kröger, particularly in the masterly episode where Kröger, having returned to his birthplace after a thirty-year absence, is given the third degree by a local cop who thinks him a suspicious individual. The proofs of a forthcoming book are insufficient evidence that this individual, who claims to be a writer, might belong to the race of blue-eyed and blond-haired victors, those who no one ever looks up or down.
Why is the Poet set on ingratiating himself with the Politician and Priest? It’s because they’re all honey-tongued buddies, a trio well-versed in promising the people a brighter tomorrow. The poet may well be a “linguistic magician,” a “nightingale,” an “engineer of human souls,” but aren’t the Priest and the Politician too? They too sell illusions, and like the Poet, their power resides in the ability to win over a crowd. The Poet is the nation’s old school PR man, which goes some way toward explaining why small nations so rabidly appoint poets their ambassadors, and, not infrequently, their presidents. If the Poet discharges his duties with distinction, he’ll be generously rewarded; if by some slip of the tongue he profanes his country and her honor (and thus that of the Priest and the Politician) he might end up in prison, in exile, in anonymity. . Bad options no doubt, but options nonetheless.