View transcript: Stop, Traveler, and Read

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Büchner Award winner Durs Grünbein wrote the book: The Dear Departed: 33 Epitaphs /

Since ancient times, epitaphs have been a powerful form of expression that reminds the passersby of his mortality / “Traveler, when thou com’st to Sparta - - “

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STOP, TRAVELER, AND READ / Ballads magazine with texts by Durs Grünbein, H. M. Enzensberger and unknown writers

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Durs Grünbein, born in Dresden

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Was it a gravestone

in the Balkans,

a slab in front of

a mausoleum

(Greek? Roman? Byzantine?)

Was it really written there, a bronze relief,

carved in granite,

engraved in marble

the ominous phrase

“Be right back”?

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A young mother falls to her death

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Five miners toasted on May 1st,

The day of struggle, holiday

of the workers of the world,

cheerfully, to the future –

with several bottles of methanol /

For the five men, who, in a delirium,

called for Stalin,

blindly, then, half unconsciously

for the tsar,

eventually, while dying a horrible death,

for all the Saints and for God,

shortly after

it was too late for any doctor /

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EPITAPTH = Greek, inscription on gravestone

Alexander Kluge

33 epitaphs… What is an epitaph?

Durs Grünbein

And epitaph is a eulogy … It wasn’t necessarily a poem, but usually it was short, epigrammatic …

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Durs Grünbein, writer

Kluge

“Traveler! When thou com’st to Sparta, proclaim to the people, that thou hast seen us lie here, as by the law we were bid…”

Grünbein

Exactly, that was the shortest and most concise form of epitaph. An address to the survivors, the passersby. That is basically what’s interesting about it: the speaking gravestone. The gravestone wasn’t dead, like it is today, of course … dead matter … but it had a voice attached to it that sometimes even told a story.

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How Chris (3 years) shot his brother Bob (9 years)

while playing,

is documented in a police report from Philadelphia /

Crawling on all fours

through the deserted apartment,

little Chris found

underneath the couch

his father’s gun -

and played, played with the weapon

I’m a big boy /

Ten tiny fingers, wrapped around the heavy, cold grip,

he was busy spelling out the room /

when his brother came in

“Hands up!”

Chris called, and grinning from peach-pink cheek to cheek,

he pulled the trigger, into the distraught, confused face.

“I was too tired,” the father explained. /

While cleaning the weapon, the day before,

he had fallen asleep in front of the TV

just as America was attacked by UFOs…..

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Killed by a mouse

In faraway Reykjavik,

an old sailor died,

who was famous in the harbor bars from Istanbul to Caracas,

from Rio to Shanghai

for his fearlessness /

He had slept through many emergencies,

had nine lives, like a cat,

when, one morning after a night spent drinking,

he met his fate in the eyes of

a fat white grinning mouse

that jumped up and down in front of him /

Delirium tremens,

the horrible hissing was called. /

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That the White Shark’s

upper lip

lifts up far above the gums,

was long considered the incarnation of Ugly and Aggressive /

swimmers and surfers had little reason to be afraid,

or even scuba divers,

marine biologists kept pointing out /

But that did not help a gentleman

from Finland, on a trip to the Caribbean /

his ambition to swim out to the coral reef,

alone, the sea calm,

was so urgent that nothing could hold him back /

At last, only a dot

at the center of a swirl,

the back fin drew curves and hyperboles

geometrically elegant /

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A man in Belgium

was shot by his loyal dog

on his way to a hunt /

It was the man’s

last summer /

Upset by the bumpy road

the dog jumped off the seat

and triggered a shot

that killed his master /

Oh, both Belgians could still be

up and about, an ideal couple,

if a pothole had not abruptly

ruined their friendship / A pity /

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This one did not die

in the dirt of the arena like the others /

he lost his strength

to a Parthian,

who, after a long fight,

broke open his skull with a blade,

the protective cover /

It was Galen from Pergamon,

who operated on his living body,

removing the bone shards, carefully setting

the bright brain back into place

in his pitch-black skull/

But the foreign gods already wrapped him up

in sleep /

He died of his grave injury,

treated in vain by the greatest physician

since Hippocrates/

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Of an unknown illness,

due to a curse

the scholar G, an old-school ethnologist,

died in the jungle of New Guinea /

Always on-site, he spent his best years

among the natives in the Gulf of Papua

His life-work was a study

on the function of language and magic /

“He knew he was doomed…” said the friends

who admired his courage /

Trying to mediate without success

between the rivals in a tribal feud,

he was ambushed /

A white hostage, imprisoned in a hole in the ground,

spat on by children, he wrote down

the evil curses directed at him

in a black magic ritual, for seven hours /

His final words were “Langgasutap… langgasutap…”

Kluge

There is also the form of the funeral march, the “marcha funèbre,” and you perform “carmina funèbre”; first, in a civilian way, you get rid of the officious funeral ceremony, which is only meant for the great dead, like Stresemann and higher up, and instead you take on the dead civilians: “A loose drain cover was the hot clue…” If you could … one more time …

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“A loose drain cover was the hot clue…”

Grünbein

Yes.

A loose drain cover was the hot clue

leading to a girl (16)

that had been reported missing days ago

Her face broken by the fall head-first

into the sewers

she did not look like her photo

The identity of the dead

was revealed by a bracelet

with the capital letter “C”

Who was the last person she had seen?

Congratulations to the police

The solution, this time, is gentle /

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Leading to a girl (16)

that had been reported missing days ago

Her face broken by the head-first fall

into the sewers

Kluge

What does that mean?

Grünbein

The last line?

Kluge

Yes…

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“Who was the last person she had seen?”

Congratulations to the police

The solution, this time, is gentle /

Grünbein

A strange solution, right: to use “gentle” as the final word about her fate. Maybe she was too gentle … maybe the gentleness triggered her death.

Kluge

The word “gentle” often shows up in your texts. I counted at least seven appearances.

Grünbein

Mhm.

Kluge

And here you wrote: “After long illness/and an active life/our father passed away…” Could you read that for us?

Grünbein

Yes.

Kluge

A completely different world…

Grünbein

After long illness

and an active life

our father passed away,

Fighter for progress,

eye witness, best worker, striker

merited railroad worker on three types of locomotives

shining example in the tunnels of history

from which few were destined to emerge.

The “May 11” brigade mourned their master

The Party mourned its comrade

The companion-in-arms, who’d been at his side all his life,

mourned her faithful husband.

The grandchildren, with confidence.

Kluge

It’s not irony…

Grünbein

No, not at all. It’s probably even the most personal poem in the book, because it works most directly with the bureaucratic language of East Germany, the GDR German of the functionaries, the nomenclature of the newspapers.

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A dead man sat

for thirteen weeks

upright in front of the TV, which was switched on,

his gaze broken /

On television, a TV chef

gave good advice about cooking /

The smell of rotting in the room,

blue flickering behind the curtains,

later the bare bones /

Nothing

left to say for the neighbors, who looked at him timidly,

because they were all thinking the same

“I smelled it /”

A dead man sat for thirteen weeks …

Without question, a beautiful death /

Turn of the century

Grünbein

Just before the rainy season

Near Dakar

a European engineer, tired of Europe

desperately lit

first his car, then himself

on fire

On the shoulder of a highway

a dusty dirt road,

framed by wrecks, and miles and miles

of barracks, the only humidity being

the snouts of dogs, a broken engine

was his downfall.

Within minutes, the expert

became a ghostwatcher

who saw, in the debris of defunct technology,

Africa’s demons,

and no spare part could help him

to return to the time of freedom.

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On the shoulder of a highway

a dusty dirt road,

framed by wrecks, and miles and miles

of barracks, the only humidity being

the snouts of dogs, a broken engine

was his downfall.

Within minutes, the expert

Became a ghostwatcher

who saw, in the debris of defunct technology,

Africa’s demons,

and no spare part could help him

to return to the time of freedom.

Kluge

How did he die? He lit “first his car, then himself on fire” – in an accident?

Grünbein

No, the car wasn’t running anymore, so … I have to say, that is kind of a souvenir. The kind of poem that is written while traveling, as a kind of souvenir. I was in Senegal once, completely by coincidence, so to speak – just three days before I had been asked: “You want to come down to Africa for a bit?” And then I went for a week, and it was pretty terrible.

Kluge

Who would ask something like that?

Grünbein

It was – I was invited to a poetry festival in Rotterdam, and right after, the Dutch invited some of the participants, in the name of the South African writer Breyten Breytenbach. So I flew down there directly from the Netherlands, unprepared, not knowing anything about Africa, and there were these images; like, at the side of the road there was always …

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During pleasant days, with his secretary Miss Schroeder

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People are sitting in the airy house

refreshing themselves with wine and beer

And they eat and drink

excessively

and leave on all fours /

They climb high mountains

They trot proudly

and roll downhill, tumbling,

and don’t find their balance

and arrive at home, sadly

And when those hours are forgotten

the poor man’s

wife arrives

to heal his wounds

with a beating /

By Adolf Hitler, Steyr, April 30, 1905

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July 20, 1944

At the moment of explosion

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He was blind /

He drove a truck for six months /

guided by his child –

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H.M. Enzensberger, bearer of the order Pour le Mérite

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Shit

I always hear people talking about it

as if it was to blame for everything

Just look, how gently and humbly

it takes a seat beneath us!/

Why do we besmirch

its good reputation

and bequeath it

to the President of the United States,

to the cops, to war

and to capitalism?/

How ephemeral it is,

and how durable

the things we name after it!

The compliant one

we talk about,

but mean the exploiters /

The one we oppress,

is now expected to express

our anger? /

Isn’t it the one that relieved us?

Of soft quality

and strangely nonviolent

Of all human works, it is

probably the most peaceful /

What did it do to us? /

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With texts from Hans Magnus Enzensberger’s 33 CANTOS /

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THE SINKING OF THE TITANIC / Epos of a century

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“The metaphor slows down the event to make it understandable”/

“There is nothing to understand!”

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Captain Smith

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Second Canto

The impact was very slight. /

The first radiogram

0015 hours Mayday

CQ Position 41°46’ North 50°14’ West/

Marvelous chap, this Marconi!/

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G. Marconi, Inventor of radiotelegraphy

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No sirens, no alarm bells,

just a discreet knock at the cabin door

a subdued cough in the smoking lounge. /

While down below the water is rising fast,

on D deck the steward is lacing the boots

of a groaning old gentleman,

in the machine-tool and smelting trade./

Wigl wagl wak, my monkey,

bleats the band, dressed in snow-white gala uniforms

a potpourri

from “The Dollar Princess”. /

The steerage may not be fluent

in English or German,

but it does not need an interpreter to find out

that the First Class is always first served,

and that there are never enough

milk bottles, shoes

or life boats

for all of us. /

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Lord Ismay, Titanic owner

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Fifth Canto

Take what they have taken from you,

Take by force what has always been you,

he shouted, freezing in his undersized jacket,

his hear streaming beneath the davits,

I am with you, he shouted,

what are you waiting for?/

Now is the time,

Pull down the barriers,

Throw the bastards overboard

With all their trunks, dogs, lackeys,

The women as well

And even the kids,

Use brute force, use knives, use your bare hands!/

And he showed them the knife,

He showed them his bare hands./

But the steerage passengers,

emigrants, all of them, stood there,

in the dark, took off their caps

and listened in silence to what he said./

When do you want to take your revenge,

if not now?/

[…] It was hard to explain./

They understood quite well what he said,

but they did not understand him. /

His words were not

their words./

Worn by other fears

and by other hopes,

they just stood there patiently

with their carpetbags, their rosaries,

their rickety children at the barriers,

making room for others,

listening to him, respectfully

and waiting until they drowned./

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Isidor Straus and his wife, billionaires

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Thirty-third Canto

Soaked to the skin I peer,

through the drizzle, and I perceive/

my fellow being clutching wet trunks,

leaning against the wind.

Dimly I see their livid faces,

blurred by the slanting rain. /

I don’t think it is Second Sight./

It must be the weather,

They are right on the brink./

I warn them.

I cry, for instance, watch out! There’s the brink! You are treading slippery ground,

Ladies and gentlemen!/

But they just give me a feeble smile,

and gallantly they retort

Same to you!/

I ask myself,

Is it just a matter of a few dozen passengers

Or do I watch

the whole human race over there,

haphazardly hanging on to some run-down cruise liner,

fit for the scrapyard

and headed for self-destruction?/

I cannot be sure./

I am dripping wet and I listen./

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Band leader Wallace Hartley with his Ragtime Band

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The advantage of shipwrecks was

that there was no obstacle for the steamer or sailing ship

outracing the wind,

and that surely, after some time,

(too late for the humans, but certainly, from the planet’s perspective)

the storm would settle down. /

The image of a stock market crash, on the other hand,

Doctor Söhnlein says, resembles more a modern war ship

hit by a rocket,

that, with its immense inbuilt horse power,

sinks underneath the ocean’s surface

and heads towards the center of the Earth.

Reaching a certain depth,

the ship will burst, the parts will lose speed,

and begin to sink to the bottom of the ocean, at less than 1g. /

The turrets fall from their sockets, because the sinking ship

turns onto its head

It’s a quiet image,

the illustration of the phrase

“Don’t panic.” /

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STOP, TRAVELER, AND READ / Ballads magazine

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With texts by Durs Grünbein (The Dear Departed: 33 Epitaphs), H.M. Enzensberger (Shit, The sinking of the Titanic, 33 cantos) and others.

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Richmond, the Southern capital, after the Civil War