Thomas Bernhard (1931–1989)
Author of The Loser
About the Author
Thomas Bernhard was born to Austrian parents in Holland and reared by his mother in the vicinity of Salzburg. His temperament and erratic health created difficulties for him as he grew up in a society governed by National Socialists. Bernhard found the alpine landscapes of his native Austria far show more more harsh than lyrical. The isolation of the characters in his novels is only slightly mitigated by friendship, generally only between men, and never by love. Yet many readers feel this lack of sentimentality gives Bernhard's work an epic power. (Bowker Author Biography) show less
Series
Works by Thomas Bernhard
Stücke 1 (Ein Fest für Boris / Der Ignorant und der Wahnsinnige / Die Jagdgesellschaft / Die Macht der Gewohnheit) (1988) 34 copies
Victor Halfwit: A Winter's Tale (Seagull Books - Seagull World Literature) (2006) 33 copies, 2 reviews
Claus Peymann kauft sich eine Hose und geht mit mir essen. Drei Dramolette. (1990) 32 copies, 1 review
Stücke 3 (Vor dem Ruhestand / Über allen Gipfeln ist Ruh / Der Weltverbesserer / Am Ziel / Der Schein trügt) (1998) 27 copies
The World-fixer (Studies in Austrian Literature, Culture, and Thought Translation Series) (1979) 23 copies
Stücke 4 (Der Theatermacher / Ritter, Dene, Voss / Einfach kompliziert / Elisabeth II.): BD 4 (1988) 21 copies
Over All The Mountain Tops (Studies in Austrian Literature, Culture, and Thought Translation Series) (1991) 16 copies
Derrubar árvores: Uma irritação 5 copies
Monologe auf Mallorca Die Ursache bin ich selbst : die großen Interviews mit Thomas Bernhard (2008) 4 copies
Así en la tierra como en el infierno. Los locos Los reclusos. Ave Virgilio. (Libros del Apuntador) (Spanish… (2010) 4 copies
L'origine 4 copies
Anforderungen an ein inklusives Bildungssystem nach der UN-Behindertenrechtskonvention Eine Untersuchung der Rechtslage… (2016) 3 copies
»Ich bin ein Geschichtenzerstörer«: Acht unerhörte Begebenheiten (suhrkamp taschenbuch) (2008) 3 copies
Underængeren 1 copy
Poremećaj 1 copy
Incontro (in Goethe muore) 1 copy
PAJ #13 1 copy
Autobiographische Schriften: Die Ursache / Der Keller / Der Atem / Die Kälte / Ein Kind: 5 Bde. 1 copy
Dramen 1 copy
Relatos 1 copy
Trevas 1 copy
Watten. Ein Nachlaß. 1 copy
38 opowiadań 1 copy
Undergeren 1 copy
Verstoring (1967) 1 copy
L'italiano 1 copy
Le Faiseur de Theatre 1 copy
Åndedrættet : en afgørelse 1 copy
Las posesiones 1 copy
Dramaty, tom I 1 copy
Der Theatermacher, Bilder und Texte: Die Inzenierung der Salzburger Festspiele. Burgtheater 1986/87 (1986) 1 copy
Beautiful View 1 copy
Nou salms. In hora Mortis 1 copy
Dramaty 1 copy
Træfældning 1 copy
Betão - eBook 1 copy
Kulterer 1 copy
Imitador de veus , L' 1 copy
Dramaty. Tom 2 1 copy
Kælderen : en unddragelse 1 copy
Una conversazione notturna 1 copy
Prosa 1 copy
Nefes - Bir Karar 1 copy
Associated Works
Theater, Volume 30, Number 1 — Contributor — 1 copy
Performing Arts Journal: 16 (Volume VI / Number 1) — Contributor — 1 copy
Fiction, Volume 6, Number 1 — Contributor — 1 copy
Performing Arts Journal: 13 (Volume V / Number 1) — Contributor — 1 copy
Fiction, Volume 1, Number 1 — Contributor — 1 copy
Fiction, Volume 2, Number 3 — Contributor — 1 copy
Form 8 — Contributor — 1 copy
Theater, Volume 15, Number 1 — Contributor — 1 copy
Tagged
Common Knowledge
- Canonical name
- Bernhard, Thomas
- Legal name
- Bernhard, Nicolaas Thomas
- Birthdate
- 1931-02-19
- Date of death
- 1989-02-12
- Burial location
- Grinzinger Friedhof, Vienna, Austria
- Gender
- male
- Nationality
- Austria
Netherlands (birth) - Birthplace
- Heerlen, Limburg, Netherlands
- Place of death
- Gmunden, Upper Austria, Austria
- Cause of death
- heart attack
- Places of residence
- Traunstein, Bavaria, Germany
Sankt Veit im Pongau, Salzburg, Austria - Education
- Universität Mozarteum Salzburg
Johanneum, Salzburg, Austria - Occupations
- novelist
playwright
poet - Relationships
- Stavianicek, Hedwig (lebensmensch)
Fabjan, Peter (half-brother) - Organizations
- Deutsche Akademie für Sprache und Dichtung
- Awards and honors
- Georg-Büchner-Preis (1970)
Members
Reviews
For those that like or love Bernhard this is a step into his world with a stronger autobiographical slant. Great writing, that provides insight into the forces of his past that shaped the writing itself.
A few days ago the book [b:The Basic Laws of Human Stupidity|49348225|The Basic Laws of Human Stupidity|Carlo M. Cipolla|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1595814345l/49348225._SX50_.jpg|358622] came across my desk. Living as I do in the vaccine-refusing epicenter of the US Delta variant surge of infection and of hospitals that are once again becoming overwhelmed, I couldn’t help feeling a note of sympathy with the book. Opening it up I read the first law: “Always and inevitably everyone underestimates the number of stupid individuals in circulation.” Here’s an author who probably read Thomas Bernhard.
I take it that all of Bernhard’s work is essentially variants of a theme, of which stupidity plays a large role. Stupidity is the spike protein of Bernhard’s worldview, always present as the details of the larger work change a bit. I have no idea if that claim works, by the way, but I’m leaving it. How does Bernhard put it across in Gargoyles?
Naturally this makes for an unhappy outlook. “As I go about, there is hardly a man I see who isn’t repulsive.” “He was used to sacrificing himself to a sick populace given to violence as well as insanity.” “It would be wrong to refuse to face the fact that everything is fundamentally sick and sad.”
Sometimes this is funny. Nothing is above the novel’s complaints: “If I send it now, at noon, I thought, it won’t reach Kobernausserwald until tomorrow morning. The postal system, the hopeless, ruined Austrian postal system.” Now there’s some pettiness. And here it reads like a parody of Grumpy Old Man: “We paid and left. In the restaurant a band of schoolchildren were being fed. They were given hot soup and admonishments not to make noise. What gruesome people these innocent creatures will inevitably become, I thought as we left the restaurant.”
Bernhard’s apparent horror of sex appears: “I once saw him naked by the river, together with his equally naked wife; I remember that infantile penis. There they were, indulging their pitiable Sunday connubiality behind the bushes, away from the clear water, where they thought they were alone and could indulge themselves in their revolting intimacies, succumbing to their stupor in the sunset.” That’s some pretty good and funny anti-eroticism, I have to admit.
If Bernhard’s debut novel [b:Frost|12203|Frost|Thomas Bernhard|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1537115859l/12203._SY75_.jpg|1244054] had one solitary note of optimism and grace, embodied by nuns caring for the ill, Gargoyles has its one note of optimism and grace located in nature:
I liked this novel more than I did Frost, perhaps because it has more variety and hints of an actual plot to its largely one note hammering away. Bernhard’s third novel, I read, marks the start of his major work, so having served somewhat of a gruesome apprenticeship I look forward to the gruesome main event. After all, “We always want to hear something even worse than what we have inside of us,” as the prince said. Perceptive.… (more)
I take it that all of Bernhard’s work is essentially variants of a theme, of which stupidity plays a large role. Stupidity is the spike protein of Bernhard’s worldview, always present as the details of the larger work change a bit. I have no idea if that claim works, by the way, but I’m leaving it. How does Bernhard put it across in Gargoyles?
I say to Huber: The republican death-throes are probably the most repulsive, the ugliest of all. Aren’t they, Doctor? I say: The common people are stupid, they stink, and that has always been so.
I have been reflecting, Doctor, on the stupidity of all phrases, on stupidity, on the stupidity in which man lives and thinks, thinks and lives, on the stupidity…
… has never come into conflict with the law and never will because the world is too stupid.
The prince said he was forever compelled to make a stupid society realize it was stupid, and that he was always doing everything in his power to prove to this stupid society how stupid it was.
The shattering thing,” he said, “is not the ugliness of people but their lack of judgment.”
Naturally this makes for an unhappy outlook. “As I go about, there is hardly a man I see who isn’t repulsive.” “He was used to sacrificing himself to a sick populace given to violence as well as insanity.” “It would be wrong to refuse to face the fact that everything is fundamentally sick and sad.”
Sometimes this is funny. Nothing is above the novel’s complaints: “If I send it now, at noon, I thought, it won’t reach Kobernausserwald until tomorrow morning. The postal system, the hopeless, ruined Austrian postal system.” Now there’s some pettiness. And here it reads like a parody of Grumpy Old Man: “We paid and left. In the restaurant a band of schoolchildren were being fed. They were given hot soup and admonishments not to make noise. What gruesome people these innocent creatures will inevitably become, I thought as we left the restaurant.”
Bernhard’s apparent horror of sex appears: “I once saw him naked by the river, together with his equally naked wife; I remember that infantile penis. There they were, indulging their pitiable Sunday connubiality behind the bushes, away from the clear water, where they thought they were alone and could indulge themselves in their revolting intimacies, succumbing to their stupor in the sunset.” That’s some pretty good and funny anti-eroticism, I have to admit.
If Bernhard’s debut novel [b:Frost|12203|Frost|Thomas Bernhard|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1537115859l/12203._SY75_.jpg|1244054] had one solitary note of optimism and grace, embodied by nuns caring for the ill, Gargoyles has its one note of optimism and grace located in nature:
I would climb the northern hills and let myself dream while contemplating the outward aspects of nature. Whenever I looked at it, I said, and from any perspective, the surface of the earth struck me as new and I was refreshed by it.
I liked this novel more than I did Frost, perhaps because it has more variety and hints of an actual plot to its largely one note hammering away. Bernhard’s third novel, I read, marks the start of his major work, so having served somewhat of a gruesome apprenticeship I look forward to the gruesome main event. After all, “We always want to hear something even worse than what we have inside of us,” as the prince said. Perceptive.… (more)
He thought, "Thomas Bernhard is mentioned as the most important post-war writer in German, is credited with ownership of a particular style, and is frequently referred to." He thought, "I shall read Bernhard's novels, starting with his first." He thought, "Bloody hell."
The cover blurb proclaims Frost to be "A blast of raw feeling." It's a blast of something, all right. 350 pages mostly consisting of a steady rant of complaints and invective, described by its admirers here - its admirers, mind - with words like "impenetrable" and "increasingly incomprehensible", which leaves me wondering, "do you people want something totally different than I do out of literature?"
There's not a plot so much as a vague gesture in that direction. A medical internist is sent by his superior to observe the doctor's brother for a month. The text does not have exchanges of dialogue but rather a few lines of this brother's directly spoken rants alternating with the internist's summary of the next few lines of the man's rants, and, repeat. A better recipe for boredom if this is not done well is hard to imagine.
Sometimes you can sort of chuckle at the rants. Of his fellow villagers: "The children had lice, the grown-ups had gonorrhea, or the syphilis that finally overwhelmed their nervous systems... Almost all of them have cankered lung lobes, pneumothorax and pneumoperitoneum are endemic. They have tuberculosis of the lungs, the head, the arms and legs." On rural folk: "That whole simple, pitiless world of thought, where simplicity and low-mindedness get hitched and ruin everything! Nothing comes from country people! Villages, morons in short sleeves! The country is no source anymore, only a trove of brutality and idiocy, of squalor and megalomania, of perjury and battery, of systematic extinction!" On the nature of humankind: "Where there is putrescence, I find I cannot breathe deeply enough. I always want to breathe in the odor of humanity, you understand."
For me, the human imagination is an aspect of "God created man in his own image," the imagination and creative impulse acts that bring us closer to God. But it's seen rather differently here: "The imagination is an expression of disorder, it has to be. In an ordered world, there would be no such thing as imagination, order wouldn't tolerate such a thing, imagination is completely alien to it. All the way here, I was asking myself what imagination is. I'm sure imagination is an illness. An illness that you don't catch, merely because you've always had it. An illness that is responsible for everything, and particularly everything ridiculous and malignant."
But then amazingly, about exactly halfway through the book, I found a few lines that counter the entire novel's essence. It's about a hospital attached to a chapel, nuns working as nurses. The internist reflects: "The sisters perform astonishing feats. Never get to bed before eleven, and are back from church already by five, having been heard singing there at half past four. Everywhere, the great white tulips of their bonnets, which manage to flower where everything is dark with despair, where everything else is bleak and bare and inimical."
Well, how un-Bernhardian seeming! A lone bright ray, surrounded by darkness.
So you see why I can't give it just 1 star, despite the fact that I skimmed near the end, and I hate skimming, it's the antithesis of my entire being, and I can't imagine recommending this book. Now, I wonder how I'll like his second novel...… (more)
The cover blurb proclaims Frost to be "A blast of raw feeling." It's a blast of something, all right. 350 pages mostly consisting of a steady rant of complaints and invective, described by its admirers here - its admirers, mind - with words like "impenetrable" and "increasingly incomprehensible", which leaves me wondering, "do you people want something totally different than I do out of literature?"
There's not a plot so much as a vague gesture in that direction. A medical internist is sent by his superior to observe the doctor's brother for a month. The text does not have exchanges of dialogue but rather a few lines of this brother's directly spoken rants alternating with the internist's summary of the next few lines of the man's rants, and, repeat. A better recipe for boredom if this is not done well is hard to imagine.
Sometimes you can sort of chuckle at the rants. Of his fellow villagers: "The children had lice, the grown-ups had gonorrhea, or the syphilis that finally overwhelmed their nervous systems... Almost all of them have cankered lung lobes, pneumothorax and pneumoperitoneum are endemic. They have tuberculosis of the lungs, the head, the arms and legs." On rural folk: "That whole simple, pitiless world of thought, where simplicity and low-mindedness get hitched and ruin everything! Nothing comes from country people! Villages, morons in short sleeves! The country is no source anymore, only a trove of brutality and idiocy, of squalor and megalomania, of perjury and battery, of systematic extinction!" On the nature of humankind: "Where there is putrescence, I find I cannot breathe deeply enough. I always want to breathe in the odor of humanity, you understand."
For me, the human imagination is an aspect of "God created man in his own image," the imagination and creative impulse acts that bring us closer to God. But it's seen rather differently here: "The imagination is an expression of disorder, it has to be. In an ordered world, there would be no such thing as imagination, order wouldn't tolerate such a thing, imagination is completely alien to it. All the way here, I was asking myself what imagination is. I'm sure imagination is an illness. An illness that you don't catch, merely because you've always had it. An illness that is responsible for everything, and particularly everything ridiculous and malignant."
But then amazingly, about exactly halfway through the book, I found a few lines that counter the entire novel's essence. It's about a hospital attached to a chapel, nuns working as nurses. The internist reflects: "The sisters perform astonishing feats. Never get to bed before eleven, and are back from church already by five, having been heard singing there at half past four. Everywhere, the great white tulips of their bonnets, which manage to flower where everything is dark with despair, where everything else is bleak and bare and inimical."
Well, how un-Bernhardian seeming! A lone bright ray, surrounded by darkness.
So you see why I can't give it just 1 star, despite the fact that I skimmed near the end, and I hate skimming, it's the antithesis of my entire being, and I can't imagine recommending this book. Now, I wonder how I'll like his second novel...… (more)
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Statistics
- Works
- 245
- Also by
- 14
- Members
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- Popularity
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- Rating
- 4.0
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War es der Wahnsinn, welcher Wertheimer zu seiner Selbstmordtat hinreißen lies? Oder die Verzweiflung eines Künstler, der nie als solcher wirklich erkannt wurde und sich auch nie als Virtuose gesehen hat? Schwer zu sagen. Doch ist hier klar bewiesen, dass Genie und Wahnsinn sehr nahe bei einander lagen.… (more)