You might ask, Why is the book appearing under my name? Before we try to explain that, I have a duty to assure you: everything possible has been done to bring the actual author’s name to light as soon as a suitable moment arises. Initially his identity has to remain unknown, because it’s obvious that, if the people and events described here are at all true, the use of the author’s actual name could be detrimental to him and the other protagonists, all of whom are still alive with one exception. The death of the young man himself has not been established, although it is possible. Yet if some pseudonym had been considered, that would surely have been the first time that a dead person or a suspected dead person, hid behind a false name. Up to now there have indeed been false deaths, but no false names of the dead.
Use of my name as the author of the book was prompted on the one hand by economic considerations and on the other by literary and artistic ones. The former were emphasised understandably by those who were hoping for an income from the book, the latter by me personally. You see, I thought that if the book appeared under the young man’s real or assumed name, the protagonists’ origins would be uncovered, and other things would inevitably come to light. Thus a great deal would be added to literary science drawing attention to the writing but lessening interest in the book itself. It is strange that people are more interested in the location of Carrara marble or some kind of clay than in the images shaped from such marble or clay. People are forever being seduced by the logic that a work of art is explained and appreciated if it is known what it is made of and where its material came from. So it is quite understandable that we had a writer living among us who thought that no great works could be created, if there weren’t any factories manufacturing fountain pens used by people like us.
Since the book is now appearing as a work of my own, scarcely anyone will believe that there is anything true about it. They would rather think that it is all made up, purely fiction and imagination – that never in the world did there live such a student and korporant, such a landlady, such a servant, such a “German girl” or her grandfather. However mistaken that opinion, the reader will equivocate: firstly they have a chance to evade the literary-artistic science which examines, instead of a created image, holes in the clay, shards of marble or fountain pens, and secondly they will get a taste for the real life you get in fiction. This last point is especially important because the history of the young generation, and even more so the historical novel and cinema, take immense care to ensure that fiction is accepted as reality.
By using my name we were also attempting With my name we were also considering achieving certain results in literary policy. If the book had appeared under some stylish new and unfamiliar name, critics would certainly have expected something new or unfamiliar in it. And if they didn’t find it, they would have said, “What’s the point of this stylish new book and name, if everything else is old?” It is quite certain that they would not have found it, for finding something new in a book, if its author is not your friend, is just as difficult as seeing a thing you’ve stumbled into – only philosophers can manage that. But would any philosopher in Estonia behave like a critic? It would have been even worse if the newness of the name had been matched by the same kind of content, because neither a reader nor a critic like new things: for the former it spoils the entertainment expected of reading; for the latter it makes it more difficult to write reviews priced by the line. Therefore the critic, whether old or young, functions by force of nature like a guardian. Whether a biped human, a quadruped dog or a feathered bird in an Indian village, he makes a loud shrill noise when he smells, hears or sees anything unknown and strange. By putting my name on the book, we hoped the book would have a relatively ordinary reception: the old guardians would growl appreciatively on getting acquainted, looking downwards so to speak, because the maker always stands on a lower level than the consumer or critic of the object; the younger ones, who don’t know me, raise angrier voices, smelling something foreign which does not need to be appreciated, merely disdained.
Finally the landlady was able to convince me that the appearance of the book under my name would be useful not only to the book, the reader and the publisher, but to me as welclass="underline" to the book for its literary credentials, to the reader for being more to their taste, to the publisher for business reasons, but to me for moral ones. She said I had always written about love without encouraging moral improvement, as if this were some sort of unnatural phenomenon. This book could be read as a story of how a love can remain within moral bounds if it is the right one. If the book bears my name, there will of course be gullible people who think, however wrongly, that it was written by me, and thus they could quite easily conclude that I too subscribe to a moral basis for love. That would be useful to me too, she argued. And the benefit to me would be even greater, and my rehabilitation on the basis of love would be more complete, so for that reason she wanted me to make certain adjustments to the text. For a start I should erase the scene where the young man seizes the helpless girl by the waist in the park, although he himself has fallen to his knees. Secondly, instead of a “German girl” I should put in a “fine Estonian lass”, because there are still some among them who have natural curls in their blond hair, thus protecting the fictional value of the book. Thirdly, instead of the German grandfather there should be a stout old Estonian gentleman. Fourthly, the entire letter should be removed, or at least only those parts that speak of the child and the spirit should be left in, because, she said, real love was only concerned with those two matters. When I objected that this would distort the truth, because this book is a factual account, the lady replied, “That’s of no importance. It may be a factual account, but such things should be left to the holy book and the newspapers; a book that appears under someone’s name should be moral.” I went to great lengths to ensure this book was published as the young man had written it. If it really does bring me misfortune, as the landlady predicted, there is nothing I can do about it; I have acted according to my conscience.
In short, the names are the only pure fiction in this book, both those of the author and those of the protagonists; all the rest are things that happened here in Estonia. Where a name is missing, it is at the wish of the relevant person. For example, the landlady did not want a pseudonym for herself, and remains without any name at all. Her husband followed the same practice. Their will be done. The servant’s name is what she chose for herself, with her mistress’s approval of course. The inventor of the young man’s name is his sister. I deleted the grandfather’s name on my own initiative. I hope this hasn’t detracted from the book’s value too much.
As editor of this book, I have nothing more to say; the rest will become clear in the reading, and anyone who doesn’t read this book will require an explanation. May God have mercy on them.
I give the floor to the young man who vanished.
A.H.T.
“Every educated person can write at least one novel – a novel about himself.” I’ve read those words somewhere, I remember it clearly. But I’ve forgotten where.