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“Wir pröbeln und schneidern mit Dingen, die in der Brust anderer Menschen gesund und geheimnissvoll und unangetastet ruhen . . .”

Narrative Observation and Hyperreflexivity in the Works of

Dissertation

Presented in Partial Fulfillment of the Requirements for the Degree Doctor of Philosophy in the Graduate School of The Ohio State University

By Charles Monroe Vannette, M.A. Graduate Program in Germanic Languages and Literatures

The Ohio State University 2011

Dissertation Committee: Bernd Fischer, Advisor John Davidson Bernhard Malkmus

Copyright by

Charles Monroe Vannette

2011

Abstract

This works argues that Robert Walser‟s literary production, and many of the aspects that make it unique and capture the attention of his readers, stems from a hyperreflexive mind that is acutely conscious of the world around it. The argument is underpinned by the cognitive theories of the psychiatrist Louis Sass, who suggests that both schizophrenia and may derive, in at least some of their forms, from a hypertrophy of consciousness that leads to compulsive reflexivity, lengthy modes of intense observation, and something akin to an apophanous mood, in which the world appears to undergo some consequential change and is revealed to the viewer as never before.

Hyperreflexivity, and its corresponding aesthetic manifestation narrative observation, are established as a source and defining feature of Walser‟s semantics and language experiments, the stasis of his landscape descriptions, his anti-labyrinthine stories, and his inclination towards servitude and the theater. Throughout, it is shown that Walser‟s descriptions and language use seem both emptied of meaning and ineffably significant.

This quality can be traced back to an aesthetic process that is seen manifested throughout his oeuvre, and which closely parallels the schizophrenic cognition of the external world.

ii

Dedication

Dedicated to my beautiful, loving, and inspiring family:

Saskia, Emma, Jannik, and Jacob

iii

Acknowledgements

This work would not have been possible without the generous support and guidance from my colleagues and mentors. Above all else, I am indebted to my committee for the direction I received throughout the research and writing process. Dr. Bernd Fischer‟s door was always open, and his critical and careful reading of every chapter; his suggestions on structure, style, and approach; and our long discussions about the positioning of my argument, were invaluable to its completion. Stemming from my apprenticeship with Dr. John Davidson, and the courses that I took from him throughout my career at The Ohio State University, I developed an interest in visual culture and the function of the gaze that became a central feature in this study. Finally, Dr. Bernhard

Malkmus‟ appreciation of, and experience with Robert Walser; our numerous chats over coffee and in his office; and most significantly, his motivating counsel during the candidacy period, were essential to the development of my thesis.

I am thankful also for the support of my colleagues, primarily that of Jacob Schott, who was always willing to read my chapters and critique my argument, and whose own interest in Walser grew along with my project. Lastly, this work would not have been possible without the support of the remaining faculty in The Department of Germanic

Languages and Literatures, whose patience, kindness, and understanding over the past two years in particular will never be forgotten. Thank to you all.

iv

Vita

2001...... B.A. The University of Arizona

2003 to present ...... Graduate Teaching Associate,

The Department of Germanic Languages

and Literatures, The Ohio State University

2005...... M.A. The Ohio State University

Fields of Study

Major Field: Germanic Languages and Literatures

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Table of Contents

Abstract ...... ii Dedication ...... iii Acknowledgements ...... iv Vita ...... v List of Figures ...... viii

INTRODUCTION ...... 1

1. A UBIQUITOUS STARE ...... 40 The flâneur-texts ...... 42 The spazier-texts ...... 52 Mise en abîme and synchronic perspectives ...... 60 Narrative observation ...... 65

2. THEORIZING SCHIZOPHRENIA ...... 77 ...... 80 Psychiatry ...... 83 Anti-Psychiatry...... 90 Louis A. Sass ...... 101

3. LANGUAGE EXPERIMENTS ...... 111 Clanging ...... 121 Derailment ...... 128 Poverty of Content of Speech...... 139 Stilted Speech ...... 142

vi

Word Approximations ...... 145 Provisional Phrasing:...... 148

4. ACCESSING THE REINE SEIN ...... 159 Verlust der Natürlichen Selbstverständlichkeit ...... 160 The Trema ...... 163 The apophanous mood and the Wahrnehmungsstarre ...... 174 “Naturstudie” ...... 178 An aesthetically productive experience ...... 184

5. A LOOMING BREAK ...... 196 Die Spielregeln der Gesellschaft ...... 197 “Minotauros” ...... 202 Walser and schizoanalysis ...... 206 The inner chambers ...... 218 “heiligen, gefährlichen Quellen gleich” ...... 225

6. STAYING GROUNDED ...... 229 “Das Theater, ein Traum” ...... 230 Servitude, an answer to the double bind ...... 246 Die Spielregeln des Herrn ...... 259

CONCLUSION ...... 266

WORKS CITED ...... 280

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List of Figures

Fig 1. Masquerade and Other Stories by Robert Walser...... 35

Fig 2. Schematic representation of a semantic network...... 131

Fig 3. Visual representation of associative webs in “Brief an Edith” ...... 137

Fig. 4 Vincent van Gogh, The Bedroom, Van Gogh Museum, Amsterdam ...... 169

Fig 5. Isia Leviant, Enigma, Palais de la Découverte, Paris ...... 176

viii

INTRODUCTION

“Ich frage mich, ob es unter denen, die ihr gemächliches, sicheres, schnurgerades akademisches Leben auf das eines Dichters bauen, der in Elend und Verzweiflung gelebt hat, einen gibt, der sich schämt.” –

“Ich richte an die Gesunden folgenden Appell: leset doch nicht immer nur diese gesunden Bücher, machet euch doch auch mit sogenannter krankhafter Literatur näher bekannt, aus der ihr vielleicht wesentliche Erbauung schöpfen könnt. Gesunde Menschen sollten stets gewissermaßen etwas riskieren.” – Robert Walser

In the fall of 2006, corresponding to the 50th anniversary of his death, the Literaturhaus in

Berlin hosted a seven week exhibition on Robert Walser. The exhibit, conceived of by

Bernhard Echte, then director of the Robert Walser Archive, was a series of installations pertaining to the author‟s work and biography. Of all that was displayed, one of the most striking and lasting images was the first installation. Immediately upon entering the gallery, visitors were introduced to Walser‟s early years in through the image of a cramped Commisstube, an office space, which had been reconstructed for the exhibition.

The Commis, or scrivener, is a recurring figure in Walser‟s writing, particularly that of his early years. “Ein Commis ist im Handumdrehen ein Lebensretter, geschweige 1 denn ein Romanheld. Warum werden Commis so spärlich zu Helden in Novellen gemacht? Ein Fehler offenbar, der endlich einmal ernstlich der vaterländischen Literatur unter der Nase gehalten werden muß” (SW 1: 50)1. This reflects Walser‟s own biography prior to his pursuit of a career as an author, as he spent many of his early years working in banks, bent over desks like the one in the exhibit, slowly honing his skills in the physical act of writing. “Sein Talent zu schreiben macht leicht ein Schriftsteller aus dem

Commis” (SW 1: 51). Gifted with beautiful penmanship, Walser was encouraged as a young man to seek out a profession as an office clerk, where his talents would be put to use (Mächler 33). As is often the case, this experience was worked into one of his own short stories: “Weil er eine saubere, nette, flinke Handschrift schrieb und am Zeichnen von Buchstaben eine besondere Freude bekundete, so sagte ihm einmal der Schreiblehrer, er solle Büroangestellter zu werden trachten, das sei für ihn offenbar das beste” (SW 16:

214). Walser worked off and on for a decade as a clerk and copyist in Switzerland, before leaving for in the hopes of becoming a poet.

What was so striking about this office space were the scraps of paper that littered its floor. On each of them was written a quotation from one of Walser‟s texts. The scraps themselves brought to mind the 526 scraps of paper that were discovered upon the author‟s death, on which hundreds of short stories, poems, and even an entire novel were written in the author‟s now famous microscript. Transcribed and published almost 30 years after Walser‟s fatal heart attack on Christmas Day, 1956, these scraps, some of them no larger than a business card, fill six full volumes of prose and poetry, much of

1 SW refers to Sämtliche Werke. 2 which was previously unpublished. These microgram texts, a selection of which have just recently been translated into English by (The Microscripts), have in many ways become synonymous with the figure of Robert Walser and have undoubtedly contributed to the cult popularity of his writing. The Commisstube at the Literaturhaus, however, was not directly referencing these microscripts. They belong to a much later period in the author‟s life, and had been granted their own installation in the gallery.

What marked this first installation as so memorable was the sheer number of scraps of paper that filled the claustrophobic office space. Covering the entire desk, they spilled over its edges and onto the floor, seemingly covering every inch of open space. They appeared pathological in their number and chaos.

Pathology, psychosis, schizophrenia. Rightly or not, these words remain inseparable from the figure of Robert Walser. Indeed, the final installation at the exhibit was of Walser‟s hospitalization in the mental institution at . “Eine

Installation, eher Metapher als konkrete Szene, kommt ohne Mobilar aus: das

Krankenzimmer in Herisau, Walsers Aufenthaltsort. Man blickt von außen hinein und sieht eigentlich nichts, alles ist weiß, leer und unergründlich, nur das Fenster gegebüber gibt den Blick frei auf hüglige Wiesen und Baumgruppen” (Bellin). Robert

Walser accompanies Hölderlin and Lenz in the pantheon of „mad German poets.‟ This strange and reclusive man, who retreated to the sanatoriums of his native Switzerland, and who was diagnosed with schizophrenia in 1929, has been romanticized as one of the great outsiders of his generation. This is, at times, pronounced in the manner in which his writings are promoted. It also appears in his reception by other authors and artists, who perhaps see in Walser the marriage of madness and genius. Some secondary scholarship 3 has also used his diagnosis as a jumping-off point for a reading along existential or even schizoid lines.

Admittedly, the argument that will be put forth in the coming pages falls into this tradition. My own interest in Walser was initially piqued as much by his biography, and by the myth surrounding his biography, as by the writing itself. Although this has changed significantly over time, his biography nevertheless remains intriguing. His diagnosis with schizophrenia helped determine over the years how he has been viewed as an author. However, his unique stylistics may have also impacted how he was viewed outside of his art. In other words, Walser‟s particular prose may have supported, or even suggested madness, such that, once diagnosed as a schizophrenic, the label would stick and be difficult to remove. The tail may be wagging the dog.

The long running narrative on the connection between Robert Walser and madness must begin with a brief look at the author‟s biography, and at that of his family.

His mother, Elisa Marti, suffered greatly from depression. Little more is known about her condition, beyond what has been folded into her son‟s fiction. Describing her as

“gemütskrank,” Mächler notes only that her depression eventually became so severe that she was unable to care for the household (19). These duties were entrusted to her oldest daughter Lisa, who in later years, would continue to serve as a motherly figure for her youngest brother Robert. “Meine Mutter und meine Schwester Hedwig ergeben in meinem Kopf immer ein innig vebundenes und zusammengewobenes Bild,” wrote

Walser in Geschwister Tanner2 (SW 09: 324). As Elisa‟s condition worsened, she became

2 Much of the impulse for Geschwister Tanner came from Walser‟s own family, and this was a point of regret in his later years: “ . . . heute finde ich, daß man vor der Öffentlichkeit über seine eigenen 4 increasingly dependent on Lisa. The confusion and pain that this caused her children became material for Walser‟s prose.

Denken Sie: ein Kind sieht seine Mutter zum Kinde werden und wird

Mutter an der Mutter. Welche seltsame Verschiebung der Gefühle. . . .

Dann, als sie krank wurde, fiel sie in Vergessenheit und wurde der

Gegenstand der Sorge und der Scham. . . . Kurz vor ihrem Tode, ich war

damals vierzehn Jahre alt, schrieb sie eines Mittags einen Brief: “Mein

Lieber Sohn!” Aber glauben Sie, sie wäre mit ihrer wunderlich-schlanken

Handschrift weiter gekommen als über die Anrede hinaus? Nein, sie

lächelte müde und irr, murmelte etwas und war gezwungen, die Feder

wieder wegzulegen. Da saß sie, da lag der angefangene Sohnesbrief, da

die Feder, die Sonne schien draußen, und ich beobachtete das alles. Eines

Nachts dann klopfte Hedwig an meiner Kammertüre: ich solle aufstehen,

Mutter sei gestorben! (SW 09: 324)

Robert was only sixteen years old when his mother finally passed away, and some scholars, as we will see, have argued that this traumatic relationship would become the founding core for the emotional difficulties that he would have later in life.

Hermann, the second child of Adolf and Elisa Walser, might be mentioned as well. In many ways the polar opposite of Robert, Hermann appears to have been of a more austere and scientific nature. He earned his doctorate in geography from the

Geschwister nicht so intim urteilen darf” he told Carl Seelig (Seelig 13). In another conversation, Walser says: “Wie falsch handelt also der Dichter, wenn er annimmt, die Mitwelt interessiere sich für seine Privatangelegenheiten!” (Seelig 43). 5

Universität with a dissertation entitled Veränderungen der Erdoberfläche im

Umkreis des Kantons seit der Mitte des 17. Jahrhunderts. His style of writing, although balanced, had little in common with the playful poetry of his younger brother.

However, he and Robert did share a reluctance to participate in, and have contact with the world around them (Mächler 23). “Er ist ein tüchtiger Mensch, so tüchtig, daß niemand jemals hinter seine bescheidene, verborgene Tüchtigkeit kommen wird,” writes Walser.

He continues: “Obschon er eine bedeutende Stellung in der Gelehrtenwelt einnimmt, bin ich doch überzeugt, daß nur seine Gewissenhaftigkeit, die immer mit Schüchternheit verbunden ist, daran schuld ist, daß er eine nicht noch höhere bekleidet; den er verdiente die höchste und verantwortungsreichste” (SW 9: 321-22). The ostensible of

Hermann‟s personality, however, was countered with emotional struggles perhaps akin to those of his mother. Neurological disruptions eventually made it difficult for him to teach. Demoralized, he took his own life in May of 1919 (Mächler 130).

Ernst Walser, three years Hermann‟s junior, was arguably much closer in soul to

Robert than was the professor of geography. An accomplished pianist, it was Ernst who was Robert‟s original artistic mentor (Mächler 24). “Wissen Sie, was mein Bruder mir war, mir und Kaspar, dem andern Bruder, uns Jüngern? Gelehrt hat er uns auf gemeinschaftlichen Spaziergängen Schönes und Hohes zu empfinden . . . Aus seinen

Augen tranken wir das Feuer der Begeisterung für die Kunst” (SW 9: 238-39). However,

Ernst was troubled (Mächler 24). “Wilde Ideen spukten in seinem Kopf, und in seinem leer gewordenen Herzen brannten nur noch hilflose Phantasien, die keine Rechte auf die

Wirklichkeit besaßen” (SW 9: 235). He had trouble holding down a job and felt himself

6 persecuted by all those around him.3 “An einem halben Dutzend Orten trieb er sich herum, glaubte und sah sich überall betrogen und verletzt . . .” (SW 9: 235). As his condition worsened, he lost connection to reality and began to be persecuted by the voices in his head. “Er wußte nicht mehr, was er tat, oder er tat eben das, was sein anderer, irrer Geist ihm zu tun befahl” (SW 9: 237). Because of his growing depression and other complications, Ernst was interned in the Waldau Psychiatric Hospital in Bern.

Here he was diagnosed with schizophrenia and died in November of 1916 (Mächler 24,

130).

That there was a history of emotional and psychological struggles in the Walser family does not, necessarily, suggest that Robert Walser suffered psychologically as well.

For example, many of the twentieth century‟s dominant theories on the aetiology of schizophrenia, the disorder with which both Ernst and Robert Walser were diagnosed, argue that it is developmental, rather than organic in nature. This is particularly the case for psychoanalysis, which played an inordinately large role in the understanding and treatment of the psychoses over the past 100 years. However, more recent research, influenced by discoveries in neurobiology, has shown that an ‟s inherited genetic makeup indeed plays an important role in the development of schizophrenia

(McGuffin 107).

From his writings, it is clear that the possibility of inheriting madness was something about which Walser thought. In Geschwister Tanner, he thematizes the debate in a discussion between Simon and two men in a pub. One of the men tells the story of an

3 Ernst Bleuler identified that schizophrenic tend to change jobs and occupations frequently (74). 7 unfortunate man named Emil, who, as is later revealed, is Simon‟s older brother. After describing Emil‟s madness at length, one of the men concludes, “So schlimm ist das alles nicht, aber vielleicht liegt es in der Familie” (SW 9: 237). “Was da? In der Familie? Da irren Sie sich, mein edler Herr Erzähler,” snaps Simon. “Sehen Sie mich bitte einmal gründlich an. Entdecken Sie an mir vielleicht auch so etwas, das in der Familie liegen könnte? Muß ich auch ins Irrenhaus kommen? Das müsste ich ohne Zweifel, wenn es in der Familie läge, denn ich bin auch aus der Familie…Nein, in der Familie kann es nicht liegen. Ich leugne das, solange ich lebe. Es ist einfach das Unglück” (237-38). In a declaration of freedom, Simon Tanner renounces his heredity. Whether Walser would have still written this in 1929, however, cannot be known.

Although Walser was hospitalized in 1929, there are aspects of his personality reminiscent of schizophrenia, which were manifest in the years prior to his internment.

He reports experiencing epileptic-like spells as early as 1917, during which the world would glimmer before his eyes (Briefe 326). Schizophrenic breaks, like epileptic seizures, are often preceded by an aura (Sass, M&M 43)4, and it is conceivable that Walser may have been having such an experience. There are moments in his writings, in which the reader senses that Walser was familiar with the schizophrenic “loss of ego boundaries separating self from world,” which are incongruous with the rules of logic or the “most fundamental structures of the human condition” (Sass, M&M 270-71). “ . . . wenn ich beifüge, daß ich in solchen Momenten auf eigentümliche, aber auch einfache Art beinahe

Staub, Mörtel, Erde werde, daß ich das ganz deutlich spüre, so werden Sie finden, daß ich

4 M&M refers to Madness and Modernism: Insanity in the Light of , Literature, and Thought. 8

Ihnen hier Unheimliches auftische” (SW 18: 127). At others, one wonders whether

Walser knew firsthand of the helplessness of an oncoming break.

Er kämpfte mit einem vollkommenen Nichts, schlug sich in lächerlichster

Erbitterung mit einem absolut Unsichtbaren herum, verteidigte sich wie

auf Leben und Tot gegen durchaus nur eingebildeten, übermächtigen

Angriff, sprach mit Gestalten und Stimmen, die entweder niemand als nur

er oder vielleicht nicht einmal er selber sah und hörte. (SW 07: 181)

Walser also exhibited some behavioral patterns that could be suggestive of negativism, a common behavioral manifestation of schizophrenia.5 This is particularly the case in his relations with other members of artistic circles, or in his encounters with more refined society. He taunted Franz Wedekind at a party thrown by Paul Cassirer. Enraged at a social event at Samuel Fischer‟s home, he shattered the Enrico Caruso albums being played on the gramophone. And upon meeting for the first time,

Walser asked him “Könnten Sie nicht ein wenig vergessen, berühmt zu sein?” (Mächler

105-07). Years later, while eating lunch in a fine hotel restaurant, Walser suddenly stood up from his chair and began flinging invectives at the diners around him. Seemingly shocked at his own outburst, he sat back down and finished his meal (Mächler 209). In a letter, written one month later to Frieda Mermet, with whom he had been lunching, he wrote, “aber ich bin ja selber der gröbster Berner, den‟s jemals gab . . .” (Briefe 260).

Caution must be taken, however, when drawing too close of a connection between the

5 Negativism occurs when patients do not do what is expected of them, either by their doctor or by society, or they do the opposite or something completely different from what is expected. Eugen Bleuler refers to these as passive and active negativism, respectively (158). 9 taunts and outbursts described above, and manifestations of schizophrenic negativism, for

Walser also drank, and drank heavily. “Aber ich ließ auch viel Alkohol durch die Gurgel fließen, so daß ich da und dort nicht mehr gern gesehen wurde,” he tells Seelig. “Was tut man nicht, wenn man einsam ist!” (75). The spontanaety of these confrontations may be attributable to the flush of intemperance.

Other provocations appear more calculated, however, and reveal a calm and collected individual, who goes out of his way to act in strange and off-putting ways. For a neutral third party, these incidents are often very funny. For the object of Walser‟s mockery, however, one can imagine that these moments were, at best, extremely uncomfortable. A wonderful illustration of such an encounter is related by Konsul

Hauschild, the head of the Grethlein publishing house in , which had shown serious interest in Walser‟s work. Walser had written a letter to Hauschild, informing him that he would like to set up a meeting. The letter was signed by “Cäsar, Diener von Herrn

Walser.” On the appointed day, Hauschild made his way to the floor apartment in which Walser lived and was met at the door by a servant in shirt-sleeves. Yes, my master

Robert Walser will see you, Hauschild remembers being told. Asking him to wait briefly,

Cäsar closed the door. The door opened again two minutes later. There stood the same man as before, this time wearing a jacket. I am Mr Walser he said (Mächler 158).

Moments like these grew the reputation of Walser as an oddity, and those who knew him repeatedly report encounters of a similar tenor. In a 1925 letter, he writes,

“Eine Zeitlang hielt man mich hier für wahnsinnig und sprach laut in unseren Arkaden bei meinem Vorübergehen: er gehört in eine Irrenanstalt” (Briefe 240). This reputation would stay with him long after his death in 1956. In what seems to be part of a myth 10 around this personality, we read in a 1968 entry in ‟s diary:

Jemand berichtet von einer verbürgten Begegnung zwischen Robert

Walser und Lenin an der Spiegelgasse in Zürich, 1917, dabei habe Robert

Walser eine einzige Frage an Lenin gerichtet: Haben Sie auch das Glarner

Birnbrot so gern? Ich zweifle im Traum nicht an der Authentzität und

verteidige Robert Walser, bis ich daran erwache – ich verteidige Robert

Walser noch beim Rasieren. (11)

As much as anything else, this entry may be a reflection on the unique history of the

Spiegelgasse, in which not only Robert Walser and Vladimir Lenin lived, but which housed the Cabaret Voltaire of Hugo Ball and the Dadaists, and was the street in which

Georg Büchner died in 1837 (Fröhlich 84). However, it is also reflective of Walser‟s clownery, which, amplified by the weight of Lenin‟s sobriety, is representative of the off- kilter image that Walser conjured up in the minds of his contemporaries and in those who came after him.

The circumstances of Walser‟s hospitalization were such: Lisa Walser, his younger sister, received a letter in January of 1929 that most likely came from the

Häberlin sisters of Bern, from whom Walser was renting a room. Having already failed at a few half-hearted suicide attempts, his condition seemed now to be worsening (Seelig

24). The letter stated that Walser was having anxiety attacks, heard voices that made fun of him, and suffered from insomnia (Mächler 216). All of these can be symptoms of schizophrenia. In a conversation that he would later have with Carl Seelig, it is clear that

Walser had been suffering like this for a while. “. . . man täuscht sich, wenn man glaubt, in Bern sei es partout gemütlich. Im Gegenteil. Es spukt und gespenstert dort an vielen 11

Orten. Deshalb bin ich oft umgezogen. Manche Zimmer hatten für mich geradezu etwas

Unheimliches” (91).6 On another of Seelig‟s visits, Walser told him: “In den letzten

Berner Jahren quälten mich wüste Träume: Donner, Geschrei, würgende Halsgriffe, halluzinatorische Stimmen, so daß ich oft laut rufend erwachte” (20).

Upon receiving the letter from the Häberlin sisters, Lisa made an appointment at the Waldau Psychiatric Hospital with Dr. Walter Morgenthaler. On the 25th of January,

1929, she accompanied her brother to the clinic. “Noch vor dem Eingangstor habe ich sie gefragt: “Tun wir auch das Richtige?“ Ihr Schweigen sagte mir genug. Was blieb mir

übrig, als einzutreten?” remembers Walser (Seelig 24). The connections between

Morgenthaler and Walser are numerous and varied. Walter Morgethaler was the older brother of the Swiss artist Ernst Morgenthaler, with whom Walser was befriended, and at whose home in the suburbs of Zurich the author had stayed in 1916 (Mächler 150). Dr.

Morgenthaler was also a former schoolmate of Hermann Walser, and more significantly, had treated Ernst Walser for schizophrenia in Waldau years before. Upon meeting the youngest Walser boy, Dr. Morgenthaler noted that he was “ausgesprochen deprimiert und schwer gehemmt” (qtd. in Mächler 216). Walser complained of an inability to work and

6 Walser was an urban nomad, never staying in one place very long. He was constantly on the move from one small apartment to the next. During his first six years in Bern, from 1921 – 1927, he had fifteen different addresses. “Ich begnüge mich, innerhalb der Grenzen unserer Stadt zu nomadisieren, eine Wanderart, die mir überaus bekömmlich zu sein scheint, den ich sehe, wie ich sagen kann, verhältnismässig gesund aus, d.h. es scheint mir, daß ich blühe” wrote Walser in the 1926 piece “Wohnungswechsel” (SW 17: 80). 12 had insight into the disease (Mächler 216).7 After the author‟s death in 1956, Dr. Max

Müller, then the director of the Waldau Hospital, reported, “In der Waldau stand die

Diagnose einer Schizophrenie von Anfang an fest. Auch nach der heutigen Auffassung kann an dieser Krankheit nicht gezweifelt werden, wobei höchstens fraglich bleibt, wie weit der Begin des Leidens zurückliegt, ob wirklich nur wenige Wochen vor dem Eintritt in die Anstalt, oder länger” (Mächler 219). As has been illustrated, however, Walser had been displaying many schizophrenic-like symptoms for years, including those which prompted his diagnosis.

Of all of the symptoms that Walser displayed, it is perhaps the voices that he was hearing, more than anything else, which prompted his admission into the clinic. Eugen

Bleuler notes that auditory hallucinations are the most common form of hallucination in schizophrenia, and almost every patient hears voices at times or continuously while hospitalized. In most cases, he explains, these voices usually threaten or criticize the individual. They are also very often contradictory, and appear to emanate from an origin outside of the individual himself: “Tag und Nacht kommen sie von der Umgebung, aus den Wänden, von unten, von oben, aus dem Souterrain und vom Dach, aus Himmel und

Hölle, aus Nähe und Ferne” (Bleuler, E. 80). In the doctors‟ reports from Herisau, published in Robert Walser Leben und Werk in Daten und Bildern, one reads that he was still hearing voices as late as January 12, 1949, seven years before his death. The voices

7 Insight, German Krankheitseinsicht, is a term used in clinical psychiatry that implies that a patient is aware, to some degree, of his or her mental illness. This can be a valuable piece of information in clinical treatment, as it can positively affect the patient‟s ability to understand aberrant actions as stemming from a disorder, and thus to recognize the need for treatment. For a detailed discussion of the various complexities of insight, refer to Marková‟s Insight in Psychiatry. 13 were so disruptive, that Walser reported having difficulty thinking about anything else.

“Gefragt, ob er in Gedanken sich manchmal mit Problemen beschäftige: „Das kann ich ganz unmöglich machen, ich muss mich hauptsächlich mit meinen Stimmen beschäftigen‟” (qtd. in Fröhlich 295). Walser reported hearing two men speaking about him, and they spoke constantly.8 Sometimes they would ask questions, sometimes they talked about everything imaginable “sodass ein richtiges Durcheinander entstehe” (qtd. in

Fröhlich 296). The voices were, for the most part, unpleasant and would critique or criticize him. When asked whether the voices were his own thoughts, Walser replied that they were not his thoughts, but voices foreign to him (Fröhlich 296).

In addition to the discussion about voices, the doctor‟s report from the 19th of

January, 1949 provides a detailed description of Walser‟s behavior.

Hat sich nun ein wenig ereifert, spricht ziemlich spontan drauflos,

berichtet aber doch sachlich, irgendwie unberührt, als ob ihn das ganze

nichts angehe, hat überhaupt etwas Automatenhaftes. Das Gesicht ist

etwas maskenhaft, die Haltung steif und ziemlich stereotyp. Steht immer

am gleichen Ort, die Hände auf dem Rücken gefaltet, den Blick etwas leer

und starr gradaus gerichtet, gibt sich mit niemandem ab. (qtd. in Fröhlich

297)

The blank stare that Walser exhibits, as well as his almost mechanical response to questions, is perhaps reminiscent of the praecox feeling, or the strange feeling that one has when speaking to someone with schizophrenia. Their ways seem odd and out of place

8 In an interview one year earlier, on January 7, 1948, Walser claims that he believed one voice to be more feminine and the other more masculine (Fröhlich 295). 14 in the world, and are at the same time strangely indescribable (Sass, M&M 14). Eugen

Bleuler too notes that it is easier to sense these awkward moments than to describe them

(34). The doctor‟s description of Walser is filled with qualifiers like “ziemlich,” “doch,”

“irgendwie,” “als ob,” and “etwas,” and it seems as if he or she is having difficulty putting Walser‟s presence into words.

If the strangeness that Walser presented is difficult to pinpoint, his posture and positioning can be more concretely described, and the doctor‟s description correlates with what Eugen Bleuler notes is characteristic for schizophrenic patients. Many patients take on a certain pose, Bleuler explains (154). Compare this to Walser‟s frozen facial expression and stereotyped posture. Bleuler also notes the frequency of of position, in which patients always stand in the same corner of the room (154). Likewise,

Walser‟s doctor notes that the poet always stands in the same spot in the room. This tendency towards stereotypes is one of the most prominent external manifestations of schizophrenia, and is found in almost every sphere, including posture, position, movement, speech, drawing, and writing (Bleuler, E. 153).

Walser spent four and a half years in Waldau. During this time, he continued to write and publish in German newspapers. In 1933, Waldau experienced a changing of the guard with the retirement of its director Dr. Wilhelm von Speyr, a man with whom

Walser got along very well. His replacement, Dr. Jakob Klaesi, began the job with a spirit of reorganization, releasing many of the patients whose conditions had improved considerably. In Walser‟s case, Dr. Klaesi suggested that he be transported to a rehabilitation colony. Walser was opposed to the move and expressed a wish to be released back into society. His brothers Oscar and Karl likewise wanted to see Robert 15 return to the world outside of the institution. His recent publications had convinced them of his sanity, and of the restoration of his literary capabilities (Mächler 223). In his notes,

Dr. Klaesi writes that Walser was given the choice of returning to society or remaining in the clinic. “Spricht davon, aus der Anstalt entlassen zu werden und sich draußen eine

Stelle zu suchen, macht aber keine Anstrengungen dazu, obgleich man ihm volle Freiheit läßt, zu tun, was ihm beliebt in dieser Hinsicht” (qtd. in Mächler 223). Despite expressing his desire to leave Waldau, Walser stayed on his own accord.

Lisa Walser wanted her brother to remain institutionalized. With Robert‟s hesitation to leave the clinic, and Oscar and Karl‟s eventual frustration with the situation, she was finally able to have him transferred, more or less by force, on the 19th of June,

1933 to the institute at Herisau, in Walser' home canton of Appenzell-Außerhoden.

“Eines Tages wird von meinem Wesen und Beginnen irgendein Duft ausgehen,” writes

Jakob von Gunten in his journal. He continues: “Die Arme und Beine werden mir seltsam erschlaffen, der Geist, der Stolz, der Charakter, alles, alles wird brechen und welken, und ich werde tot sein, nicht wirklich tot, nur so auf eine gewisse Art tot, und dann werde ich vielleicht sechzig Jahre so dahinleben und –sterben” (SW 11: 144). For many years it was argued that, with the exception of the odd personal letter, Robert Walser never wrote again (Mächler 222-28).

This common belief among scholars can be attributed primarily to Carl Seelig‟s biography. Seelig records being told by Walser that he could not possibly write in

Herisau. “Es ist ein Unsinn und eine Roheit, an mich den Anspruch zu stellen, auch in der

Anstalt zu schriftstellern. Der einzige Boden, auf dem ein Dichter produzieren kann, ist die Freiheit. Solange diese Bedingung unerfüllt bleibt, weigre ich mich, je wieder zu 16 schreiben” (24). On another visit in 1944, Walser attributed his lack of productivity to the shrinking newspaper market in Germany, as many of the Jewish editors, who had previously bought his stories, had been driven out by the Nazis. “In Herisau . . . habe ich nichts mehr geschrieben. Wozu auch? Meine Welt wurde von den Nazis zertrümmert.

Die Zeitungen, für die ich schrieb, sind eingegangen, ihre Redaktoren wurden verjagt oder sind gestorben” (Seelig 76). Comments like these, along with the fact that there are no known remaining texts from Walser written after 1933, save letters to friends and family, lead to the supposition that Walser was artistically mute after his move to

Herisau.

However, the former Herisau attendant Josef Wehrle, in a 2001 interview with

Walser‟s French biographer Catherine Sauvat, noted that, contrary to popular belief,

Walser wrote often after his move to Herisau. Walser always kept a stack of paper in his vest pocket, Wehrle remembers. After meals, he would sit on the windowsill and write with his “sehr kurzen Bleistift” (qtd. in Partl 74). What Walser was writing is unknown, but it is not hard to imagine that whatever was written was immediately destroyed.

Joseph throws away his essay “Schlechte Gewohnheit” in Der Gehülfe (SW 10: 186), and

Jakob tears up his written personal history in Jakob von Gunten (SW 11: 49). Walser too, while in Berlin, burned three of his own novels prior to publication (Seelig 75). In light of

Sauvat‟s biography, it appears that upon entering Herisau, Walser may have ceased writing for a now drastically reduced market, but continued to write for himself, as a manner of self-therapy. It is also conceivable perhaps even likely, that much of what

Walser wrote in his lifetime has been lost or destroyed at his own hand.

With his entrance into Herisau, Walser‟s position in life was transformed, and in 17 the coming years, he would become the object of study for numerous scholars. Much of the interest that he drew, he drew because of his unique personality and biography. Rare is the scholarship that does not directly address, or subtly hint at his contentious character, his long walks, his unusual need to change apartments every few months, or the final 27 years of his life spent hospitalized in Swiss mental institutions. This is in part due to the biographical nature of his texts, many of which are taken directly from his own life experiences.9 But it likewise reflects the fact that the image of Robert Walser is that of the tragic romantic, and his writing has, for better or worse, become virtually inseparable from the struggles and misfortune he experienced as a man.

Herisau was the final station in Walser‟s life, and he would remain within the institution‟s walls for 23 years. He maintained sparse contact with the outside world, save sporadic letters to his sisters and closest friends. It was during these years, however, that

Walser made one of his most meaningful and longest lasting friendships. Carl Seelig was a journalist from Zurich, and reported on cultural events like film and theater. He also translated poetry, and published some of his own work as well. “Wer nichts als das von ihm wüßte, könnte in ihm den Typ des vielgeschäftigen Großstadtliteraten ohne festen

Gesinnungsgrund vermuten” writes Mächler (230). Seelig would become most well

9 In the story “Eine Art Erzählung,” Walser writes about the autobiographical nature of his corpus: “Für mich sind die Skizzen, die ich dann und wann hervorbringe, kleinere oder umfangreichere Romankapitel. Der Roman, woran ich weiter und weiter schreibe, bleibt immer derselbe und dürfte als ein mannigfaltig zerschnittenes oder zertrenntes Ich-Buch bezeichnet werden können” (SW 20: 322). Greven‟s collection Der Roman, Woran Ich Weiter und Weiter Schreibe is a compilation of 133 stories, and over 320 pages of text from Walser‟s years in Bern alone (1921-1930), which are reflections upon his own life. This biographical quality can be found throughout Walser‟s oeuvre, and is not unique to his final period of productivity. 18 known, however, as an early biographer of Albert Einstein, and as the eventual friend, biographer, and legal guardian of Robert Walser. Seelig was a humanitarian, explains

Mächler (231). “Gerne setzte er sich für abseitige und erfolglose, ihm aus diesem oder jenem Grund sympathische Dichter und Schriftsteller . . . ein” (Mächler 231). There was, perhaps, no better candidate for Seelig‟s compassion than Robert Walser.

Their relationship began with a few, short, formal letters. It wasn‟t until July of

1936 that Carl Seelig first met Walser in person. Walser‟s sister had warned Seelig that he could be uncommonly mistrustful of strangers. His doctor had advised against walks outside of the Herisau grounds. Despite this, Seelig and Walser undertook a day trip to St.

Gallen, whereby Walser showed himself to be, contrary to his sister‟s warning, quite friendly and open. “Der Tag war zum Anfang einer der seltsamsten literarischen

Freundschaften geworder” writes Mächler (230).

Seelig visited Walser every few months over the following two decades. Together they would take long walks through the surrounding countryside. During these years,

Seelig worked diligently to promote Walser‟s work in the hopes of bringing in an income, or perhaps literary prizes for the author. In 1936, thanks to these efforts, a new edition of Der Gehülfe was published in St. Gallen. In 1937, Seelig helped release Große kleine Welt, which was a collection of previously published and unpublished works.

Seelig also collected over 5000 Franks in donations for Walser‟s care, lobbied (with

Hermann ‟s assistance) for honorary donations from the Schweizerischen

Schriftstellerverein, and continued to pursue the publication of Walser‟s work. In addition to the works mentioned above, Seelig organized the collections Vom Glück des

Unglücks und der Armut, Stille Freuden, and Gedichte, along with new editions of Der 19

Spaziergang and Jakob von Gunten. By 1944, Seelig had taken over the duties of

Walser‟s legal guardian, and remained one of the author‟s closest friends for the next twelve years.

Seelig‟s influence on the reception of Walser‟s writing is hard to quantify, but it is clear that he is largely responsible for keeping the author‟s works in publication for many years. One of Seelig‟s lasting impacts may also be his role in cementing the image of

Walser as a patient in a mental institution. In addition to promoting Walser‟s books,

Seelig also wrote down his own memoirs of his many visits to Herisau. Published in

1957, one year after Walser‟s death, Wanderungen mit Robert Walser is a unique little book that gives its readers a very intimate view of the reclusive author. The book focuses not on the author‟s texts, but on the man and his personality. It appears that Walser‟s personality was what first drew Seelig to visit him in the clinic. “Ich empfand das

Bedürfnis, für die Publikation seiner Werke und für ihn selbst etwas zu tun. Unter allen zeitgenössischen Schrifstellern der Schweiz schien er mir die eigenartigste Persönlichketi zu sein” (Seelig 7). While not the first memoir or biography written on the author, Otto

Zinniker‟s biography Robert Walser, der Poet was published in 1947, Seelig‟s account has become one of the most important early works in Walser scholarship.

Wanderungen mit Robert Walser is a reflection on a friendship that lasted over twenty years. In each entry, the reader is given a glimpse of who Robert Walser was in his private life. However, each intimate recollection of a walk that Seelig and Walser took also reinforces Walser‟s position as a patient at Herisau. This position is established, and arguably highlighted, in the first lines of the first page: “Unsere Beziehungen leiteten einige nüchterne Biefe ein; kurze, sachliche Fragen und Antworten. Ich wußte, daß 20

Robert Walser Anfang 1929 als Geisteskranker in die bernische Heilanstalt Waldau eingeliefert worden war und seit Juni 1933 als Patient der kantonalen Heil- und

Pflegeanstalt von Appenzell-Außerrhoden in Herisau lebte” (Seelig 7). In a work that for many casual readers is their first biographical introduction to Robert Walser, the author‟s psychological struggles become the defining aspect of who he was. This focus on

Walser‟s „madness‟ is reflected in Suhrkamp‟s marketing strategy. Max Brod‟s brief endorsement, printed on the book jacket, is telling and warrants mention.

Carl Seeligs Aufzeichnungen seiner “Wanderungen mit Robert Walser”

haben in der Literatur nicht ihresgleichen. Sie entwerfen das Porträt eines

Verstummten, eines Dichters, der, wie Hölderlin, “taktvoll” genug war,

dem Leben zu entsagen. Nach seinem 50. Geburtstag hörte Walser mit

Schreiben auf und gab sich mit dem Leben eines Irrenhauspatienten

zufrieden. . . . Dieser Irrenhaus-Insasse ist krank, aber er ist auch weise.

Sein Wissen über Literatur ist immens. Seine Äußerungen ergeben die

Poetologie seines eigenen Werkes. Seine Politischen Urteile über die

Schweizer, die Deutschen, den Nationalsozialismus, über Stalin sind

treffend. Und abends kehrt Walser in das Irrenhaus zurück. Aus dieser

Tragik ensteht aber der Trost dieses Buches: “Ohne Liebe ist der Mensch

verloren.”

Without judgment on Seelig‟s portrayal, the final three decades of

Walser‟s life cast a long shadow over the previous three, during which almost all of his texts had been written. Perhaps this is a clever and necessary marketing strategy for an author who to this day struggles to find a large audience. It may also reflect our own 21 desire to romanticize our poets and to draw connections between Walser and those who suffered before him. Wanderungen mit Robert Walser is an incredibly valuable and sympathetic book, and conceivably the single most important work, academic or otherwise, that addresses the author. It cannot be denied, however, that it at the same time helped establish the image of Walser as the mad German poet par excellence of the twentieth century.

Jochen Greven‟s dissertation Existenz, Welt, und Reines Sein is only the second scholarly monograph dedicated to Walser‟s work, and introduced some of the founding concepts in Walser scholarship. Greven heavily influenced many of the books and articles that came after him, the work at hand not withstanding. The core of Greven‟s approach is the description of the artist‟s conflicted existence in Walser‟s writings. The artist, Greven writes, is caught between two spheres. Although living in the world of society and culture, he longs for the ontological immediacy of an inner world, in which his existence is freed from external influences, obstruction, or responsibility. This inner world is an absolute and a priori realm of reinen Seins, in which artistic possibilities are endless (43).

To achieve reines Sein requires the shedding of external rules belonging to the realm of reality. Greven calls this mode of existence, in which the individual turns his back on society, the autism of subjectivity. “Die völlige Deprivierung im Realen als

Voraussetzung desto freierer Innerlichkeit, die sich eine eigene Welt schafft – dies ist

Autismus der Subjektivität (139-40). Schizophrenia, it should be noted, was originally categorized under the heading of Autistic Spectrum Disorders (Bleuler, E. 52), and although modern psychiatry now differentiates between schizophrenia and autism, the 22 distinction was, for many years, not clearly made. Greven‟s choice of terminology, thus, implicitly references Walser‟s diagnosis of schizophrenia and the years he spent in

Waldau and Herisau.

Greven‟s conflict between the inner and outer worlds is taken up by Naguib in

1970, who, with a creative interpretation through a Jungian lens, attempts to tie it to

Walser‟s hospitalization. Naguib draws on Jung‟s theory of individuation, in which the development of a healthy psyche requires that the individual free himself from the power of the Anima by means of a Mana-personality. The Anima is, above all else, the female soul and is manifested in dreams, fantasy, and visions. The image of the mother, which dominates the infant‟s world, is the Anima archetype and must be overthrown by the adult‟s masculine Mana-personality. This is a process that never fully develops in the author, and leads directly to the development of Walser‟s psychology and his mental illness, Naguib argues (107).

Drawing on Walser‟s biography, and what Naguib sees as his longing for a lost childhood, Naguib illustrates the author‟s association with the Anima by noting his strange relationships with women. A professed virgin, Walser‟s relationships with women tended to parallel that between a child and its mother (Naguib 179). A similar constellation was noted earlier in Walser‟s relationship to his sister Lisa. This relationship and affiliation with the Anima, however, conflicts with the expectations of manhood, society, and empirical reality, and is thematized in the novel Jakob von

Gunten. Here, the motherly Frau Benjamenta is Jakob‟s guide to fantasy and the mysteries of the institute‟s inner chambers, and stands in the way of Jakob‟s relationship to her brother, Herr Benjamenta, the symbol of the real and empirical world (Naguib 23

102). These two figures, Naguib suggests, are not real people in the institute, but projections of Jakob‟s subconscious that represent his underdeveloped psyche (110).

Thus the demands made by the Mana-personality are impossible for either Jakob or the author to fulfill, as neither of them has managed to break from the Anima:

In der beschriebenen Identifikation mit jener männlichen Figur des

Unbewußten gerät das Ich zwangsweise mit sich und seinem Tun in

quälende widersprüche, was auf die Dauer zur völligen Desorientiertheit

oder Psychose führt, denn das Ich bleibt nach wie vor im infantilen

Zustand befangen, vermag sich weder in der Welt durchzusetzen noch

irgendwelche Bedeutung zu erlangen, und doch wird es von der nach

Bedeutung und Macht strebenden archetypischen Dominante gepeinigt.

(Naguib 112)

Naguib‟s book, published in 1970, is reflective of a time when psychoanalytic approaches to the psychoses were not only prevalent, but dominant (McKenna and Oh 17). His normative analysis reads Walser‟s work from a privileged perspective, and attributes much of his stylistics and themes to an underdeveloped personality and psychotic mind.

Holderegger‟s short Persönlichkeitsanalyse, published in 1973, likewise sees

Walser‟s struggles as stemming from an unhealthy “Fixierung an die Mutter” (39). With an analysis of Walser‟s Berlin novels that focuses heavily on the details of familial relations, and a brief two-page comparison of his findings to the psychological profile of a schizophrenic outlined in Dr. H. C. Lindinger‟s Familienumwelt und Prognose der

Schizophrenie, Holderegger hopes to erode any doubt about Walser‟s schizophrenia. The thrust of Holderegger‟s argument is that the phenomena, which were attributed to 24

Walser‟s schizophrenia, were evident in his personality long before any diagnosis - that

“Walsers Veranlagung schon im Zustand sogenannter Gesundheit äußerst sonderbar war”

(64). Drawing from his earliest works, Holderegger outlines the author‟s complicated relationship to women, his recurring need for a motherly figure, his passiveness and retreat from reality, and his projection of internal wishes and desires onto an external world. These are symptoms, Holderegger suggests, of the pre-stages of schizophrenia

(64-66).

Urs Herzog‟s Robert Walsers Poetik, written one year later, also reads Walser‟s schizophrenia along developmental lines. His framework, however, is reflective of the rise of the socially critical theories of anti-psychiatry in the 1970s. In his close reading of the dramolette Schneewittchen, Herzog argues that Walser‟s impending madness stems from the double bind that defined his bourgeois household, particularly his relationship with his mother. Influenced heavily by the writings of Cooper, Laing, and thus indirectly by those of Bateson, Herzog reads Schneewittchen for the conflicting messages that are the defining character of its dialog. In Walser‟s continuation of the Snow White story, the mother‟s alternating professions of love and of a desire to kill her daughter leave

Schneewittchen stranded in a communicative tangle. This same tangle is prevalent in Der

Teich, in which the mother claims to love her son, while keeping him at arm‟s length.

Herzog argues that the double bind colors the characters‟, and also Walser‟s, relationship with their mothers, and as such, to the world (23).

Echoing the ideals of the anti-psychiatry movement, Herzog stresses that Walser‟s suffering is not an illness, but rather a result of his ontological uncertainty, which is based on the conflicted mother/child relationship of his youth (39). Walser‟s life in a world of 25 painful double binds becomes one of survival, which is only possible in the renunciation of the world, and in a submersion into poetry (Herzog 60). Walser‟s poesy, his paradoxes and circulatory writing, was a form of necessary self medication. “Die Grenze von

Walsers Dichten ist ein Zusammenbruch, dem er nur als Dichter – und so ein Arzt an sich selber – hat entgehen können” (Herzog 3).

Von Matt‟s article “Die Schwäche des Vaters und das Vergnügen des Sohnes,” first published in 1979, functions as a prelude to readings that focus on Walser‟s fixation on the mother, particularly the work of Urs Herzog. While von Matt concedes that there is an unhealthy relationship to motherly figures in Walser‟s work, “Wo der Sohn liebt, tauchen die mächtigen Konturen der Mutter vor ihm auf; wo die Konturen der Mutter auftauchen, liebt er (180),” the focus of his argument is rather on the weakness of Adolf

Walser, the author‟s father. Backed by the psychoanalytically influenced writings of the

American psychologist Murray Bowen, von Matt considers the dynamic between Robert

Walser‟s parents Adolf and Elisa. Underpinned by Bowen‟s claim that the dynamics of a male/female relationship mirror those of a battle, von Matt suggests that Adolf‟s passiveness within the household in part caused Elisa‟s mental breakdown, and that this was made possible not despite, but in fact because she was of a more assertive nature. “Er entzieht ihr unentwegt den Gegner; er taucht unter ihren Händen weg; er ist unfaßbar, in einer Weise nicht zu treffen durch sein ständiges Beigeben, daß der Mutter nur noch die irrationale Explosion übrigbleibt” (187).

Walser‟s schizophrenia is a direct result of his mother‟s condition, and here von

Matt refers his reader back to Herzog‟s arguments (193). Von Matt notes, however, that

Adolf‟s weakness was also reflected in his failure as a business man, and his subsequent 26 financial ruin in the 1880s. This crisis coincided with the young Robert‟s oedipal dilemma, and Adolf‟s financial downfall was perceived by the boy as a triumph, and as the fulfillment of his own desire to kill his father. “Die Schwäche des Vaters war, so mußte es scheinen, die Tat des Sohnes: die Tat und der Triumph, die Tat und die Schuld des Sohnes. . . . Die Mutter blieb ihm, gehörte ihm weiterhin an in genau dem Maße, als er den Vater real erniedrigt und gestürzt sah” (193). Having overthrown his father,

Walser is left only with his mother, whose psychic and emotional battles, as Herzog outlines, come to define the way in which her son learns to relate to the world around him.

Hans Hiebel‟s article from 1978, “Robert Walsers Jakob von Gunten: Die

Zerstörung der Signifikanz im modernen Roman,” extends Herzog‟s anti-psychiatric reading with the addition of Deleuze and Guattari‟s schizoanalysis. The article begins with an analysis of a citation from Walser‟s story “Der Heiße Brei:” “„Man schiebt schreibend immer etwas Wichtiges, etwas, was man unbedingt betont haben will, auf . .

.‟” (SW 19: 91). Walser‟s syntax exemplifies the linguistic decoding and schizoid deterritorialization10 of familiar and established communicative norms (Hiebel 243). “Nur die ästhetische Decodierung der Lebenswirklichkeit eröffnet die Idee der Veränderung, die anarchische Wunschbesetzung des gesellschaftlichen Feldes rüttelt am Gesetz,” he writes (246).

10 Deterritorialization, introduced in more detail in Chapter 2, is the freeing of desire from “established organs and objects,” and is one of the principle aims of Deleuze and Guattari‟s concept of schizoanalysis (Holland 19). In Hiebel‟s argument, the establied organ is the organizing influence of communication, which Hiebel sees as exerting little influence in many of Walser‟s texts.

27

With an analysis of Jakob von Gunten, Hiebel hopes to illustrate the deterritorialization of communication that is representative of the revolutionary schizoid of Deleuze and Guattari. In addition to the shifting signifiers and quicksilver fluidity of

Walser‟s sentences, introduced with the quote from “Der Heiße Brei,” Hiebel‟s article addresses the anti-teleological structure of Walser‟s texts; the perversion of the process of

Bildung; and the paradoxical, ironic, absurd, and grotesque quality of his language and stories. All aspects, quite typical of Walser‟s stylistics, are evidence of his wish to fight against macrosocial laws of significance (251). Hiebel‟s overall argument stands in implicit contradiction to those earlier scholars whose studies either assumed or verified the validity of the doctor‟s diagnosis of schizophrenia in 1929, specifically Naguib and

Holderegger. Through the lens of schizoanalysis, Hiebel argues that Walser‟s language hints not at schizophrenia, but at a “nicht-pathologische” use of language in deliberate defiance of social expectations (260).

In “Walser‟s Silence,” Winfried Kudzsus takes a narratological approach to

Walser, linking this to questions of “identity and illness” (195). Kudzsus‟ background lies in the exploration of relationships between literature and psychology. His authored and edited books include Sprachverlust und Sinnwandel: Zur späten und spätesten Lyrik

Hölderlins; Literatur und Schizophrenie: Theorie und Interpretation eines Grenzgebiets; and Psychoanalytische und Psychopathologische Literaturinterpretation. As such,

Kudzsus is uniquely positioned to read Walser‟s writing along psychopathological lines.

“Walser‟s Silence” is included in Mark Harman‟s collection Walser Rediscovered, which was organized with the expressed goal of widening the “range of Walser‟s writings available in English” (Harman vii). As such, the article‟s style is not that of an academic 28 study, but rather of a short, accessible essay that, while eloquent and insightful, does not provide a clearly defined framework against which the question of Walser‟s psychic state is measured.

With a close reading of Walser‟s “Essay on Freedom,” published in Middleton‟s collection Selected Stories, Kudszus‟ approach focuses on the shifting perspective within the piece, and on the multilayered voices of narrators and authors. “Walser, the person; his invention, the implied author of the text; then, the narrator, twice removed, so to speak, from the author himself; and then, the splitting and self-alienation that the narrator experiences” (199). Much of what Kudzsus describes in the essay is, he concludes, consistent with what psychiatry terms “borderline symptoms” (200). However, Kudszus does not define this term, and hesitates to conclude that Walser was schizophrenic.

Throughout all of writing, he writes, “Walser stays on top, speaks from increasingly invisible locations beyond the textual dilemma” (199). His style is more aesthetic than pathological. Walser exhibits too much control and artistry, too much and self- mockery to be considered schizophrenic, he concludes (200).

Greven‟s 1991 chapter “Raum ohne Zeit: Robert Walser und die „Schizophrenie‟” addresses the Momentaufnahmen that permeate the author‟s texts. From Walser‟s earliest texts, we see the “Abbilder des Augenblicks,” descriptive moments in which time seems to stand still, and the narrative is spatially constructed, rather than temporal (86). “Hier ist das offenbar alles nebeneinander bewahrt, Bild neben Bild in einer allerdings merkwürdigen Zeitlosigkeit” (87). Greven locates this timelessness in the lack of development in many of Walser‟s characters within the novels, as well as in the affinities between characters in different stories (90). It is also manifested in the episodic nature of 29 all four of Walser‟s novels, in which the scenes seem interchangeable. Although the novels are ostensibly chronological, in the end, it is not time that holds the episodes together. Time is not a structuring element in Walser‟s prose (91).

Greven‟s discussion of Walser‟s schizophrenia is founded upon the theory of the

French philosopher and psychopathologist Joseph Gabel, for whom a healthy ego requires a dialectic relationship between the individual and the world, and between space and time. Schizophrenia disrupts this dialectic, leading to a pathologically disproportionate focus on space over time: “Bei der in ganz bestimmtem ver-rückten

Weise des In-der-Welt-Seins des Schizophrenen spielt nun ein verräumlichtes, also unechtes Zeiterleben eine ganz wesentliche Rolle” (96). Such objectification of the outer world can lead to sexual pathologies, particularly fetishisms; feelings of persecution; or the reification of language (98-99).11

Although there is much about Walser and his writing that seems schizophrenic in nature, Greven argues that the only genuine manifestations of schizophrenia that the author experienced were the hallucinated voices that he heard (99). This claim may be contested, however, when one considers the doctors‟ reports discussed above, and the praecox feeling and stereotypes of posture that they reference. Greven argues that many of Walser‟s symptoms do not adhere to the classical picture of the disease, but does not provide a definition as to what constitutes this “klassische Bild der Schizophrenie” (100).

11 The reader of Robert Walser stumbles often across frequent references to women‟s feet, stockings, or shoes. This is the case both in his stories, as well as in his private letters: “Ich hätte Ihnen am Abend gerne die lieben Stiefel ausgezogen, als wir nach Hause kamen, aber Sie mußten bald fort” he writes to Freide Mermet in 1914. In another letter we read, “Tragen auch Sie, liebe Frau Mermet, jetzt ordentlich warme Strümpfe an Ihren lieben, zarten Füßen?” (Briefe 77, 107). 30

Greven also suggests that there are serious problems with the hospitalization and diagnosis in 1929, which he argues were both superficial and shameful (100).

Unfortunately, he does not elaborate on what he means by this, nor on what, specifically, he finds inadequate. Walser was not mad in the same way that Adolf Wölfi12 was mad, he concludes, but rather would be described as a borderline case. As was the case in

Kudszus‟ article, there is, regrettably, no expansion on this statement, nor is there a definition of, nor diagnostic criteria given for “ein[en] sogenannte[n] Borderline-Case, ein[en] Grenzfall (102).” Greven‟s conclusion echoes that of Kudzus, when he argues that Walser‟s language suggests too much control and artistry to be considered fully schizophrenic (103).

The course of debate over Walser‟s schizophrenia has vacillated over the years with the rise and fall of psychoanalytic and anti-psychiatric theories and ideals. Its zenith was in the 1970s, when both models were at their most influential (Horst 431). At the

2001 meeting of the Robert-Walser-Gesellschaft in Herisau, the authors Sibylle

Lewitscharoff and Urs Widmer, psychiatrists Luc Ciompi and Christian Müller, and scholar Bernhard Echte, spoke on Walser‟s supposed schizophrenia. The authors and the psychiatrists were in agreement on the accuracy of the diagnosis. “Walser war wahnsinnig, und man musste ihm helfen,” seemed to be the consensus (Fagetti). In his

12 Adolf Wölfli was a schizophrenic patient at the Waldau Mental Asylum, the same institute to which Walser would also be committed in 1929. A prolific painter, Wölfli‟s works came to be among the most important and exemplary early works associated with the so called art brut appellation. Art brut, or outsider art as it referred to in Roger Cardinal‟s influential work of the same title, attempts to bridge the gap between madness and modernism. The life‟s work of the French artist Jean Dubufffet, the objective of art brut is to establish „mad‟ art as a sub-genre of modernism, and in so doing help liberate these allegedly insane artists from the belittling label of „mentally ill.‟ 31 address, however, Echte argued the opposite, suggesting that Walser occupied a space between „healthy‟ and „ill.‟ “Die Dichotomie gesund-krank tut so, als ob es ein Drittes nicht gebe” (4). With a very unflattering description of Lisa Walser, to whose defense

Lewitscharoff later came (Fagetti), Echte suggested that Lisa expected Walser to have psychological problems, and when the Häberlin sisters complained that he was hearing voices, she did not hesitate to have him hospitalized (14). Echte also points out numerous discrepancies and questionable conclusions in the doctors‟ accounts, and harshly criticizes the field of psychiatry for its unwillingness to consider each patient‟s personality, and thereby tailor their diagnostic measures to the individual (15-20). His view of Walser during these years is that of a victim of a system that came too quickly to a convoluted diagnosis of schizophrenia, and then repeatedly failed to give the case honest reconsideration.

The most recent scholarly opinion on Walser‟s diagnosis can be found in the

January 2011 publication of Nervenarzt, a journal presenting current research in the fields of neurology, psychiatry, and neuropathology. In their article addressing Walser‟s psychic state, Partl et al., psychiatrists from the Klink und Poliklink für Psychiatrie,

Psychsomatik und Psychotherapie der Universität Würzburg, reevaluate Walser‟s condition through a discussion of the original files from Waldau and Herisau, as well as through a reading of select pieces, primarily those from the Bern years. Their discussion of the doctors‟ reports on Walser contradicts many of the claims made by Echte in 2001, particularly those addressing the duration of the symptoms for which he had been hospitalized. Whereas Echte claims that Walser‟s hallucinations receded into the background after his first month of hospitalization, and thereby dismisses them as 32 relevant diagnostic criteria (18), Partl et al. note repeated entries in which Walser is described as being plagued and persecuted by voices. A doctor‟s note from 1939 reads:

“Sie verlangen in einem Moment das Ungeheuerlichste, was ein Mensch nicht leisten könne. Es hagelt und wimmelt von Bemerkungen, und sie wollen nicht, daß er lustig sei”

(qtd. in Pratl 73). Echte had claimed in 2001 that it was not clear in such reports, whether or not Walser was simply citing the original reason for which he had been institutionalized in 1929 (18).

Paralleling their interpretation of the clinical notes are selections made from

Walser‟s texts, which are meant to support a diagnosis of schizophrenia. Here, Pratl et al. often detract from their overall argument, for they, in most cases, fail to account for

Walser as an artist, and evaluate the majority of his texts as if they were journal entries rather than works of literature. To this extent, the famous encounter between the narrator and the giant Tomzak in Walser‟s story “Spaziergang” is not read as a metaphoric encounter with an alter-ego or doppelganger, as is often the case in other scholarly approaches, but rather as early evidence of a visual hallucination (71). Likewise, Jakob‟s fear upon arriving at the Institut Benjamenta, when he first encounters Krause, whom he describes as an overly deferential ape, is described as a “Personen- und

Situationsverkennung” leading to “Todesangst” (69). Only once, buried deep within the final pages, do the article‟s authors concede that the source for some manifestations may be artistic, rather than pathological in nature. “Natürlich muss es im Einzelfall offen bleiben, ob die monströsen Satzkonstruktionen, die stereotypen Wendungen und

Wortschöpfungen künstlerisch noch intendiert waren oder bereits aus der Erkrankung entsprangen” (77). 33

Following the ICD-10 diagnostic guidelines13, Pratl et al. conclude that there is insufficient evidence to determine with certainty whether Walser suffered from schizophrenia (78). However, following the criteria suggested by the German psychiatrist

Karl Leonhard, whose theories form the framework of their analysis, Pratl et al. argue that Walser unquestionably suffered (“zweifellos litt”) from combined sluggish- manneristic catatonia (“kombinierte, sprachträge-manierierte Katatonie”) (77, 75). While their analysis of the clinical reports is thorough and very informative, and while their expertise as psychiatrists lends their conclusion a degree of credibility not enjoyed by many of the previously mentioned analyses undertaken by Germanists, Pratl et al. open themselves to criticism with unconvincing, and regrettably circumscribed readings of

Walser‟s texts that fail to consider metaphoric and artistic meanings.

The contemporary image of Robert Walser outside of the academy also seems inseparable from the time he spent in Waldau and Herisau. The cover of Susan

Bernofsky‟s 1990 translated collection Masquerade and Other Stories (see fig. 1) is the Medewerker, done by Waldau‟s other famous „madman‟ - Adolf Wölfli; thereby linking the fates, biographies, and psyches of the two men into one image.

Ten years later, Gad Hollander published his book of meditations on madness, entitled

Walserian Waltzes. In it, a man named Robert Walser muses maddeningly over questions of his identity. “So while he was pleased to be himself, to be Robert Walser, the Swiss writer, he was also disturbed by it – just as the Swiss writer Robert Walser would have been both pleased and disturbed (he thought) to be not only himself but another Robert

13 The ICD-10 is the acronym for the International Classification of Diseases (10th Revision), as defined by the World Health Organization. 34

Fig 1. Masquerade and Other Stories by Robert Walser.

Trans. by Susan Bernofsky (1990)

Cover art: Medewerker by Adolf Wölfli

35

Walser who happened to be a Swiss writer” (10). The final lines of Hollander‟s book show this Robert Walser, lying dying in the snow – mirroring the photograph of the actual Robert Walser, who died of a heart attack on Christmas Day, while out walking in the snow.

In Enrique Vila-Matas‟ 2005 novel Doctor Pasavento, the protagonist, a renowned Spanish author, seeks to retreat from his success in the literary world. Desiring to disappear, he adopts the role a psychiatrist named Doctor Pasavento and travels throughout Europe on a journey that is, in many ways, a journey to find Robert Walser.

Citing often from Jakob von Gunten, he visits Naples, Paris, , and St. Gallen, before his final visit to the sanatorium in Herisau, where Walser spent his final years (Ferguson).

Walser‟s time in the sanatorium is also present in Galchen‟s 2010 article in

Harper‟s Magazine, which is both a review and promotion of Bernofsky‟s translation

Robert Walser: Microscripts. Preceding her discussion of these unique literary artifacts is an outline of Walser‟s personality, and his twenty-seven years in Waldau and Herisau.

Stable employment of a kind eventually came to Walser, in the role of

Crazy Person. . . . In 1929, Walser was diagnosed with schizophrenia and

entered the Waldau sanatorium in Bern, Switzerland. Four years later, his

family had him transferred to another sanatorium, closer to their home of

Herisau, and he lived out his last twenty-three years there, cared for by the

state. It was from that final and steady non-employment that Walser

claimed finally to abandon the avocation game altogether, with a line now

remarkably famous considering that it comes from the least famous

canonical writer: “I‟m not here to write. I‟m here to be mad.” (74-75) 36

Galchen‟s last line hits on the extraordinary quality of the Walser-image that I have attempted to frame in the preceding pages. Robert Walser is known as much for his

„madness‟ as for his writing itself.

I can add one final piece of anecdotal evidence. In a conversation with a friend, a well read historian in Berlin, I mentioned Walser‟s name. “War er nicht dieser verrückte

Schweizer, der in dieser winzigen, unleserlichen Schrift dichtete?” “Ja,” I answered,

“Hast du schon mal etwas von ihm gelesen?” He had not. Walser‟s biography precedes his art, his „madness‟ all too often overshadows his genius.14 Galchen is aware of this pattern, yet she seems unable or unwilling to stray from it, as her introduction to Walser‟s microscripts is couched in the context of his hospitalization. One wonders whether the life-size reproductions of the original microscripts that accompany her article, could be viewed by readers unfamiliar with Robert Walser, and there are so many of them, as anything but products of a schizophrenic mind.

Walser‟s institutionalization has influenced scholars and has inspired artists over the past fifty years. It has also been a valuable marketing tool for the promotion of his writings, appearing on book jackets and in exhibitions like that in 2006 in Berlin. His years in Waldau and Herisau have been established as the tragic end to a romantic life, and this image has helped keep Walser in the public eye, perhaps as much as his writing itself. However, the question as to whether Walser was or was not schizophrenic still remains open, and will undoubtedly continue to be laboriously debated by the next

14 In her introduction to The Robber, Susan Bernofsky cautions her readers of exactly this hurdle when approaching Walser. “Nothing in the novel would force the reader ignorant of Walser‟s biography to conclude that its author was mentally unsound. Madness is the subject of the The Robber, not its form” (x). 37 generation of scholars.

This work hopes to contribute to the discussion of Walser‟s alleged schizophrenia.

Contrary to many of the preceding scholarly works that have addressed this issue, the theoretical framework for this study will come not from psychoanalysis or anti- psychiatry, but from clinically based theories of schizophrenic cognition from American and German psychiatry. The goal, however, will not be to determine whether or not

Walser genuinely suffered from schizophrenia. Such a diagnosis, fifty years beyond the author‟s death, and dealing almost exclusively with his literary production, would be presumptuous and inappropriate. Rather, through careful and patient analysis, I hope to show that at the root of Walser‟s aesthetic productive process is a perception of the external world that closely parallels that of the schizophrenic.

This relationship has its origins in an acute observation of empirical reality that deconstructs truths and meaning, transforms the topographies of language and space, and creates distanced, clichéd, and two-dimensional images, whereby an emphasis on the singularity of each observed object dissolves the context of the whole. A close analysis of

Walser‟s texts from all periods will illustrate the degree to which his language, the stasis of the worlds he created, and his anti-teleological narratives are founded in this process of observation, which itself is reminiscent of the Wahnwahrnehmung or

Wahrnehmungsstarre observed in schizophrenics. The study will also show that, although

Walser‟s language and static landscapes appear at first hollowed out and emptied of meaning, they represent for him an ineffable significance, and a conspicuous silence in which he hopes to find the expression of a nameless truth.

Identifying this process founded upon observation will reveal the degree to which 38

Walser‟s stylistics and recurring themes mirror the symptoms of schizophrenia observed in clinical psychiatry. However, as will become evident, this will prove insufficient in either confirming or denying the 1929 diagnosis. For Walser, this observational process remains an aesthetic tool, albeit it a dangerous one, by which he seeks to gain access to a purity in the world, to a reinen Sein. This too, however, will be shown to be schizoid-like, and in the coming pages, discourse on aesthetic processes and manifestations of schizophrenia will be woven together to create a tapestry that I hope will both add clarity to Walser‟s texts, while at the same time emphasize the opacity of schizophrenic aspects in his writing. My hope too, is that this will shed light onto why we, as readers, continue to return to the issue „madness‟ when confronted with Walser‟s texts, and why many see in him the mad poet par excellence of his generation, and the literary heir to Hölderlin.

39

1. A UBIQUITOUS STARE

“Höchstaufmerksam und liebvoll muß der, der spaziert, jedes kleinste lebendige Ding . . . studieren und betrachten.” – Robert Walser

In February of 1905, Robert Walser resigned from his position at the Züricher

Kantonalbank and left Switzerland for Berlin. He had traveled twice before to the city, once in 1897 and again in 1902; both journeys were in the hope of establishing himself as an author and both resulted in a frustrated return to Switzerland after less than a month

(Mächler 268-69). Walser hoped that Berlin would be the city that would mould him into a success, as it had his older brother Karl, who was already living there as a painter and who had garnered a certain amount of success in artistic circles (Mächler 80). Ich bilde mir ein, daß Berlin die Stadt sei, die mich entweder stürzen und

verderben oder wachsen und gedeihen sehen soll. Eine Stadt, wo der

rauhe, böse Lebenskampf regiert, habe ich nötig. . . . In Berlin werde ich

in kürzerer oder längerer Zeit zu meinem wahrhaftigen Vergnügen

erfahren, was die Welt von mir will und was meinerseits ich selber von ihr

zu wollen habe. (SW 6: 49)

Berlin was the metropolis that Switzerland lacked. It was the capital of the German speaking world and a center of artistic creativity. For the 27 year old Robert, it 40 represented all that there was to conquer and all that he could become. His third visit to

Berlin, in 1905, would not be as short lived as the previous two, but last until the spring of 1913.

Walser‟s eight years in Berlin were characterized by productivity and nominal success. All three of the novels that were published during his lifetime were written between the years 1906 and 1908. Three additional novels, which the author eventually destroyed, and remain lost to this day, were also written during the Berlin years. The three published novels, Geschwister Tanner, Der Gehülfe, and Jakob von Gunten, the first two of which having been written in two frenzied six-week spans, were published by

Brunno Cassirer (Mächler 87-102). The most successful among these, and likewise the most realistic and traditional, was Der Gehülfe, which reached a second and third printing

(Mächler 101). Not only did Walser experience moderate success on the market, but he also caught the attention of his contemporaries. , in particular, became a strong advocate of him, writing, “Dieser Mann wird sein ganzes Leben lang so weiter reden und er wird immer schöner und schöner und immer bedeutender reden, seine

Bücher werden ein eigentümlicher und wundervoller Spiegel des Lebens werden . . .”

(qtd. in Mächler 103). In fact, after his return to Switzerland in 1913, Walser would never again in his lifetime enjoy the level of recognition he had achieved in Berlin.

Despite the success of these years, Walser never earned enough money from his novels to support himself, even with his notoriously frugal lifestyle. Partially in response to economic pressures, he quite literally took to the streets (Mächler 104). The medium that he turned to for both artistic expression and for his daily bread, became the

41 feuilletons of the city‟s numerous newspapers.15 Included in his fora, among others, were the Berlin periodicals Die Schaubühne, Die Neue Rundschau, and Die Zukunft, as well as

Simplicissiumus in , and Die Rheinlande in Düsseldorf.16 Many of these feuilleton texts are descriptions of the streets of the metropolis; a teeming spectacle of energy and rippling motion. “Hier ist die Quelle, der Bach, der Fluß, der Strom und das Meer der

Bewegungen” (SW 3: 76). Adopting the position of the flâneur, Walser strolled the streets of Berlin, finding inspiration and aesthetic meaning in the sights and sounds that confronted him.

The flâneur-texts

In the piece “Berlin und der Künstler,” the narrator remarks, “Ein Künstler ist hier gezwungen aufzuhorchen. Anderswo darf er, die Ohren verstopft, in die Ignoranz versinken. Hier darf er das nicht” (SW 15: 49-50). The alert and attentive awareness that the city forces upon the artist manifests itself in many ways in Walser‟s flâneur-texts.

Here, it is the act of listening that is awakened in the flâneur. In other texts, the act of seeing is stimulated by the energy of the streets, and by the, “angenehm-unangenehmen

15 As Fritzsche notes, the 93 papers that were published each week gave Berlin the greatest newspaper density of any European city in the early twentieth century (16-17). Playwright Hans Brennert wrote, “Every hour in Berlin flings millions of newspaper pages onto streets, into houses, into offices, banking suites, factories, taverns, and theaters” (qtd. in Fritzsche 16). 16 Walser‟s turn to the feuilleton was also the deliberate choice of a medium in which he felt most comfortable working. “Ich war damals darauf versessen, Romane zu schreiben. Aber ich sah ein, daß ich mich auf eine Form kapriziert hatte, die für mein Talent zu weitläufig war. So zog ich mich in das Schneckenhaus der Kurzgeschichte und des Feuilletons zurück. – Übrigens: der Autor hat allein souverän zu entscheiden, auf welche Literaturgattung er sich begeben soll” (Seelig 75-76). 42

Überfall aufs Behagen,” that it produces (SW 15: 50). The flâneur places himself in the middle of this whirlpool of activity. He is able, “to be away from home and yet to feel at home anywhere, to be at the very centre of the world, and yet to be unseen by the world”

(Baudelaire 399-400). This positioning within the street, at once present and absent, grants the flâneur a privileged perspective from which to observe the city around him.

Although washed over by the river of motion that is the street, the flâneur‟s resistance from participating in this same motion ensures the distance necessitated by observation and reflection. As Walser writes in “Der Schriftsteller (I):”

. . . so dürfte es vielleicht des öftern der Kunst und dem aufopfernden

Bemühen eines Schrifstellers vorbehalten bleiben, dem achtlos und

gedankenlos dahinflutenden Strom des Lebens Schönheitswerte, die eben

am Ertrinken und Untergehen sind, mit Gefahr seiner Gesundheit zu

entreißen . . . . (SW 3: 131)

The flâneur observes the fleeting moment, finding meaning in the faces and images that he sees, and significance in the banality of everyday life (Tester 6-7). Observation becomes, in fact, the raison d‟ être of the flâneur (Shields 65). For Walser‟s flâneur as well, the objective is always one of observation and reflection, grasping the ephemeral moments that go unnoticed by others, and delivering their aesthetic value from the current of the street. Exemplary of this process of observation is the text, “Guten Tag,

Riesin!,” published in Die Neue Rundschau in 1907.

“Guten Tag, Riesin!” is the literary materialization of the flâneur‟s stroll. In this second-person narrative, a du-figure steps into the early morning streets of Berlin, as it too, like a waking giant, is just stretching its legs out of bed. There is an immediate 43 recognition of the motion of the city. “Man läuft, reibt sich die Hände und sieht, wie zu den Toren und Türen der Häuser Menschen heraustreten, als speie ein ungeduldiges

Ungeheur seinen warmen, flammenden Speichel aus. . . . Beine laufen hinter und vor dir, und du selber beinelst auch” (SW 3: 63). This motion is manifested not only in the dervish of people, carriages, trolleys and trains that compose the city, but also in the structure of the text itself. “Guten Tag, Riesin!,” like so many of Walser‟s flâneur-texts, is a series of images and reflections, born into a tempo that pushes them to the point at which they risk stumbling over one another and capsizing the story as a whole.

The narrator tells of travelers on their way to and Paris, night owls slinking out of dark pubs and into the morning‟s blinding light, ragged shoes and fur coats, palaces and statues, coaches, canals, and a constable‟s hat. As Köhn notes, the narrator steps into the street as if it were a stage, on which each object gives its fleeting performance (137). Just as the narrator seems to be loosing control of this whirlwind of images, when he has been sent spinning into fantasies of African explorers, lion tamers, and emperors, the text comes to an abrupt end. “ – lustig, lustig, weiter, he da, was?

Sollte das? Ja, da ist dir dein Kollege Kitsch begegnet, und da seid ihr zusammen nach

Hause gegangen und habt Schokolade getrunken” (SW 3: 67).

Perhaps even more characteristic of this text than its rapid tempo, is the overabundance of terminology referring to the act of seeing and observing. A brief survey reveals words such as “sehen,” “ansehen,” “zusehen,” “hinaufsehen,” “Augen,”

“flüchtiges Augenmerk,” “Menschenaugen,” “Mädchen und Männeraugen,” “das blauäugige Wunder,” “Blicke,” “flüchtige Blicke,” “Extrablick,” “blicken,”

“nachschauen,” and “betrachten.” The act of observation, and the reflection thereupon, 44 permeates every aspect of this piece. One needs only read the first sentence to realize its centrality. “Es ist einem, als schüttle da eine Riesin ihre Locken und strecke ein Bein zum

Bett heraus, wenn man am frühen Morgen . . . von irgendeiner Pflicht angetrieben, in die

Weltstadt hineingeht” (SW 3: 63). The image of the early morning street is the catalyst for reflection, and the city becomes transformed through the viewer‟s fantasy.

Just as the du-figure steps into the street with the objective of observation, so too does he become “ein flüchtiges Augenmerk” for others (SW 3: 65). Observation is the unifying occupation of the street. The du-figure gazes and is gazed upon, he sees, “mit denselben Blicken, wie alle blicken” (SW 3: 64). So too are others both observers and the observed. Even the morning sky, “das blauäugige Wunder,” with its thousands of shimmering fibers, gazes upon the streets below (SW 3: 65). The looks, stares, and glances, intersecting and colliding with one another within the street, create the complex layering of observation that helps define the text. Another layer is added when the voice of the narrator is recalled. “Augen begegnen dir, wenn du dahergehst …,” these eyes are not only those of the people in the street, “Mädchen und Männeraugen,” but also those of the narrator, the cardinal observer, ever watching as the du-figure strolls through the streets. Yet another is added, if the reader recognizes his or her own function as observers of the text. “Guten Tag, Riesin!” is an exercise in the processes of observation.

What is the goal of such observation? As noted above, the flâneur seeks to find meaning in the banality of life (Tester 6-7). In “Guten Tag, Riesin!,” the narrator too concedes a hidden secret behind everything, “irgendein verschlafenes Geheimnis” (SW 3:

45

64).17 By observing and naming objects that risk disappearing into life‟s strong current, the narrator hopes to lay bare their slumbering essence. This seems a Sisyphean task, however, as the tempo of the city quickly carries each object away with it. “Immer ist etwas und jedesmal ist das Etwas, wenn man es näher betrachten will, verschwunden”

(SW 3: 66). In response, the flâneur engages a fleeting gaze for everything. “Das ist das

Wunder der Stadt . . . daß das Betrachten ein flüchtiges, das Urteil ein schnelles und das

Vergessen ein selbstverständliches ist” (SW 3: 65). It would be remiss of the reader, however, to assume that the flâneur‟s objective has been reached, and that by judging and subsequently forgetting an object, he has revealed its hidden secret. Quite the contrary.

This progression of locating, naming, and forgetting objects is the process by which the narrator hopes to uncover the concealed meaning, not its completion. This discussion will be taken up again in Chapter 4. At this point, however, it will be instructive to turn to another characteristic of “Guten Tag, Riesin!,” namely its lack of spatial definition.

This text was introduced as a flânerie through the streets of Berlin. Admittedly, this was misleading. Die Neue Rundschau, the newspaper that published the story, had been printed in Berlin since 1890 (Pfohlmann). It is also known that at the time of publication, May 1907, Walser had been living and writing in Berlin for over two years.

However, it is not possible for the reader to know with certainty that the du-figure is

17 For , the flâneur‟s very existence was one of detective work, writing, “In der Figur des Flaneurs hat die des Detektivs sich präformiert” (554). Although the image of the flâneur emerges prior to the popular detective novels, both literary genres share common roots in the mysteries of the modern metropolis (Shields 63). In this way, Walser‟s flâneur is keeping with a well established tradition. As will be seen, however, the truth-seeking gaze in Walser‟s literature is not only that of the detective-flâneur, but holds a fundamental position in the production of the author‟s entire corpus. 46 strolling through the streets of Germany‟s capital, as there is no explicit mention of

erlin. The city is simply named, “eine Riesin” or “eine Weltstadt.” Likewise, there is no mention of landmarks or street names that could help to identify the city as Berlin.

Rather, Walser relies on generalities. Thus, the narrator speaks of “die Straße,” “ein

Palais,” or “der Park.” The reader may assume that the park is der Tiergarten, and the street, Friedrichsstraße, or perhaps der Kurfürstendamm, all of them favorite topics of the flâneur authors in Berlin. This must remain an assumption, however, as the narrator refuses to speak in specifics.

These superficial landmarks help produce a void in the text, specifically, the absence of spatial relationships. The narrator gives the reader no indication as to which direction the du-figure is walking, indicating only that he continues on, “weiter, weiter.”

Orientation within the city is made unfeasible by the generalities in which the narrator speaks. Despite a ubiquitous and penetrating gaze, from which no object seems able to escape, a peculiar lacuna lies just below the narrative‟s surface, a non dit that creates hollowness behind the detail. The lack of street names and landmarks forms a blank canvas for the narrator, and quotidian terminology, like the words “die Straße” and “der

Park,” helps create an intangible space within a city, that in its description, lacks definition.

Similarly, there is no indication as to the spatial relationship between the objects of observation. The reader is left wondering whether the down-and-outs, with their torn shoes and tattered clothing, are standing next to the street sweeper in his fur-coat and top- hat. Or are they on another street altogether? What of the policeman? Can he see the

47 drunkard stumbling out of the bar? The text leaves these questions unanswered, as the images exist for the narrator, and for the reader, on a single plane. The objects‟ position within the city, and the spatial relationships that exist between them in reality, are negated by the narrator‟s unique mode of observation. They exist, simultaneously, within the two-dimensional space of the page, leaving the reader unsure as to when and where they were observed.

Through this form of observation, the narrator creates for himself a space that is unencumbered by the rules of physical reality, and thus the du-figure seems magically to be transported into a park. “Droschken mit Amerikakoffern obenauf poltern und radebrechen vorbei, du gehst jetzt im Park . . .” (SW 3: 66). While at one moment amidst the chaos of the street, the next moment finds the du-figure in a park. He is “im” park, a dative case construction that leaps over the moment that he entered the park.18 There is no movement from point A to point B. Rather, the two-dimensional space created in the text, the flattening of physical relationships, allows for immediate transition from street to

18 By skimming across the surface of the city images, avoiding the limiting contextualization of geography and geometry, Walser‟s flâneur creates a cityscape not dissimilar to Guy Debord‟s asyndetic map The Naked City, which presents Paris as “unities of atmosphere” with no logical relationship to one another (McDonough 246). Users of Debord‟s map may follow their own path through the 19 Parisian sectors, unencumbered by physical realities and guided only by experienced emotional contexts. As Debord writes, users can experience, “the sudden change of ambience in a street within the space of a few meters; the evident division of a city into zones of distinct psychic atmospheres; the path of least resistance that is automatically followed in aimless strolls and which has no relation to the physical contour of the terrain” (Debord, “Introduction” 10). These maps, “express not subordination to randomness but total insubordination to habitual influences” (Debord, “Introduction” 11). However, one must not draw too close of a connection between Walser‟s flanerie and Debord‟s dérive or theory of psychogeography, for while the latter would become important tools for the Situationists in their revolutionary and Neo-Marxist agendas, Walser is not motivated by political or social ideals. 48 park . . . there is no in-between. The superficiality of description and resulting negation of spatial relationships can also be seen in another flâneur-text from this time period, “Der

Park.”

“Der Park,” published in October of 1907, likewise in Die Neue Rundschau, is the telling of a walk through a park. In it, the reader follows a first-person narrator, who describes various scenes in the park as they seem to rise up before him - among others a girl with a parasol, a bridge spanning still waters, an old woman dressed in black, and a statue surrounded by flowers. What is interesting about these images is the very visual quality of their descriptions. Consider the following, “. . . ein Mädchen sitzt allein auf einer Bank, sticht mit dem Sonnenschirm in den Boden, hält den hübschen Kopf gesenkt und ist in Gedanken versunken;” or the description of the old woman: “Eine alte Dame kommt auf mich zu, das feine blasse Gesicht von Schwarz umrahmt, diese alten, klugen

Augen. Offen gestanden, ich finde es prachtvoll, wenn eine vereinzelte alte Dame durch eine grüne Alle geht” (SW 2: 38, 40). The images become frozen in the narrator‟s description, and stand out from the world around them. Although the old woman is approaching the narrator, her solitary form, sage eyes, and pale face, accented by her black scarf, stand out against the deep-green foliage behind her. She appears separated from the park, her image pasted upon a green background. In a similar fashion, the girl with the parasol seems to exist within a frame, somehow isolated from her surroundings.

Readers may wonder at her posture and the angle of her parasol, as it pokes at the ground.

“Haven‟t I seen her hanging on the wall of the Musée d‟Orsay, French , perhaps Renoir?”

49

Indeed, the descriptions in the park have the qualities of .19 They are highly visual and static images, whose existence is often confined by a frame. Kutsch, the author, is seen standing underneath an oak; a small castle rises up between the trees; a woman in a blue dress sits, surrounded by leaves; another young woman walks between two men, one of whom has thrown his arm around her; the old woman‟s face is framed in black; and the small statue stands among the flowers, in the middle of a circular enclosure. These are descriptions of artifacts, objects existing for themselves, within the limits of their frames. They are paintings hanging on a wall, and the park is their museum. “Ein Brücke!” the narrator exclaims, “Wie das Wasser unter der Sonne glitzert und schimmert, so zauberhaft. Aber es fährt hier niemand im Kahn, das gibt dem See etwas Verschlafenes, es ist, als ob er nur gemalt daläge”(SW 2: 39). The sleepy lake lies like a water color in front of the viewer‟s eye.

As in “Guten Tag, Riesin!,” the singularity of each image prevents the development of spatial relationships within the text. The only unifying factor is their shared objectification in the narrator‟s gaze. Spatially, however, there exists between them no concept of “next to,” “in front of,” or “behind.” One is not told how the narrator walks from one object to the next. Rather, their appearance is sudden and unprompted.

“Eine Brücke!,” „Ein Bekannter steht plözlich vor mir,” “Ein kleines, entzückend

19 The connection between painting and prose was strong for Walser, who often referred to his own process as if he were painting with words. “Laß mich ein wenig Atem holen und im Schildern, Malen und Schreiben eine kleine Erholungspause machen” (SW 7: 34). Additionally, he wrote numerous pieces explicitly addressing painting and painters, among others “Der Maler,” “Leben eines Malers,” “Zu der Arlesierin von Van Gogh,” “Das Van-Gogh-Bild,” “Cézannegedanken,” and stories that reference Hodler, Beardsley, Breughel, Titian, Renoir, and numerous others (Evans, “Writing Painting” 25). For further reading, see Evans, Harmann, and others in Robert Walser and the Visual Arts. 50 schlankgebautes Schloß ragt vor mir zwischen Bäumen in die weißlich-blaue Luft” (SW:

2, 39). The transition between the objects is lost. Only the girl with the book is able to move laterally through this space, as she reappears at the end of the story, walking around the statue, head buried in her text, quietly reciting French lessons to herself.

The undefined space that houses these artificial images is, itself, artificial. “Der

Park,” a generalization, a cliché, could be any park in any city. From the narrator‟s observations, there is no clue as to whether this park is der Tiergarten, or whether it is even in Berlin at all. The detailed descriptions of the statue and the castle, which would have served to locate the park, are missing from the text all together. “Der Park” is free from preexisting definitions; it is the indistinct context in which the narrator hangs his paintings. “Wachehabende Soldaten sitzen auf einer Bank neben dem Portal, ich trete ein

. . .” (SW 2: 38). Moving into and then within this space, the narrator is able to view and reflect on each image in its existence sui generis.

The function of observation in both this text and in “Guten Tag, Riesin!” is one of primary importance. Through the narrator‟s eye and his observational stance, the city‟s topography is transformed. Spatial associations between objects dissolve, even while they contemporaneously inhabit the shared space of the street or the park. Like paintings in a museum they simply exist, unaware of the world around them. The centrality of observation is observed in other themes as well. To further the discussion, the flâneur will be left to his city, and attention will be directed towards what might be called

Walser‟s spazier-texts.

51

The spazier-texts

Walser returned to Switzerland in March of 1913 (Mächler 113). After eight years of struggling for recognition in Berlin, he was headed home. “Ich lebte dort mehrere Jahre, schlug mich so gut durch, wie ich irgend konnte. . . . Bald würde ich wieder die Eltern- und Geschwistersprache reden hören und den lieben Vaterlandsboden wieder betreten”

(SW 16: 301, 305). Such are the opening and closing sentences to the text “Heimkehr im

Schnee,” in which Walser depicts his departure from Berlin. As a flâneur, he had strolled through the streets of Germany‟s metropolis. His obsession with walking would not wane after his return to Switzerland, but his subject material would change. His texts would no longer focus on the percolating energy of the streets of Berlin, but rather on what could be found in the provincial cities of Switzerland. The streets of Biel, and the surrounding countryside, with its lakes and hills, provided the backdrop for Walser‟s works. These are the texts that are referred to as Walser‟s spazier-texts.

The act of walking had always been primary to Walser‟s oeuvre. His first novel,

Geschwister Tanner, is centered around the journeyman Simon Tanner, and is filled with walks through Swiss landscapes and cities. Walser himself was an avid walker, and his appropriation of these walks into his art was, in many ways, a natural development.20 A brief glance into the index of Walser‟s complete works reveals a striking amount of titles

20 On November 8, 1920, Walser was invited to a reading of his works in Zürich. He walked the 115 km between Biel and Zürich and sat anonymously in the first row, as Hans Trog, a literary critic from the “Neuen Zürcher Zeitung,” read in his stead (Mächler 140). Walser took long walks alone through the Swiss countryside for the duration of his life, and it was on one of these walks in 1956 when he died of a heart attack. 52 that deal with the act of walking. Pieces like “Abendspaziergang,” “Der Spaziergang,”

“Der Wanderer,” “Fußwanderung,” “Nächtliche Wanderung” and “Wanderschaft” are only a sampling of the works whose titles explicitely evoke the act of walking. These pieces are accompanied by countless others whose titles are less revealing, but whose content is nothing but the retelling of a saunter, a stroll, or a hike through the countryside.

The import that walking, or Spazieren, has for Walser is summarized in the text, “Der

Spaziergang.”

“Spazieren,” gab ich zur Antwort, “muß ich unbedingt, damit ich mich

belebe und die Verbindung mit der Welt aufrechterhalte, ohne deren

Empfinden ich weder einen halben Buchstaben mehr schreiben, noch ein

Gedicht in Vers oder Prosa hervorbringen könnte. . . . Ohne Spazieren

würde ich weder Studien noch Beobachtungen sammeln können. . . . Ein

Spaziergang fördert mich beruflich . . . indem er mir zahlreiche mehr oder

minder bedeutende Gegeständlichkeiten darbietet, die ich später zu Hause

eifrig bearbeiten kann.” (SW 7: 125)

A full examination of the import of walking in Walser‟s works would be lengthy, and would far exceed the limits of this study. Therefore, the focus of the discussion will be on the connection between Spazieren and observation, for the two are very closely related.

As the narrator says above, his walks allow for him to study and observe the myriad of objects that he encounters. Observation is crucial in upholding his connection to the world, as well as being a central feature in his artistic production. It allows him to bring the outside world home, to reflect and refine in solitude.

53

“Der Spaziergang” may be, with the exclusion of the novel Jakob von Gunten,

Walser‟s most well known and, for many, the most beautiful of Walser‟s works (Greven,

“Nachwort” SW 7: 214). It may also be his most exemplary of works, not only because of the dominant theme of the walk, but also because “Der Spaziergang” incorporates many of the styles and motifs so characteristic of Walser‟s corpus. In this story, the narrator is at times cheeky and ironic, while at others outright sarcastic. There are moments characterized by a controlled and mimetic description of the external world, and others in which the narrator is carried off into chaotic and romantic apparitions. The reader encounters scenes that draw a chuckle, and others that produce a burst of laughter. One also reads passages of mounting tension and terror in the narrator‟s voice. This relatively short text, although at 70 pages it is admittedly one of Walser‟s longer pieces, runs the gamut of what will be found in the rest of the author‟s oeuvre. For this reason, it will serve well to help introduce and expand the discussion of observation at hand.

The story opens with a narrator, who in a moment of wanderlust, bounds out of his claustrophobic study, down the stairs and into the street. “Im Treppenhaus begegnete mir eine Frau, die wie eine Spanierin, Peruanerin oder Kreolin aussah und etwelche bleiche, welke Majestät zur Schau trug” (SW 7: 83). Before reaching the street, he is already occupied by the act of observation. The woman whom he studies, as he passes her in the stairwell, is exotic and undefined; perhaps not Spanish, but Peruvian - an exotic woman from South America, a continent far away, populated by both native and

European bloodlines. Upon further consideration, she is labeled with the even more unspecific term, Creole. Following the narrator‟s gaze, the reader sees as it deconstructs the woman‟s identity, finally settling on an ambiguous designation that gives no hint as to 54 her language, nationality, or race. Through the narrator‟s eye, the woman‟s image becomes vague and undefined.

Once upon the street, the narrator exclaims, “Die Morgenwelt, die sich vor mir ausbreitete, erschien mir so schön, als sehe ich sie zum erstenmal” (SW 7: 83). Here too, the text focuses on the process of seeing and observing. In this instance, the narrator‟s gaze is naïve, like that of a child. It is free of any established context, not burdened by previous experience and hence, the world that he views is one not defined by any predetermined meaning. Like the exotic woman, whose image becomes increasingly obtuse and obscure, so too does the city street become a decontextualized space in the eye of the observer.

The next page offers a passage that exemplifies the narrator‟s attentive gaze.

Mit freundlichem Gesicht fährt ein radfahrender, fahrradelnder

Stadtchemiker dicht am Spaziergänger vorüber, ebenso ein Stabs- oder

Regimenartzt. Nicht unaufgezeichnet darf bleiben ein bescheidener

Fußgänger, nämlich ein reich gewordener Althändler und

Lumpensammler. Zu beachten ist, wie Buben und Mädchen frei und

ungezügelt im Sonnenlicht umherjagen. (SW 7: 84-85)

The observer is aware of everything around him, as was the flâneur in “Guten Tag,

Riesin!” before him. “Höchstaufmerksam und liebvoll muß der, der spaziert, jedes kleinste lebendige Ding . . . studieren und betrachten (SW 7: 126). The purpose of the walk is to provide the opportunity for the acute study of objects within the world. Just as the images in “Der Park” seem to stand on their own, and stand out from their background through the narrator‟s unique gaze, so too do the objects in “Der 55

Spaziergang” become frozen and separated from their surroundings. It is informative to read further from the quote above:

Höchstaufmerksam und liebvoll muß der, der spaziert, jedes kleinste

lebendige Ding, sei es in Kind, ein Hund, eine Mücke, ein Schmetterling,

ein Spatz, ein Wurm, eine Blume, ein Mann, ein Haus, ein Baum, eine

Hecke, eine Schnecke, eine Maus, eine Wolke, ein Berg, ein Blatt oder

auch nur ein ärmliches, weggeworfenes Fetzchen Schreibpapier . . .

Die höchsten und niedrichsten, ernstesten wie lustigsten Dinge

sind ihm gleicherweise lieb und schön und wert. Keinerlei

empfindsamliche Eigenliebe darf er mit sich tragen, vielmehr muß er

seinen sorgsamen Blick uneigennützig, unegoistisch überallhin schweifen,

herumstreifen lassen, ganz nur im Anschauen und Merken aufzugehen

fähig sein . . . .” (SW 7: 126-27)

The narrator‟s eye sees each of these images in the street, and with his unegoistic gaze, grants each of them their own significance. All hierarchy is dissolved. The man and the child are no more important than the worm or the leaf. Likewise, the objects are not grouped by any discernable logic of categorization. Animals are listed next to plants, and the animate next to the inanimate. The narrator‟s gaze is, as he says, free to roam, unimpeded by any direction or volition. In this way, it remains as naïve as the moment in which he stepped into the street.

Two diametrically opposed functions of observation thus appear to exist. On the one hand, the narrator‟s gaze is overly attentive, noticing every detail of the street. On the other hand, at the story‟s outset, this same gaze produces progressively ambiguous 56 images of the exotic woman in the stairwell. This aspect of observation, paradoxically both exacting and fracturing, will be examined in later chapters. At the moment, however, the focus remains on Walser‟s spazier-texts, in order to further search out and engage those moments in which the act of observation becomes the focus of the text itself.

The piece “Spaziergang (I),” which in its scant three pages is of typical length for the majority of Walser‟s works, offers the reader another exercise in observation. The story is simple enough, as the narrator takes a stroll through the Swiss countryside. As in the earlier text “Der Park,” the reader encounters a series of static images that only stand in relation to one another because each of them has been arrested in the narrator‟s gaze.

The first captured image is characteristic of the rest:

. . . und als ich aus dem feuchten, dunkelgrünen Tannenwald herauskam,

sah ich am Rand des Waldes zwei Kinder, die Holz zusammengelesen

hatten, und die so helle Gesichter und Arme hatten. Die Wintersonne warf

einen milden, goldenen Wunderglanz über den Feldhügel, über grüne

Wiesen und dunkelbraunes Ackerland. Kahle, schwarze Bäume standen in

der Sonne. (SW 4: 132)

The children are standing still at the edge of the forest, no longer collecting wood, with faces highlighted in the sun. The entire landscape is bathed in the same soft winter light, accenting the black trees against the green and brown landscape behind them. As if lifted off of the page, this scene becomes the first station, or frozen moment, that the narrator reaches during his walk - a space within the text that allows for him to pause and observe.

There are a total of six such stations in this short piece, each of them conspicuous in their 57 stasis and individuality. In addition to the scene quoted above, there is a bridge, shining gold and silver in the sun; houses along the bank of a river, their windows glowing with candlelight; a mother and her child, with questioning eyes; and another house, with a woman and cat standing at the door.

Perhaps most indicative of this latent solitude is the fifth station reached by the narrator. “Dann ging ich neben einem Haus vorbei, das ganz allein auf freiem weiten

Felde stand, ein zierliches wunderseltsames altes liebes Gärtchen davor oder daneben.

Das Gärtchen umzäunt von einer wunderlichen, phantastischen Hecke. . . . Ich kam an einem anderen Haus vorüber . . . (SW 4: 132). Standing alone in the field, and framed by a garden and hedge, this idyllic house stands on its own within the text, and appears unaware of the world around it. As with the images in “Der Park,” it emerges as a painting, with only a cursory existence within the text. This existence is equally fleeting for the other images, and ends in the moment that the narrator continues his walk. The spell of these most curious and hypnotic illustrations is broken by the words, “Da sah ich, indem ich so ging,” “Schritt für Schritt, ging ich weiter,” or, “Da ging ich neben einem

Haus vorbei” (SW 4: 131-32). Like the “weiter, weiter” in “Guten Tag, Riesin!,” the narrator‟s gate spells the end of one image and the introduction of the next. Movement within the text is reserved for the narrator alone, as he makes his way from station to station, from painted image to painted image.

The work, “Ein Nachmittag” offers another moment of static scenery. “Oben auf der winterlichen Bergweide lag Schnee, der wunderbar glänzte . . . und unten in der Tiefe so abendsonnig-dunkel das weite, graugrüne Land, und in der Ferne das göttlich-schöne, kühne, zarte Hochgebirge” (SW 4: 89). This mountainside, as in the scenes discussed 58 above, has a pictorial quality. Here, Walser is a painter of landscapes. As Bleckman notes, painting and writing are art forms which are closely related in Walser‟s works (29).

For the painter, as is also the case for the author, the act of observation, study and analysis is central to the artistic process. In one of Walser‟s earliest works, one reads,

“Malen ist die kälteste Kunst, ist eine Kunst des Geistes, der Beobachtung, des

Nachdenkens, der höchst scharf zersetzten Gefühle” (SW 1: 74). Similarly, in the piece

“Brief eines Malers an einen Dichter,” he writes that capturing the “tausend merkwürdigen, vagen, hin und her verstreuten Schönheiten, die dem Auge vielfach nur fluchtartig begegnen,” can only be achieved through a very special gaze (SW 6: 15). This specific form of observation, which will be the focus of much of the discussion in the coming pages, has the unique characteristic that, despite being höchst aufmerksam, the images that it manages to capture are often highly superficial and clichéd.

All of the images in “Spaziergang (I)” have a stereotypical, almost trivial quality about them, like Alpine postcards. Likewise, the landscape description from “Ein

Nachmittag” is nothing if not a clichéd representation of a Swiss mountain scene. As

Gerard Krebs argues in his study of nature in Walser‟s works, the author‟s repetition of the same, or similar attributes in his depictions of nature makes these depictions, and, in fact, entire nature scenes, unspecific and in that way completely interchangeable (104-

05). In these spazier-texts, the Swiss countryside becomes frozen by the narrator‟s gaze, and its recreation within the text is superficial, adopting the qualities of a clichéd landscape painting. It becomes static, balanced and (perhaps), in a way, emptied of meaning.

59

Mise en abîme and synchronic perspectives

In the first portion of the chapter, the study focused on those moments in which the narrator‟s gaze captures single objects and images within the text. These moments are characterized by a distance between artist and object. Equally characteristic of Walser‟s style, however, is the dissolution of this distance, as the artist sinks into the scene in front of him. Scharnowski, in her analysis of the Berlin flâneur-texts, notes that the narrator‟s gaze fills and becomes part of the scenes that it captures, melting together with its surroundings (74). This narrative posture, at one moment distanced and analytical, at the other unabashedly subjective, lies at the heart of the narrator‟s gaze, which is one of observation and study, as well as the source for artistic expression.

The fusion of these seemingly diametrically opposed functions is exemplified in the short story “Lebendes Bild,” in which the reader traces the narrator‟s role from that of an unbiased recorder of images and facts, to one in which the distance has dissolved, exposing a narrator who is indistinguishable from his story. The piece opens with the line, “Ein Bühne!” (SW 1: 60). The narrator then describes the office in which numerous young clerks are busy working. The description, like many other scenes in Walser‟s stories, is characterized by extreme control and distance.

Ein kahles, peinlich sauberes Bureau. Pulte, Tische, Stühle, Sessel. Im

Hintergrund ein großes Fenster, durch welches ein Stück Landschaft mehr

hineinfällt, als hineinsieht. Rechts im hintergrund die Tür. Links und

rechts einfache Wände, an denen die Pulte stehen. Mehrere Commis sind

beschäftigt, wie man sich im wirklichen Leben beschäftigt sieht: Bücher

60

auf- und zuschlagen, Federn anprobieren, husten, zischeln, lächeln, leise

fluchen, in sich hinein wüten. (SW 1: 60)

The entire first paragraph mimics the neutrality of stage directions, and were this not a piece of prose, may not seem conspicuous. However, this is not a play, nor a dramalette, but a short story. Following a coldly studious description of the office, the narrator focuses his attention on one figure and is quickly engulfed in an almost sensual description of his hands, hair, and movements. “Er hat schwarze, tiefschwarze Augen.

Manchmal spielt um seine weichen Lippen ein freundliches, schmerzliches Lächeln. In solchen Momenten, das empfindet der Zuschauer lebhaft, ist er hinreißend schön” (SW 1:

61). The story that develops exists only so much as to allow the narrator to express sympathy for the young man, as he is humiliated in front of his peers.

The dispassionate description of the room at the beginning of the piece, gives way to the narrator‟s own comments, feelings, and fantasies about it. The narrator comes to occupy a position both outside and inside of the story, observing it from a distance, while also projecting into it his own emotions and imaginations, thus becoming its creator.

Towards the end of the piece, he writes, “Unterdessen ist es Feierabend geworden; die

Landschaft im Fensterrahmen wird dunkler und dunkler. Sie deutet es also an” (SW 1:

61). Unclear is whether the darkening landscape that heralds the end of the day, as well as the end of the story, is the same landscape listed at the outset of the text. Or is it the dimming light outside of the narrator‟s own window that brings the story to an end, as bent over his desk, composition and reflection, creation and observation become one?

The distance between these two worlds, that of the narrator and that of the narration,

61 stressed in the opening lines of the story, has vanished. In its stead is the marriage of subjective and objective realms, the synchronicity of perspectives.21

Taking into account the biographical nature of Walser‟s writing, and that

“Lebendes Bild” was published during the years in which Walser worked off and on as a clerk, or scrivener, the story may be a reflection on his own experiences in an office. If such is the case, then the ostensible observation of external events is redirected inwards in an act of self reflection, in which the process of observation becomes the object of study. Consider also the short piece, “Von einem Dichter.” In it, a poet sits over twenty of his own poems, pondering the unusual feeling that they awaken within him, and weeping because he fails to unlock their secrets. “Er zerbricht sich mit großer Mühe den Kopf, was das wohl für ein Etwas ist, das über oder um seine Poesien schwebt” (SW 2: 7). Over his shoulder gazes the author of the text, who easily explains the poems‟ mysteries.

“Dagegen beuge ich mich nun, der Schelm von Verfasser, über sein Wek und erkenne mit unendlich leichtem Sinn das Rätsel der Aufgabe” (SW 1: 7). The ease with which he unravels their riddles is made possible by his relative distance from the poems, relative in that he stands outside the context of the scene, an external observer who remains emotionally unaffected by their curious power.

Just as with the painter in “Der Maler,” this narrating author‟s relationship to his object of study is one of “höchst scharf zersetzten Gefühle[n]” (SW 1: 74). However, the final words of this very short sketch expose the illusion of this seemingly neutral distance. The poet continues to weep over his poetry, the narrating author tells us, “und

21 The theatrical quality of texts like “Lebendes Bild,” and the resulting synchronic perspectives, will be taken up in more detail in Chapter 6. 62 mein Gelächter ist der Wind, der ihm heftig und kalt in die Haare fährt” (SW 2: 8). The narrating author slips into the story, occupying space within his own fictional narrative, his laughter tussling the poet‟s hair. This leaves his readers confronting a perspective shift paralleling that in “Lebendes Bild”. However, the process of observation in this text functions in a more complex and nuanced manner.

The narrating author‟s gaze has two objects, the poet and the poetry. Firstly, he observes the poet as he struggles to solve the riddle of the poetry‟s spell. Secondly, as he stares over the poet‟s shoulder, the narrating author studies and observes these same poems as well, quickly deciphering their meaning. While authoring a story, however, in which he himself appears as an observer, the narrating author must necessarily be involved in the study his own function within the text - he must see himself bending over the desk. Thus, the narrating author‟s gaze is directed not only at the poet and his poetry, but also towards his own cognizance and consideration of the same. Created is a layering of observational levels in which the narrating author observes his own observation of the poet, as the latter labors in his study of the poetry.

Jochen Greven notes in his article “Beobachtung und Selbstreferenz bei Robert

Walser,” that many of Walser‟s texts present numerous levels of observation, producing a dizzying layering of perspectives that left his contemporary readers lost and confused.

This structure can produce three to four levels of observation, and as Greven points out, has the potential for infinite stratification (12).22 This is also the case for “Von einem

22 Greven‟s argument is founded upon his analysis of the short piece “Der Greifensee” which, along with “Von einem Dichter,” can be found in Sämtliche Werke Vol. 2. The Greifensee, as Greven notes, never truly develops as an object of study within the piece, despite the work‟s title. Rather, the narrator‟s walk to 63

Dichter.” As Antonowicz notices, the book in which this brief sketch appears,

Geschichten, first published in 1914, contains twenty other short prose works in addition to this one, for a total of twenty-one texts. The poet in “Von einem Dichter,” tormented by, and struggling with his twenty poems, recalls Walser himself, who must have likewise poured over his own compositions, in order to compile this collection of (20+1) stories (58). Likewise, the story‟s narrating author appears to embody the emotional distance needed for such an analysis, and as such may be representative of Walser‟s own attempt to distance himself from his works, with the hope that such distance might grant him a level of objectivity and understanding that would make possible the selection of stories.

This text, as Antonowicz implies, is perhaps descriptive of the process by which the artist examines his own works, and thus, within the context of the publication of

Geschichten, a parallel can be drawn between the poet and the narrating author, as the characters appear to be one in the same.23 In this way, an endless looping of observation is created, a mise an abîme that traps the author within it. Revealed is the description of a the lake becomes an opportunity for self reflection, as he observes his own observation of the world around him, and analyzes his own reactions to such observation. “Wir haben es also mit einer selbstreferenten Beschreibung einer selbstreflexiven Beobachtung zu tun,” Greven writes, “aber das ist noch zu einfach gesagt. . . . Denn der Beschreibende beobachtet sich z.B. natürlich wieder selbst – usw., ad infinitum” (12). 23 Antonowicz is quick to emphasize that this interpretation refers only to the compilation and publication of Geschichten in 1914. “Von einem Dichter” itself was originally published in 1901 in Die Insel, and as such, Walser could not have written it as an explicit commentary on the compilation Geschichten . “An welche zwanzig Texte Walser gedacht haben mag, als er [die Erzählung] geschrieben hat, ist nicht mehr auszumachen,” she writes (69). However, Walser‟s propensity to organize his works around a mathematical structure; his disposition towards the number twenty, consider in this regard the structure of Fritz Kochers Aufsätze; and the biographical nature of much of his corpus supports the interpretation that “Von einem Dichter” is the description of a self-reflective process not unknown to the author. 64 narrating author‟s observation of his own observation of his own (the poet‟s) struggle to understand his poetry, poetry which in itself may also be a description of a similar exercise in observation, spiraling endlessly and uncontrollably towards some distant vanishing point. The text folds in on itself, becoming a story that is aware of its own processes and functions, and capable of observing its own creation. Mise en abîme defines the structure of the work, in which the plot or original object of study fades into the background, and the process of observation becomes not only the source of creativity, as was the case in works discussed in previous sections, but also the object of the artist‟s gaze.

Narrative observation

Observation, in its myriad manifestations, is central to Robert Walser‟s style and artistic creativity. It receives explicit mention in texts like “Guten Tag, Riesin!,” with its bounty of words referencing the act of seeing and watching. In “Der Spaziergang,” it becomes married to the text‟s inception, to artistic inspiration as a whole. “Ohne Spazieren und

Bericht-Auffangen vermöchte ich nicht der leisesten Bericht abzustatten, ebensowenig einen Aufsatz, geschweige denn eine Novelle zu verfassen. Ohne Spazieren würde ich weder Studien noch Beobachtungen sammeln können” (SW 7: 125). In the final pieces that were discussed, the process of observation became the focus of the text, as the object being observed disappeared into the background. This study attempts to bring these varied facets of observation under the single unifying term narrative observation, and will analyze the larger effect that they have on Walser‟s writing as a whole. 65

As an umbrella term, narrative observation articulates the various functions of observation in Walser‟s works. Narrative observation refers to the manifold processes of study, analysis, and reflection within, of, and by the text itself. It also encompasses the observation of social narratives, i.e.: the examination and evaluation of the rules and practices that govern society, community, and communication. Narrative observation can be both subjective and objective, can be directed both outwards and inwards, and is calculating, penetrating, and marked by a high degree of control. It is among the primary underlying processes in Walser‟s works, and explains many of the phenomena that make his style unique, immediately recognizable, and challenging to the reader‟s comfort zone.

Walser‟s language games, frozen images, labyrinthine structures, and the role of the theater and servitude in his writing, can all be traced back to narrative observation, which itself may be based in a hyperreflexivity that will be discussed in more detail in Chapter

2. Before broaching this topic and delving too deeply into a broader analysis of Walser‟s corpus, however, it is imperative to directly address the characteristics and manifestations of narrative observation that were only implicitly introduced in the first portion of this chapter.

Narrative observation can be divided into nine broadly defined phenomena, or qualities of observation, that can be found throughout Walser‟s works. These phenomena function in various, and at times seemingly antithetical manners, while they at other times materialize images that have similar or overlapping qualities, making it difficult to determine which phenomena are being manifested on the page at any one time. They may arise separately from one another, or exist in tandem. They may develop logically and fluently throughout the story, or their evolution may be one of sudden shifts and jumps. 66

Whatever the case may be, the following nine manifestations of narrative observation form the basis for the function of study and reflection in Walser‟s writing.

As they define Walser‟s artistic mode of observing narrartive, they necessarily hold a critical position in his aesthetic process. As will become evident in the course of the study, however, they are also reminiscent of the manner in which some schizophrenics perceive the world, and the cognitive approach that will be employed will illustrate that narrative observation brings Walser, as an artist, to the precipice of an abyss. This abyss, as will be seen, threatens a permanent alienation from reality.

höchste Aufmerksamkeit: The importance of a highly attentive, exacting, and

reflexive gaze was first introduced in the context of the discussion of “Guten Tag,

Riesin!,” as the flâneur takes notice of every aspect of the street, regardless of how

seemingly insignificant it may seem. As the narrator of “Der Spaziergang” states,

“Höchstaufmerksam und liebvoll muß der, der spaziert, jedes kleiste lebendige Ding .

. . studieren und betrachten” (SW 7: 126). No detail seems able to escape the

observer‟s gaze, and no object is left unstudied. This manifestation of narrative

observation can be found throughout Walser‟s oeuvre, and often initiates an

observational process that continues to develop, generating any number of the

characteristics described below. In the course of this study, höchste Aufmerksamkeit

will feature in Chapters 3 and 4.

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The revelatory pursuit: Many moments of observation are colored by an underlying search for truth or meaning behind the objects of study. The flâneur in “Guten Tag,

Riesin!” senses a hidden secret behind each of the objects and images in the street.

Likewise, the poet in “Von einem Dichter” is engaged in an emotionally draining struggle to unlock the mystery of his own poetry. Through their examination and contemplation, they hope to penetrate into a realm of hidden truth, thereby unveiling secrets that would otherwise remain hidden below the surface. The revelatory pursuit will be further discussed in Chapters 3 and 4.

Existence sui generis: In many of the pieces that were introduced in the preceding sections, the objects of study seem detached from their surroundings, seemingly lifted off of the page by the process of observation, causing them to float above the context in which they had previously been embedded. Narrative observation focuses on the objects‟ simple existence, of and for themselves, unrelated the world around them, like works of art hanging in a gallery. This emphasis may also be found the primacy of an object or story, which is already in existence prior to an author‟s creative involvement. In such cases, the author is often reduced to an agent of observation rather than production. Both manifestations grant to the object of study a meaning and importance unto itself, rooted outside the context in which it appears. The focus on an object‟s existence sui generis will play an important role in the discussions of

Chapters 3 and 4.

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The generalizing gaze: Closely related to the focus on an object‟s existence sui generis is the gaze that produces generalized or superficial images. The platitude of such moments is particularly evident in “Ein Nachmittag,” where landscape descriptions are reminiscent of clichéd postcards from the Swiss Alps. Such moments were also noted in the flâneur-texts, and their descriptions of unspecific spaces, such as “die Straße” or “der Park.” This gaze creates scenes that are void of specificity and identity, and as such may on the surface appear emptied of meaning or significance.

The generalizing gaze will be discussed again in Chapter 4.

The distancing gaze: The distancing gaze emphasizes the distance between subject and object. This separation can be sensed at times through the generalization of objects, discussed above, but it is more clearly evident in the indexing of objects, which appear on the page without any sense of relationship, context, or hierarchy. The street scene description in “Der Spaziergang,” which was reproduced in full earlier in this chapter, provides a particularly good example. Here, an unegoistic, unbiased, and uninvolved observer gives equal consideration to each of the objects in the street. The approach is distanced, and the gaze functions as an impartial and fixed camera lens, which captures the images or actions that are being carried out in front of it. It is free and unburdened by any preexisting associations or categorization. In the following analysis, the distancing gaze will be addressed most explicitly in Chapter 4.

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The flattening of spatial relationships: The flattening of spatial relationships was originally discussed in connection with “Guten Tag, Riesin!,” and “Der Park.” This aspect of narrative observation can create images in which spatial relationships are dissolved, leaving behind descriptions that are flattened and decontextualized. In such representations, objects appear to exist simultaneously within the same space, while calling into question the conception of a shared space, as they remain unrelated to, unaffected by, and unaware of each other. This phenomenon, which produces scenes that are strikingly two-dimensional, can result from the generalizing gaze, the distancing gaze or from an emphasis on an object‟s existence sui generis. The flattening of spatial relationships will be returned to in Chapter 4.

Synchronic perspectives: Following moments of emphasized distance between subject and object, there is often an evaporation of this distance and the subsequent synchronicity of contrasting perspectives. In such moments, the perspective is that of an external observer as well as that of a participant within the narrative. The example already discussed concerns the transformation of the narrator‟s position in the piece

“Lebendes Bild,” at the end of which the narrator joins his object within the story‟s frame. A similar dissolution of distance occurs when narrators disregard or lose track of the narrative, allowing their own fantasies to make fleeting appearance on the page.

Such breaks often resemble a moment of dangerous release that the narrator is quick to check; dreams that are both exhilarating and terrifying in their unanchored liberation. Synchronic perspectives will reappear in the discussions of Chapter 4.

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The observational mise en abîme: The observational mise en abîme, or self reflexive

layering that can be seen in texts such as “Von einem Dichter,” “Lebendes Bild” and

“Der Greifensee,” removes the story‟s plot to a position of secondary importance,

replacing it with a study of the of observation itself. In this externalization of internal

processes, the texts circles in an endless exercise of self reflection. Observational

mise en abîme can also be found in the many instances in which characters lock eyes

with those across from them, “den Blick anzublicken, ins Anschauen zu schauen,” as

Walser writes (SW 20: 116). The bottom drops out, threatening to trap author and

reader alike in perpetual reflection upon reflection.

Macrosocial observation: Underlying all other manifestations of narrative

observation in Walser‟s work is a study of macrosocial laws of communication and

behavior, what will often be referred to generally as the expectations of society, or as

the Spielregeln der Gesellschaft. The consideration of socially agreed upon practices

and assumptions has a decisive impact on the flow, content, and structure of Walser‟s

prose, and this element of narrative observation provides the principle link for a

comparison between his stylistics and schizophrenic phenomena. Although

macrosocial observation will be considered in all of the coming chapters, it will play

a pivotal role in the investigations undertaken in Chapters 3, 5, and 6.

This first chapter concludes with a brief reading of the short story, “Simon eine

Liebesgeschichte,” first published in 1904 in Die Freistatt, and then again in 1914 in the

71 collection Geschichten. As many of the phenomena mentioned in the preceding pages can be located within it, analyzing this text will help illustrate both the function and frequency of the multifarious aspects of narrative observation, as well as present examples that will serve to clarify the terminology introduced on the previous pages.

The story begins with the introduction of Simon, a young man of only twenty years, who one day decides to become a page. With his mandolin strapped to his back, wearing stained and tattered clothes, and with no direction in mind, he stretches his comically long legs and embarks on his adventure. Traveling behind him, watching and narrating as the story develops, are both the author and the “Erzählung”24: “. . . wir, die

Erzählung, gehen jetzt immer hinter ihm her” (SW 2: 15). The author and the “Erzählung” are the observers of Simon‟s adventure. They create no scenarios and are not inventors of plots. Following from a safe distance, the simply bear passive witness to Simon‟s actions.

They also serve as an audience for Simon‟s music. “Simon griff wieder in die Mandoline, auf welcher er Zauberer war. Die Erzählung setzt sich hinten wieder auf einen Stein und horcht ganz verblüfft. Unterdessen gewinnt der Verfasser Zeit, auszuruhen” (SW 2: 16).

Simon is the creator, the architect of the plot. He alone shapes and composes the tale. The author and “Erzählung” are servants, subject to his passions and will, existing only as the chroniclers of his journey. “Es ist ein mühseliges Geschäft, Geschichten erzählen.” The author continues, “Immer hinter solch einem langbeinigen, mandolinenspielenden

24 For the discussion of “Simon eine Liebesgeschichte,” the German Erzählung is left un-translated to differentiate between Simon‟s story as it evolves, and the Erzählung, which follows behind Simon‟s story, observing and commenting on its development. 72 romantischen Bengel herlaufen und horchen, was er singt, denkt, fühlt und spricht. . . . als ob wir wahrhaftig des Pagen Page wären” (SW 2: 17).

Embedded in this concept of servility can be found two different manifestations of narrative observation. Firstly, there is an emphasis in the opening pages placed upon the story‟s existence sui generis. Simon‟s tale, his quest to become a page, exists prior to involvement by either the author or the “Erzählung.” The story is granted autonomy from the author‟s creativity, existing solely in and of itself. Secondly, this emphasis on the story‟s primacy results in an exaggerated distance between the author and his story, a distancing gaze that separates subject from object. This separation is thematized in the text, as the author and the “Erzählung” follow at the heels of Simon, or listen to his music while sitting behind him on a stone.

As Simon continues on, there occurs a change in narrative observation. Simon, having traversed forest and field, comes across a “märchenhaftes Schloß.” The castle is surrounded by cliffs, pines and, of course, a page, who, it must be pointed out, is a of all other pages (SW 2: 17).25 The entire scene appears lifted directly from a fairytale. “Es ist bereits Nacht, Sterne schimmern, Mond brennt, Luft küßt, und wir haben, was wir unbedingt haben müssen26, eine milde, weiße, herablächelnde Dame . . .”

25 Simon develops into the embodiment of a clichéd fairytale page. Standing in front of the castle, he unites, “alle lieblichen Pagen der Welt in seiner zierlichen, oben beschriebenen Person . . .” (SW 2: 17). Likewise, when Klara, the lady of the castle, gifts to him a page‟s uniform of black silk, Simon‟s identity dissolves. “O, was für ein dummglückliches ehrlichbegeistertes Gesicht muß nun unser Kaspar, Peter oder Simon machen!” When Klara returns moments later, she finds Simon, “als den schwarzseidenen Pagen wieder, wie sie sich in träumerischen Stunden wohl einen solchen mochte phantasiert haben” (SW 2: 19). Simon ceases to be an individual, and his image is flattened to fit a stereotyped figure of a page. 26 Emphasis added 73

(SW 2: 17). The italicized words illustrate the observer‟s cognizance of this stereotyped image. He appears to be checking off the requirements of a Romantic encounter between the page and his lady in white, who, as the genre would have it, lives alone in her tower, isolated in a remote forest. A generalizing gaze of this sort creates, through tropes and unspecific, or in this case, clichéd descriptions, a superficial image. In this story, the generalization rings extreme, particularly in that the narrator is expressly aware of the setting‟s formulaic construction.

The scene described above marks a break in the text, as from this point on, the narrator ceases to be a passive observer, and dons the mantel of the artist, becoming the origin of the story‟s continued progression. As the lady in the snow-white gown invites

Simon into the castle, the author writes, “Der Verfasser grübelt nun aus seiner gequälten

Phantasie hervor, was seine Augen nicht mehr sehen dürfen. Die Phantasie hat durchdringende Augen” (SW 2: 18). After this moment, the story is no longer rooted in

Simon‟s adventure, but in the author‟s own imagination. However, although the story now originates from the narrating author‟s fantasy, the latter remains at the same time an observer who is as seemingly unaware of the direction the plot is to take, as is the reader to whom he is narrating the story. After relating Simon‟s dash into the castle, and the manner in which he covers the lady‟ arms, hands, fingers, and fingernails with kisses, the narrator says: “Deshalb, jetzt merken wir, haben Pagen stets solche wie zwei Seiten eines

Buches aufgeschlagene Lippen. Lesen wir ruhig, was die Sprache darin weitererzählt”

(SW 2: 18). The distance between subject and object that exists in the text‟s first half has melted away, leaving behind the synchronic perspectives that so often follow the generalizing and distancing gazes in Walser‟s works. No longer wholly separate from the 74 story, the author is now united with it at the moment of its inception; he has become its artistic creator as well as its observer.

The observational mise en abîme that permeates this piece may also be noted.

Throughout the work, the narrating author watches both himself and the “Erzählung,” as they follow the unfolding of Simon‟s adventure. He sees the “Erzählung” become entranced by Simon‟s music, and reflects on his own reaction to the melody as well.

Likewise, the author repeatedly references himself as “der Verfasser,” thereby establishing a certain distance between his narrating self, and that self which follows

Simon through the wilderness. Further layering is added from the moment that the story becomes a fantasy, as the author now observes his observation of Simon‟s adventure, which is itself now nothing more than a fabrication of his own imagination.

As Simon reaches once more for his mandoline, the author writes, “und die

Erzählung streitet mit mir über den Punkt, was süßer gewesen sei, das Spiel der behenden

Finger oder die stillen Frauenaugen, welche auf den Spieler herabsahen” (SW 2: 20-21).

The author reflects on a confrontation between himself and the “Erzählung,” in which they argue over their conflicting memories of a shared observation of Simon‟s musicianship. Let it not be forgotten, however, that this is an observation of an argument over remembered observations existing wholly in the realm of the author‟s fantasy; the reader‟s mind is left spinning. Add to this that as the “Erzählung” watches Simon throughout the story, it is in effect observing its own creation in real time, for Simon‟s adventure, once recorded by the author, is destined to become the “Erzählung.” However, just as was the case with the author of “Von einem Dichter,” this “Erzählung” has a physical presence within the story. Thus, by observing the story‟s development, the 75

“Erzählung” must necessarily see its own observing presence within it. Its observation of the story is, then, an observation of its own observation of itself, ad infinitum. Readers quickly become mired in the observational mise en abîme of the narrative, and struggle to find solid ground in a perspective that is constantly retreating from them.

This analysis of “Simon eine Liebesgeschichte” is meant to provide examples of some manifestations of narrative observation, but also to illustrate that these phenomena can exist parallel to one another, or that the shift between them can be spontaneous and in many instances distracting to the reader. The direction of the remainder of this study will be to analyze not only the function of narrative observation in Walser‟s works, but also to investigate the origin behind its centrality in his writing. Walser‟s diagnosis with schizophrenia is well documented, and has been discussed and debated in secondary literature. This study will focus on observation and reflection in his writing, but in the process, will draw on theories from psychology and psychiatry. In so doing, parallels will arise between Walser‟s style and numerous symptoms of schizophrenia.

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2. THEORIZING SCHIZOPHRENIA

“The history of modern psychiatry is, in fact, practically synonymous with the history of schizophrenia, the quintessential form of madness in our time. The attention lavished on this condition seems not, however, to have fathomed its many mysteries; and to this day we remain largely ignorant of the causes, the underlying psychological structure, and even the precise diagnostic boundaries of this most strange and important of mental illnesses . . . . ” – Louis Sass

Having begun the discussion of observation in Walser‟s works, and its manifestations in the various forms of narrative observation, I would now like to direct our attention to the import had on his writing by what some psychiatrists have called hyperreflexivity.

Paralleling the analysis of narrative observation, a discussion of hyperreflexivity will broaden our understanding of Walser‟s literary production, as well as offer a fresh look not only at some of the many phenomena that are so closely associated with him; such as his unique syntax, questions of ontological security and his inclination towards servitude, but also at his supposed affliction with schizophrenia. This study will analyze his works, focus on many facets of his writing that have come to be known as Walserian, and draw comparisons with various schizoid symptoms. A common source for both literary and

77 schizophrenic phenomena will be proposed in the author‟s curious compulsion for observation and hyperreflexivity.

This approach will be in large part possible because of the innovative work done in the field of psychiatry by Dr. Louis A. Sass. Sass‟ theories, which are spelled out in detail in his book Madness and Modernism: Insanity in the Light of Modern Art,

Literature, and Thought, detail the role that hyperreflexivity has played in twentieth- century artistic production. His readings range from Kafka, Nietzsche, and Robbe-Grillet, to paintings by Picasso, de Chirico, and Adolf Wölfli. Sass suggests that a primary link between these various artists can be found in the similar cognitive process that seems apparent in their works, which he calls hyperreflexivity. Hyperreflexivity, Sass concludes, can manifest itself in various ways including, among others, a breakdown of standard syntax and a loss of trust in empirical truths. Sass observes this same, or similar, hyperreflexivity as a central feature to the schizophrenic experience (M&M 4). Through an analysis of modern texts, as well as an exhaustive discussion of clinical cases of schizophrenia, Sass draws convincing parallels between various modern and the cognitive workings of the schizophrenic mind.

Prior to an intimate involvement with Sass‟ theories, however, it will be instructive to briefly address the medical and theoretical approaches that have come to dominate research in schizophrenia over the past century, principally those of psychoanalysis, psychiatry, and anti-psychiatry. The following pages are intended solely as an overview of these dominate traditions, and should not be understood as a comprehensive summary of every sub- or hybrid field within them. I am aware that there are individual practitioners and theoreticians within, or associated with these fields, Louis 78

Sass among them, of whom these overviews are not representative. My intent is to simply introduce the general frameworks of medical and theoretical thought about schizophrenia, in order to better contextualize Sass‟ work. Individuals or theories that contradict these overviews should be understood as further evidence of the deficiencies in the models which are to be summarized. Schizophrenia, like modernism, is notoriously difficult to understand, and no single approach has yet to flawlessly explain or encompass every of its symptoms or phenomena. Nevertheless, some general overview of the trends that prevailed during the past century is possible, and is necessary if we are to fully appreciate

Sass‟ contributions, and what they offer not only to those doctors who interact with schizophrenic patients on a daily basis, but also to those of us whose charge it is to probe the human condition through the study of literature and the arts.

Psychiatry and psychoanalysis were the unequivocal royalty of schizophrenia research in the twentieth century. These two fields, often at odds with each other, have shaped the way in which the western world treats this most enigmatic of diseases.27 As

Thiher notes, Emil Kraepelin and were the two most important and influential figures in the way madness was viewed over the past 100 years (224). Since

Kraepelin first described schizophrenia in 1893, the field of psychiatry has been inclined towards a medical, or organically based aetiological understanding of its origins.

27 The term disease, when referencing schizophrenia, is admittedly problematic. The word implies illness and conjures up images of degenerate bodies and minds. As Foucault would argue, the label of diseased is all too easily used to pronounce the sufferer guilty of some tangible or moral crime, justifying violence and oppression against their person. Although I am sympathetic to this argument, to avoid the term here would be cumbersome, if not unfeasible, as in the language of both psychiatry and psychoanalysis, schizophrenia is a disease. terminology would only distract from the argument, and impede the progress of the discussion at hand. 79

Psychoanalysis, as to be expected, has tended to understand the disease as a result of a failure to develop a healthy and strong ego. The treatments promoted within these two fields, as well as the directions that they have taken in the decades following Kraepelin and Freud, have been guided by these beliefs, and reflect not only their strengths, but their weaknesses as well.

Psychoanalysis

Generally speaking, schizophrenia has traditionally been viewed by psychoanalysts as a regression to an infantile state, in which immediate wish fulfillment and pure subjectivity are the result of the lack, or loss, of a healthy observing ego, which leads to a primitive or childlike fusion with the world (Sass, M&M 20). This interpretation was first proposed in

1919 by Viktor Tausk in his paper “On the Influencing Machine in Schizophrenia.”

Tausk‟s analysis concerns his patient Miss Natalijia, a former philosophy student who began having the delusion that she was under the control of an influencing machine located in Berlin. 28 The machine had Natalijia‟s own form, and when manipulated, everything done to the machine was experienced by Natalijia as well. When the machine was struck, Natalijia would feel the blow, when its genitals were stimulated, Natalijia‟s own sexual desire would be awakened (Tausk 194-95). Tausk diagnoses the patient‟s

28 Although the process of regression is first outlined in detail in Tausk‟s paper, the relationship between schizophrenia and the infantile state was already hinted at by Freud in 1911, with his publication The Schreber Case. In his analysis of Judge Daniel Paul Schreber‟s autobiographical account of schizophrenia, Denkwürdigkeiten eines Nervenkranken, Freud comes to the conclusion that the schizophrenic‟s altered relationship to the world is a consequence of libidinal regression and a return to the narcissistic stage, resulting in a lack of interest in the outside world (Freud, S. 47). 80 delusions as a regression to the infantile stage, in which she had not yet gained control of her own body, and thus experiences it as a body-as-object belonging to a strange and alien environment (196). Freud, who was in attendance when Tausk read this paper, agreed with his analysis (Sass, M&M 218). Since that time, the regression theory, in some manifestation or another, has come to dominate theoreticians and practitioners in nearly all psychoanalytic factions, including, “classical, ego-psychological, object-relational, and self-psychological” (Sass, “ISF” 6)29.

The regression theory defines psychosis as a falling back to, or reemergence of modes of functioning characteristic of the individual‟s psychic activity during earlier periods of development (Arlow 73). Among the phenomena that psychoanalysts attribute to regression are the “deterioration of conceptual powers,” selective attention, and little capacity for reflection (Sass, M&M 20). Arlow and Brenner, in their study

“Psychoanalytic Concepts and the Structural Theory,” note that an individual‟s capacity for reason is dependent upon their ego‟s ability to capture and utilize mental energy for rational thought. When bound, this cathexis, defined as “the amount of mental energy invested in a mental process or representation,” raises the energetic level of the mind

(55). When unbound, this same energy is released in the id. Schizophrenia is the indirect result of an individual‟s inability to control and direct their cathexis. Lacking a sufficiently strong and stable ego, due to a troubled relationship in the mother-child dyad, the schizophrenic regresses to a childlike, non-rational, and instinctual psychic state.30

29 “ISF” refers to Louis Sass‟ “Introspection, Schizophrenia, and the Fragmentation of Self.” 30 The exact point during childhood at which psychic disturbances occur varies within the different fields of psychoanalysis. Greenacre writes that, “the matrix of these severe disturbances … lay in disturbances in 81

Their ability for reason and reflection, as well as their capacity for high mental functioning, disappears (Willick 31). What remains, essentially, is the mind of the infant.

The regression theory has influenced, in varying degrees and manners, the general psychoanalytic approach to schizophrenia. Thus, summarizes psychoanalytic techniques in treating schizophrenics as, “in many respects identical with the methods used in the upbringing of infants” (3).

In recent years, research done in the field of neurobiology has provided strong evidence of an organic genesis for schizophrenia, bipolar disorder, OCD, and infantile autism. In response, there has been a significant shift in the psychoanalytic approach to schizophrenia, as the majority of psychoanalysts now recognize its aetiology as biological, not psychogenic (Willick 28-29). 31 The recent reevaluation of the fundamentals of psychoanalytic models has encouraged researchers to reexamine some of the most influential theories in their field, and has produced some alarming results.

Willick notes that there is a curious paucity of clinical experience in the writings of the

British object relations theorists. Incredibly, he is unable to find, “a single well- documented case of schizophrenia in the work of Klein, Winnicott, Fairbairn, Bion, or

that period at the very dawn of the ego, roughly around six months and a little later …” ( qtd.. in Willick 32). , an object-relationist, sees schizophrenia as the individual‟s inability to overcome the neonatal, paranoid-schizoid relationship with the „good‟ and „bad‟ breast (Segal 149). Frieda Fromm- Reichmann, on the other hand, introduces the notion of the schizophrenogenic mother, who in her rejection of the child, creates schizophrenic distrust and resentment (Willick 35). Despite their differences, however, psychoanalytic theories tend to place the moment of disturbance within the first year of the child‟s life. 31 The degree to which findings through neurobiological research has changed the culture of psychoanalysis is evidenced by institutional developments in recent decades, as only about half of the institutes belonging to the American Psychoanalytic Association still offer courses on the psychoses (Willick 30). 82

Guntrip. Only Rosenfeld seems to have actually treated patients with this disorder” (34).

Willick sees the psychoanalytic relationship with schizophrenia as a cautionary tale, and counsel‟s his fellow psychoanalysts against repeating past mistakes, for as he stresses,

“There is perhaps no better example of a that has turned out to be incorrect than the once prevalent theory regarding the etiology of schizophrenia” (28).

Psychiatry

Emil Kraepelin laid the groundwork for modern scientific psychiatry with his 1893 publication Lehrbuch der Psychiatrie. Finding the classification system for mental disorders that he had inherited from earlier generations to be insufficient, he set about establishing a new approach, a more „clinical‟ approach in his words, to treating the patients under his care (Vol 1: 2-3). In the process of doing so, Kraepelin classified the mental disorder schizophrenia, which he named dementia praecox, a disease, or specific constellation of basic symptoms, that up until then had simply fallen under the more general diagnosis of psychosis. Kraepelin argues that dementia praecox is caused by damage to the cerebral cortex, which he contends is only partially reversible. This damage, he explains, does not emanate from cultural or social factors, but from a pathological process in the brain, most likely chemical in nature (Vol 3: 937).

This biological process instigates, in most cases, an imminent decline in the individual‟s psychic state, resulting in diminished and deficient brain functions. The perceived world loses any rational sense of cohesion, becoming random, incalculable, and in Kraepelin‟s words, the culmination of “chance external influences, and of 83 impulses, cross impulses, and contrary impulses, arising similarly by chance internally”

(qtd in Sass, M&M 18). The schizophrenic‟s enfeebled mind lacks the rationale and mental dexterity to make sense of the world around it. In its initial classification, dementia praecox is thus the result of physical processes within the brain that culminate in the continual weakening of mental functions. What psychoanalysts would see as a regression to an infantile state, Kraepelin understood as an inevitable descent into dementia.

By postulating an organic source for dementia praecox, and other mental disorders as well, Kraepelin completed the project begun one generation earlier by

Antoine Bayle, a French physician, whose work suggested a correlation between mental and organic phenomena in the human body (Thiher 195). In addition to developing the first concept of schizophrenia, Kraepelin began the scientific process of classifying not only its various symptoms, but also the clinical forms in which it is manifest. The hebephrenic forms are described as a “ganz eigenartige[r] Schwachsinnszustand” (Vol 3:

767), and are characterized by hallucinations, delusional ideas, emotional dullness, weight loss, written word games, and mechanical activity (Vol 3: 767-75). The catatonic forms are the cases “in denen nach einem einleitenden Depressionszustande mit oder ohne die Erscheinungen des Stupors sich allmahlich ein endgültiges psychisches

Siechtum herausbildet” (Vol 3: 777). These forms generally result in delusions of sin or power, stereotypy, and eventually catatonia (Vol 3: 777-82). The final forms of schizophrenia described by Kraepelin are the paranoid forms, in which feeblemindedness, delusions, and hallucinations are the most prominent phenomena (Vol 3: 783-91).

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Through Kraepelin‟s thorough scientific-like classification and categorization, madness had become a bona fide illness. This revolutionary concept helped reform mental institutions across Europe, and greatly improved the patients‟ quality of life. In addition to this, the positivist approach to mental disorders encouraged the abandonment of various treatments for mental patients, among them the moral treatment of William

Tuke‟s York Retreat, which sought to cure madness through moral education and religious reinforcement (Thiher 224). The days in which the madman was imprisoned with the criminal, or was condemned as a sinner, were coming to an end.

Following in Kraepelin‟s footsteps was Eugen Bleuler, whose 1911 publication of

Dementia Praecox oder die Gruppe der Schizophrenien helped promote the psychiatric approach to diagnosing mental diseases. Bleuler‟s work, unlike Kraepelin‟s which is much broader in scope, focuses solely on dementia praecox, which he renames schizophrenia. Dementia praecox, he explains, is an inaccurate term. While Kraepelin had believed that virtually all patients with the disease would eventually end up in a state of dementia, Bleuler is able to show that this is not always the case. “Mit den Namen der

Dementia praecox oder Schizophrenie bezeichnen wir eine Psychosengruppe, die bald chronisch, bald in Schüben verläuft, in jedem Stadium Halt machen oder zurück gehen kann, aber wohl keine volle Restitutio ad integrum erlaubt” (Bleuler, E. 6). The term schizophrenia, he adds, is preferred over dementia praecox, because one of the key characteristics of the disease is the splitting of the different psychic functions (6).

In Dementia Praecox oder die Gruppe der Schizophrenien, which would become one of the chief sources for early psychiatric research on schizophrenia, Bleuler continues

Kraepelin‟s project of describing and categorizing the phenomena of the disease. In 85 addition to Kraepelin‟s three subgroups of schizophrenia; hebephrenia, catatonia, and paranoia, Bleuler argues for a fourth that he terms schizophrenia simplex. Bleuler also expands on Kraepelin‟s discussion of the symptoms of schizophrenia, which he divides into the fundamental symptoms and the accessory symptoms. The fundamental symptoms include the, “Störung der Assoziationen und der Affektivität,” as well as a predilection,

“die eigene Phantasie über die Wirklichkeit zu stellen und sich von der letzteren abzuschließen (Autismus)” (10). Among these symptoms are the language disturbances so often associated with schizophrenia, such as Klangassoziationen32, Vorbeidenken33,

Klebedenken34, Sperrungen35, and the stereotypy of speech both in form and content.

Included in the accessory symptoms are those phenomena which often prompt the individual‟s hospitalization, such as hallucinations, delusions and illusions, catatonia, stereotypes of all kinds, negativism, and stupor. The scientific and phenomenological approach of classification and categorization employed by both Kraepelin and Eugen

Bleuler helped legitimize psychiatry as a medical discipline, investing it with a veil of incontestable truth, and ensuring its survival throughout the twentieth century.

32 Klangassoziationen, also referred to as glossomania in later psychiatric texts, are psychic associations that are granted unusual significance by the patient. Bleuler notes that these associations are made on the basis of acoustics, which lead to groupings of words based on shared sounds, rhymes, or partial rhymes (19). 33 Vorbeidenken is the term that Bleuler uses to refer to the phenomenon whereby patients lose themselves in irrelevant side-associations, bringing about a break in the uniformity of the chain of thought (13). 34 Eugen Bleuler defines Klebedenken as a tendency toward stereotypy of speech. “Die Kranken reden dann immer nur vom gleichen Thema (Monoideismus) und sind nicht fähig, auf etwas anderes einzugehen” (21). 35 Eugen Bleuler refers to Sperrungen (blocking) as the most extraordinary aspect of schizophrenic thought. “Die Assoziationstätigkeit steht manchmal plötzlich ganz still; wenn sie wieder einsetzt, tauchen meist Ideen auf, die mit den vorhergehenden in keinem oder nur ungenügendem Zusammenhang stehen” (26). 86

The final psychiatric text that should be mentioned is Karl Jaspers‟ Allgemeine

Psychopathologie, first published in 1913 and still the most influential theoretical text in modern psychiatry (Sass, M&M 16). Jaspers, a champion of Verstehende

Psychopathologie36, and in agreement with Kraepelin and E. Bleuler, believed that the various psychoses were organic in origin. Much of the significance of Jaspers‟ theories is in the distinction that he makes between those psychoses that are understandable, with which the doctor can empathize, and those that remain beyond comprehension. “Der tiefgreifende Unterschied im Seelenleben,” he writes, “scheint der zu sein zwischen dem uns einfühlbaren, verständlichen und dem auf eigene Weise unverständlichen, im wahren

Sinne verrückten, schizophrenen Seelenleben (ohne daß gerade Wahnideen da zu sein brauchen) (483).

The majority of mental illnesses, for Jaspers, can be understood as a state of exaggerated affect, “anxiety, euphoria, depression, fear, grandiosity, and the like” (Sass,

M&M 17). The doctor is able to empathize with the patient, thereby gaining some degree of knowledge and understanding of the affliction. Schizophrenia, however, presents a

36 Verstehende Psychopathologie works towards the interpretation and understanding of the patient‟s psychotic experience. This understanding is a two step process, whereby phenomena are observed and studied in the isolated and fragmented manner in which they are presented, as disconnected samplings of the person‟s psychic experience. Jaspers refers to this mode of understanding as static (23). The second step involves the interpretation and understanding of the connection between these static phenomena. Jaspers writes of observing “die Unruhe des Seelischen, die Bewegung, den Zusammenhang, ein Auseinanderhervorgehen . . . ” (23). This generic understanding is a study in causality, but requires empathy in the doctor-patient relationship. The doctor is able to understand the patient‟s psychic experience because he empathizes with him. He achieves understanding (Verstehen) solely because he understands the event “von innen” (24). Where there is a lack of empathy, one can only speak of explanation (Erklären) (24). Jaspers outlines the theory in Allgemeine Psychopathologie which, when published, was a revolutionary contribution to the field (Kirkbright 67). 87 different set of diagnostic obstacles. The phenomena of the disease are so wholly alienating that they create a gulf between patient and practitioner, preventing comprehension and empathy. Thus, for Jaspers, schizophrenia is an illness that is describable but not understandable. A phenomenological approach, the characterization of symptoms, seems all that remains possible when dealing with the schizophrenic mind.

Man spricht theoretisch von Inkohärenz, Spaltungen, Zerfall des

Bewußtseins, von intrapsychiascher Ataxie, von Schwäche der

Apperzeption, Insuffizienz der psychischen Aktivität, Störung der

Assoziationsspannung usw. Man nennt das Gebaren verschroben,

läppisch. Doch mit allen Worten sagt man schließlich dasselbe: es ist ein

gemeinsames “Unverständliches.” . . . Wir haben die Intuition von einem

Ganzen, das schizophren heißt, aber wir fassen es nicht, sondern zählen

eine Unmenge von Einzelheiten auf oder sagen “unverständlich,” und

jeder begreift dies Ganze nur in eigener neuer Erfahrung in Berührung mit

solchen Kranken. (Jaspers 486-87)

The psychiatric engagement with schizophrenia, although highly faceted and driven by diverse and innovative thinkers, can be reduced to three qualities inherited from

Kraepelin, Bleuler, and Jaspers, and shared by a large portion of the leading psychiatrists and psychologist of the twentieth century. Firstly, psychiatric views of schizophrenia tend to argue for an organic or biological origin to the disease. Although the specificity of the source remains under dispute, psychiatrists have generally agreed that statistics,

88 particularly those that address issues of genetics and heredity, point not to a developmental model like that proposed by psychoanalysis, but to an organic aetiology.37

Secondly, psychiatrists have often adopted a scientific approach to their research, involving comprehensive and often elaborate systems of classification and categorization.

Psychiatric books and articles on schizophrenia are filled with graphs, charts, statistics, and tables, as well as the detailed descriptions of multifarious symptoms. Whether because of its close relationship with other medical fields, or out of capitulation to the condition‟s incomprehensibility akin to that proposed by Karl Jaspers, psychiatry has often adopted phenomenological methods when approaching schizophrenia. This systematic and scientific treatment has, among the general public, helped create an impressive amount of confidence in psychiatry‟s ability to treat the disease.

Finally, as discussed above, Kraepelin argues that schizophrenia is a disease that leads towards dementia and the continual weakening of cognitive functioning.

Schizophrenics, he explains, are on a path towards imbecility and an inevitable feeblemindedness (76). Jaspers, in contrast, sees the schizophrenic mind not necessarily as feeble, but as so alien to the non-schizophrenic that it is beyond comprehension, completely ununderstandable. Whether schizophrenic thought is beyond comprehension, or the meaningless dribble of a deranged mind, which is not worthy of interpretation, both Jaspers and Kraepelin open the door for casual and dismissive engagement with the afflicted.

37 Psychiatrist Peter McGuffin writes that, “The existence of a genetic contribution to schizophrenia is one of the best established aetiological facts concerning this puzzling disorder” (107). 89

This risk, in combination with a belief in the disease‟s organicity, as well as a mantel of irrefutability allotted psychiatry by its appropriation of medical and scientific methods, has created a very troubling situation that has raised questions as to the safety and effectiveness of traditional psychiatric treatment. Sass, in response to these traditions in his own field, writes, “Obviously, such attitudes are unlikely to encourage therapeutic efforts, and one wonders whether they may actually increase the patient‟s sense of alienation from the social world” (M&M 19). The questions that he raises here are not novel in themselves, for Sass is articulating the same doubts expressed by members of a third influential approach to schizophrenia, the movement of anti-psychiatry. When it emerges, anti-psychiatry proposes to take the interpretation and treatment of schizophrenia in a completely new, revolutionary, and liberating direction.

Anti-Psychiatry

An introduction to the tenets of the anti-psychiatry movement requires that we first refer back to André Breton‟s 1924 publication of The Surrealist Manifesto, for it is in the surrealist movement, and the theories of Breton, that anti-psychiatry is born. Breton was a trained doctor who, while working in psychiatric wards, began to doubt the legitimacy and effectiveness of the psychiatric approach to psychosis. Influenced by Freud and the psychoanalysts, Breton saw in madness not an organic disease, but a window into the unconscious. He believed that the unconscious was the seat of both intellectual and creative power, and that madness gave a voice to a part of the human psyche that remained inhibited in „normal‟ or otherwise „healthy‟ individuals (Thiher 263). 90

Although Breton‟s theory of the unconscious is indebted to Freud‟s work in many regards, there remain significant differences between the two, chiefly the role Freud assigns to the super-ego. In Freud‟s structural theory, the super-ego, tied to rules, morals, and reason, serves as a counter-balance to the id, thereby ensuring the stability not only of the ego, but indirectly of the social world at large. Breton, however, sees these learned and inherited rules and morals as restrictive to the intellectual and creative forces within the psyche. , he wrote, is the, “actual functioning of thought . . . the absence of any control exercised by reason, exempt from any aesthetic or moral concern” (26). It is here that the anti-rational approach for which Breton argues deviates from that of Freud, as it strives to liberate the human unconscious, to break the dam that holds back instinct, and let to flow the creative energy that the super-ego helps restrict.

Another influential figure for the budding anti-psychiatry movement was Michel

Foucault, and his historical approach to the European relationship with madness. First begun in Mental Illness and Psychology, and carried out more thoroughly in Madness and Civilization: A History of Insanity in the Age of Reason, Foucault‟s survey of madness is extensive, spanning from medieval discourse to the modern psychiatric ward.

As he traces society‟s relationship with madness, and with the madman, Foucault discovers that it is defined by a struggle for power. Following the influence of the

Enlightenment and the subsequent decline of the Christian allegory, under which madness was accepted as the will of God, the European understanding of, and tolerance for the madman changed dramatically.

Slowly replacing the Christian allegory was the view that the madman was an individual, in whom rational thought was incapable of curtailing the threats of the 91 animalistic instincts that dwelled within. The insane were seen no longer as humans, but as defective and sub-human, and the animality that they presented, their insanity, was capable of being suppressed through the use of discipline (Foucault, M&C 72-75)38.

Thus, during the 17th Century, Europe saw a rise in the number of houses of confinement, as imprisonment came to be seen as the appropriate response to the threat to reason and order posed by the mad. These houses, in which it was not uncommon to see madmen chained to the wall with criminals, functioned as, “an order, of the monarchical and bourgeois order being organized in France during this period” (Foucault, M&C 38-45).

These prisons, in which power and violence were executed against the madman‟s body and mind, would give birth to the insane asylums of the nineteenth century, and to the psychiatric wards of today.

The view of the insane as failed rational beings, i.e.: humans, does not wane with subsequent generations, but, as Foucault notes, becomes justified in the nineteenth century with the rise of positivist approaches which sought to discover the organic aetiology of psychosis through scientific means (Foucault, M&C 242). The violence against these individuals culminates at the end of the nineteenth century with the birth of psychiatry, and in the writings of people like Emil Kraepelin (Hirst 98). Foucault sees psychiatry as the final outcome of a discourse on madness that has increasingly sought to label the insane as sick or degenerate in some way, and in its claim to medical objectivity and authority, legitimizes the violence against, and isolation of the madman.

38 M&C refers to Madness and Civilization: A History of Insanity in the Age of Reason. 92

The arguments expressed by both Breton and Foucault would help form the basis for the anti-psychiatric sentiment that permeates this movement. Cooper‟s definition of schizophrenia illustrates this point exactly:

. . . schizophrenia is a micro-social crisis situation in which the acts and

experiences of a certain person are invalidated by others for certain

intelligible cultural and micro-cultural (usually familial) reasons, to the

point where he is elected and identified as being „mentally ill‟ in a certain

way, and is then confirmed (by a specifiable but highly arbitrary labeling

process) in the identity „schizophrenic patient‟ by medical or quasi

medical agents. (2)

David Cooper, like the other members of the movement, stresses the inability of psychiatry to truly explain madness. As Foucault writes in Mental Illness and

Psychology, “Now, psychology has never been able to offer psychiatry what physiology gave to medicine: a tool of analysis that, in delimiting the disorder, makes it possible to envisage the functional relationship of this damage to the personality as a whole” (10).

Rather than offering the truth, psychiatry is seen as an artificial science that has developed in order to justify the incarceration and isolation of individuals who don‟t actively participate in an accepted social narrative.

The role of communication in madness is the defining feature in the works of

Bateson and Laing, both central figures in the anti-psychiatry movement. In their theories, Gregory Bateson‟s notion of the double bind, a fundamental miscommunication between the individual and the world around him, serves as the underlying cause for many psychological conditions, schizophrenia included. An extremely abridged 93 definition of the term might be such: two conditions placed upon an individual by another, which are contradictory in their nature and as such, it is impossible for both to be fulfilled. A simple example may be the mother‟s demand of her child, “I want you to love me of your own free will.” The child, when confronted with this demand, is left confused and “put on the spot,” to use Bateson‟s terminology (209). It cannot love of its own free will, without at the same time acting out of obedience to its mother. There is no way for the child to satisfy both of the mother‟s conditions, and it is therefore caught in what

Bateson calls a communicative tangle.

This communicative tangle is the essence of the double bind, as Bateson explains in Steps to an Ecology of Mind. In this book, he argues that there are three processes to human communication. The primary process includes mood-signs, such as happiness or anger, and is meant to be understood literally. The secondary process involves the simulations of mood-signs, such as sarcasm or a threatening fist, and should be understood metaphorically. The third process, the metacommunicative process, is the most evolved and elevated of the three, and allows for the correct interpretation and differentiation of the primary and secondary processes. The metacommunicative process frames the message, and indicates to the person with whom it is being communicated what they should focus on and how they should interpret it, enabling the receiver to,

“discriminate between mood-signs and those other signs which resemble them” (Bateson

189).

The success of metacommunication hinges on the recipient‟s own ability to perceive this metacommunicative level. Bateson realizes that this third level of communication is necessary for „normal‟ functioning within a society that works with 94 both literal and metaphorical communication. A failure to differentiate between the two leads to a communicative tangle, a double bind. For individuals who, as children, repeatedly find themselves such tangles, the double bind comes to define their relationship with the world. This is the case for schizophrenia, a psychological state in which individuals lose their way in the everyday discourse of society, and live in a constant state of confusion and anxiety, unsure as to how to interpret or understand the events around them (Bateson 208-16).39

39 Bateson‟s theory stems from his research as an anthropologist. The seeds for the theory were planted in 1952, on a visit to the Fleischhacker Zoo in San Francisco, during which Bateson observed two monkeys playing, “i.e., engaged in an interactive sequence of which the unit actions or signals were similar to but not the same as those of ” (Bateson 179). From this playful interaction, Bateson postulates three levels, or processes of communication in primates, humans included. The primary process is the literal level of communication, whereby there can be no doubt as to the message that is being sent. Bateson gives the example of war, or fighting. In a fight, the threat is not metaphorical, but an immediate and literal message that requires the appropriate fight or flee response from an individual. The secondary process is the metaphorical level, in which a communicative act resembles a literal act, but has a wholly different meaning. Keeping with his earlier example, Bateson uses the notion of play fighting or threats (a clinched fist) to illustrate this second level. During play fighting, the message is not one of danger, but one of jest. “I am only kidding, won‟t you take part in my game?” The metaphorical significance is only possible, however, if there exists a third communicative process that serves to interpret the first and second levels. After considering the monkeys, Bateson writes, “Now, this phenomenon, play, could only occur if the participant organisms were capable of some degree of metacommunication, i.e., of exchanging signals which would carry the message „this is play‟” (179). Thus a clinched fist is interpreted as a game, rather than as impending danger which requires immediate and decisive action. Likewise, the metacommunicative level allows an individual to correctly interpret aggression as a literal act, i.e. of the primary level, rather than as a metaphorical act of play. Bateson sees the development of the metacommunicative process as, “a stage of evolution – the precipitated when organisms, having eaten the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge, discover that their signals are signals” (179), capable of being, “trusted, distrusted, falsified, denied, amplified, corrected, and so forth” (178). This seems to suggest that the schizophrenic inability to participate in the metacommunicative process is in part due to an under-evolved mind, and one wonders whether the anti-psychiatric approach to the disease, much of which rests on Bateson‟s theories, isn‟t the 95

The distress and uncertainty caused by a double bind is taken up in R.D. Laing‟s

The Divided Self. Laing theorizes that individuals, whose realities are defined by a double bind, live constantly in a state in which their ego, or in Laing‟s terms “true self,” is under attack from the outside world (76). Their inability to correctly interpret the communicative narrative means that their actions, if stemming from their true self, may betray the true self‟s confusion and alienation to the outside world, thereby threatening its ontological security. To avoid this risk, this threat to the true self, certain individuals undergo a process of unembodiment (Laing 76).

The unembodied individual experiences his or her body as an external object. It becomes a false self, a mask with which certain individuals can face the external world.

Rather than risking their true self, unembodied individuals use this mask as a buffer against the dangers of reality. The personality with which they face the world is not their own, but a role that they are playing. Likewise, if this outer persona is threatened, it is of no consequence, since it is nothing more than a defense mechanism. Simply put, if the false self is threatened, then it has performed its duty. The splitting of the mind, characteristic of schizophrenia (schizo = split), is a continuous process in Laing‟s formula. Whereas the first false self is established as a buffer against an external and threatening reality, its function as a mask eventually dissolves. At a point, Laing claims, this external self will become so closely related with the external world, that it too will come to be seen as a threat to the true self. When this happens, the true self cannot help but establish yet another false self, a second persona that stands as a buffer against the great liberating project it professes to be, but exhibits a similar condescension to that of psychoanalysis‟ regression theory, or Kraepelin‟s view of imminent dementia and imbecility. 96 first false self, which has now become indistinguishable from the outside world. In this way, the true self is continuously buried under layer after layer of false identities and masks, in the futile hope that it will at some point be wholly protected from an outside reality that is ever encroaching (Laing 67-81).

The schizophrenic personality, for both Bateson and Laing, is a result of a communicative breakdown between the social world and the individual. Rather than shackling the schizophrenic with the clinical diagnosis of schizophrenia, implying illness,

Bateson and Laing hope to prove that this personality is not an organic disease, nor the result of damage to the cerebral cortex, but rather a process of failed communication and interpretation that makes the individual‟s successful integration into society extremely difficult. The schizophrenic mind is not guided by a rationale commonly agreed upon and communicated by society, one, as Foucault would argue, that is born out of a discourse of power, the authority of which is justified solely by the Machiavellian argument that power is rite. Rather, schizophrenic thinking has become unmoored from practical and communicative concerns, and allows them to make odd and bizarre association and connections, what Bateson calls “unlabeled ” (205), an associative labiality that, for the anti-psychiatrists, represents a mental freedom not experienced by most people. This notion of freedom has echoes of Breton‟s creative power of the unconscious, and forms the basis for Deleuze and Guattari‟s theory of schizoanalysis.40

40 The use of schizoanalysis in secondary literature, in connection with discussions of clinical schizophrenia, is tricky and can quickly become misleading. In the theory, schizophrenia seems at once to be a for a revolutionary process and the clinical psychic state of the liberated man. The repeated mention of the most famous of schizophrenics, Schreber, Wölfli, and Artraud, imply the romanticizing of the disease. So too do many sections seem to pronounce the sanity of the insane. “Our society produces 97

The schizophrenic is the symbolic hero of Deleuze and Guattari‟s theoretical work Anti-Oedipus: Capitalism and Schizophrenia. Of central importance to the theory introduced in the book, which they term schizoanalysis, is mankind‟s insatiable desire to make connections and associations. Our psyche, as well as society in general, is founded upon, and driven by desiring machines, through which a productive energy is constantly flowing. “Everything is production,” claim Deleuze and Guattari (4), and as the world is a collection of interconnected desiring machines, the productive energy flows from one machine to another, dissolving any distinction between self and other, or inside and outside. The subject, through participation in this continuous production of production, is absorbed into a larger system of social and economic production, and becomes “defined by the states through which it passes” (D&G 20) 41 . The focal point of social and economic systems, the socius, “lays claim to the productive forces and distributes the agents of production” for the social investment of desire (D&G 142). Thus is the productive energy of the individual annexed and reappropriated for social investment.

Capitalism is a social system, which works differently from any other that has come before it. Unlike despotism or tribal systems, which have clearly defined socii, the schizos the same way it produces Prell shampoo or Ford cars, the only difference being that the schizos are not salable. … Why does it make the schizophrenic into a sick person – not nominally but in reality? Why does it confine its madmen and madwomen instead of seeing in them its own heroes and heroines, its own fulfillment?” (245). However, Deleuze and Guattari at the same time stress the difference between the revolutionary schizophrenia that they have described, and the clinical schizophrenia from which so many people suffer. “The schizo is not revolutionary, but the schizophrenic process . . . is the potential for revolution” (341). The clinical schizophrenic can not be revolutionary, because s/he can not exist but “in the void,” in isolation. The revolutionary nature of the schizophrenic process lies in its potential to exist among and against social production, subverting it from within (Holland 101). 41 D&G refers to Deleuze and Guattari. 98 socius in capitalism is capital itself.42 Because the goal of the desiring machine becomes capital, or in more general terms, abstract production at large, there is a flexibility and vulnerability in the system that has never existed before. The abstract nature of capitalism creates a socius characterized by shifts and transformations. As one form of capital production becomes obsolete, another form moves into its place, and the socius changes.

The process of shifting modes of production is one of continuous decoding and recoding, by which the desiring machines are liberated momentarily from any specific socius through the process of decoding, only to be redirected to a new socius, albeit necessarily for a limited time, through the process of recoding (D&G 223-25). Capitalism is in a constant state of fluctuation, and Deleuze and Guattari see this instability as a moment of opportunity for the individual to become free (240-61).

Whereas society is repeatedly decoded and recoded under capitalism, so too is the psyche of the individual, which, because its productive energy has been annexed and incorporated into the system, also follows the ebb and flow of production. The process of change that the psyche undergoes is termed deterritorialization and reterritorialization.

When the socius changes, the psyche is deteritorialized momentarily, only to be reappropriated through the processes of reterritorialization (245). The brief moment

42 Tribal systems and despotism, social systems that precede capitalism, have more stable and established socii. In the tribal system, the socius is defined by lateral tribal relationships, maintained vertically by different patrilineages, and laterally through “a continuing chain of debt relationships of an economic kind” (Leach, qtd. in D&G 146). In despotism, the alliance and debt relationships of the tribal system are transformed into a socius of direct filiation. “The despot challenges the lateral alliances and the extended filiations of the old community. He imposes a new alliance system and places himself in direct filiation with the deity: the people must follow” (D&G 192). Thus are the productive forces of the individual meted wholly to the king. 99 between deterritorialization and reterritorialization is a schizoid moment of freedom for

Deleuze and Guattari. They argue that in this state, the individual‟s desiring machine is free. S/he is able, as an individual, to make associations and connections that are not governed by any external logic or rationale. Their minds are not constrained by social expectations, but may roam freely, liberated from the bonds of reality, tradition, morals, or any other „standard‟ that has achieved a position of authority. In other words, they lack a controlling socius, and their productive energy is bound solely to their own liberated desire. Unfortunately, this freedom is only momentary, as the individual‟s mind is quickly reterritorialized with the establishment of a new socius. The schizo, in Deleuze and Guattari‟s theory, holds the position of the liberated individual who has been able to resist the reterritorialization from which the rest of us suffer, and as such, he represents a process that is potentially revolutionary (341, 380). Deleuze and Guattari have turned the tables on society, for it is now the schizophrenic who is truly free, and the „healthy,‟

„normal‟ individual whose mind is imprisoned (245).

The goal of anti-psychiatry is twofold. In striving to liberate the madman from the straitjacket of psychiatry, it hopes, through invalidating the social narrative‟s rite to authority, to open up a pathway for the unconscious to profess its existence. But what are the costs of such a project, and where do these theories eventually lead? Sass is critical of the anti-psychiatric approach, because he sees it as a bedfellow of both psychoanalysis and psychiatry. For the anti-psychiatrists, he writes, schizophrenia stands for, “life as against mind, instinct (the “desiring machines”) as against oppressive self-consciousness, the freedom of “nomad thought” as against the illusions of logic and self control” (“ISF”

8). Sass sees this romanticized view of schizophrenia as all too similar to the basic tenets 100 of psychoanalysis and psychiatry. Does not the nomadic and anti-rational mind proposed by anti-psychiatry recall the regression and infantilism of psychoanalysis, or the waning of mental capacity argued for in psychiatry? We may also ask whether it is not Bateson who writes that the capacity for metacommunication is an evolutionary trait, implying a primitivity of the schizophrenic mind? Though their valuation of the dimming of rationality may differ, all three approaches seem to share a similar view as to the nature of the schizophrenic mind: it is a state of wildness, unburdened by logic or social conventions (Sass, “IFS” 8).

The avant-gardists and antipsychiatrists have emphasized the positive side – excess of passion, vitality, and imagination – yet they, no less than the traditional analysts, assume that the schizophrenic lacks the self-control, awareness of social convention, and reflexivity of “civilized” consciousness. . . . At the deepest level, then, all three of these models – psychiatric, psychoanalytic, and avant-gardist – share the assumption that schizophrenic pathology must involve a loss of what, in the west, has long been assumed to be the most essential characteristics of mind or subjectivity: the capacities for logic and abstract thinking, for self-reflection, and for the exercise of free will (Sass, M&M 22-23).

Louis A. Sass

In his consideration of the prevailing theories on schizophrenia, Sass returns to his own extensive experience as a psychiatrist and finds that his patients fail to conform to the demented, wildly unrefined, or childlike images expounded upon by the traditional 101 approaches, and that the latter are thus unable to provide convincing and satisfactory explanations of the condition. The negative symptoms in particular, he argues, seem to run counter to the “id incarnate postulated by the primitivity and Dionysian models”

(M&M 24).43 The characteristic flatness of affect, one of earliest defined features of the disease, is a prime example. Schizophrenic patients often appear to be devoid of any emotion, displaying little to no desire. Kraepelin refers to a “peculiar and fundamental want of any strong feelings of the impressions of life,” and saw this void as one of the most fundamental qualities of dementia praecox (qtd. in Sass, M&M 24). Likewise, the frequent outbursts of laughter that is often associated with schizophrenia, strike one as somehow stilted and affected, lacking any sense of joy or abandonment.44 This, as Sass observes, diverges sharply from any notion of the unfettered id.

While the affect-less quality of schizophrenic behavior and laughter, and the corresponding lack of desire, seem inconsistent with both the psychoanalytic and anti- psychiatric theories, Sass also sees the variability of schizophrenic cognitive functioning and performance as anomalous with the traditional psychiatric model, which postulates the progressive weakening of the schizophrenic mind. While schizophrenics often do

43 Schizophrenic symptoms are classified as either positive or negative. Negative symptoms include those which present a “diminishment of normal forms of behaviour or expression.,” including flatness of affect, poverty of speech, lack of socially appropriate behavior and an apathy towards surrounding environments (“NS” 303). Positive symptoms, classified as secondary symptoms, are often phenomena of production, including hallucinations and delusions. These secondary symptoms, which E. Bleuler refers to as accessory symptoms, are often the cause for hospitalization, but because they are not present in all patients, are not as reliable as negative symptoms where diagnosis is concerned. Thus, Sass observes that negative symptoms have become increasingly important in the diagnosis of schizophrenia, for the simple reason that they occur in nearly all cases, particularly the early stages (“NS” 303-04). 44 Eugen Bleuler too sees affect-less laughter as an important and often early sign of the disease (301). 102 more poorly, and work more slowly than do non-schizophrenics on tests of cognitive functioning, their performance may also at times be far superior. Sass notes that a patient, who may struggle with simple subtraction, may a moment later show no difficulty in solving much more complex arithmetic problems. The level and quality of cognitive performance, he notes, does not seem to correlate with the difficulty of the task at hand

(Sass, M&M 24-25).

In fact, it appears that while patients often do very well with intellectual issues, it is with practical modes of thought that they tend to struggle, particularly those which require interpretation of the social world (Sass, “NS” 306)45. Martin Brüne, in his study of theory of mind in schizophrenia, comes to a similar conclusion. He observes that schizophrenics show a deficiency in being able to crosscheck their perceived reality against actual reality, in other words to interpret signals from the social environment around them which may either support or refute their assumptions (21). 46 Thus, the demented and incapacitated mind, so often associated with the illness, is not the ever- present and defining feature it appears to be in the psychiatric model.

45 “NS” refers to “Negative Symptoms.” 46 The term theory of mind (ToM) refers to the evolutionary development in primates to read social clues and infer and interpret one‟s own mental state, as well as those of others. Relevant contextual information is separated from irrelevant information, allowing a person to asses another‟s mental state, guess at the nature of their thoughts or beliefs, and successfully read their facial and bodily expressions. As such, a properly functioning ToM is necessary for social integration and for participation in communicative processes. Brüne argues that ToM deficiencies are a trait in schizophrenia, and may explain patients‟ difficulty in distinguishing between subjectivity and objectivity, as well as their communicative breakdowns (25). The affinities between Bateson‟s theories and those of ToM are apparent, and a similar critique of condescension may be leveled against the latter, for the implication is that the schizophrenic‟s ToM deficits result from a certain want of evolved cognitive capacities. 103

The greatest deficiency that Sass sees in the three approaches that we have been discussing lies in their inability to account for the overwhelming heterogeneity of the illness as a whole. The taxonomic classification of psychiatry fails to account for the myriad of oppositional symptoms displayed. Likewise, theories of regression do not explain patients who may demonstrate literal and animistic ways of thinking one day, but are given to highly abstract thought the next. Each approach, when applied in treatment, will after time seem to run counter to the truth (Sass, M&M 25).

Schizophrenics can be hypersensitive to human contact but also indifferent. They can be pedantic or capricious, idle or diligent, irritable or filled with an all-encompassing yet somehow empty hilarity. They can experience a rushing flow of ideas or a total blocking; and their actions, thoughts, and perceptions can seem rigidly ordered or controlled . . . but at other times chaotic and formless. . . . This illness therefore defies all attempts to bring its features within the grasp of any overarching theory or model . . . .

(Sass, M&M 26)

On the surface it may appear as if Sass shares Jaspers‟ view of the un- understandability of schizophrenia. But unlike Jaspers, Sass is not satisfied with labeling the syndrome as bizarre and completely beyond comprehension. His goal is to offer an interpretation that addresses both the diversity and the alienness of schizophrenic symptoms, one that explicates their imposing heterogeneity without downplaying their often strange and off-putting qualities, while at the same time allowing for a sympathetic, fair, and non-condescending understanding of the schizophrenic patient.

Psychiatry, anti-psychiatry, and psychoanalysis did not evolve inside an hermetic bubble, but are part of the much larger western narrative on madness, one that stretches 104 back thousands of years. Homer gives us antiquity‟s most infamous madman in the very first lines of the European canon. “Sing, O goddess, the anger of Achilles son of Peleus, that brought countless ills upon the Achaeans” (1). Dionysian hysteria possesses the women of Euripides‟ Bacchae, as they tear their young king to pieces in an animalistic frenzy. The insanity of Rinaldo, in Tasso‟s Divided, is a direct result of his submission to the lowly pleasures of the body. Throughout the history of the western world, madness has been associated with a shift from good to evil, from high to low, from human to animal, from civilization to nature, and from thought to emotion. Thus, psychoanalytic regression, psychiatric dementia, and even the liberated schizophrenic of anti-psychiatry adhere to the western narrative, in which insanity resides, “in the depths of our souls, in those primitive strata where the human being becomes beast and the human essence dissolves in the universal well of desire” (Sass, M&M 4).

This tradition, however great and enduring, has not succeeded in unveiling the truth behind madness. Nowhere is this more evident than in the case of schizophrenia.

Therefore, Sass wonders whether a whole scale reevaluation of the myth behind madness isn‟t necessary. “What if madness, in at least some of its forms, were to derive from a heightening rather than a dimming of conscious awareness, and an alienation not from reason but from the emotions, instincts, and the body?” (M&M 4).47 Sass‟ theory revolves around the compulsive reflexivity and “hypertrophy of consciousness” that he has seen again and again in his treatment of schizophrenic patients (“ISF” 26). His clinical

47 Sass‟ theory on schizophrenia stands in opposition to the dominant theories of the 1960s and 70s in that it postulates that the schizophrenic, far from living in perpetual distraction, is overly alert and attentive, in fact hyperaware of the most precise details of the world around him (Sass, “Disturbance” 64). 105 experience, and analysis of what his patients say and write, has led him to believe that the schizophrenic mind is characterized not by shadows and chaos, nor regression or the dimming of cognitive faculties, but by a brilliant and gleaming light that promises to deliver truth and illumination. Patients feel as if they have had the most profound revelations, and understand the deepest meanings of the world. Gérard de Nerval describes the clarity of his psychotic breaks: “It struck me I knew everything; everything was revealed to me, all the secrets of the world were mine during those spacious hours”

(qtd. in Sass, M&M 6).

This feeling of omniscience is accompanied by an overwhelming need to uncover the deepest truths, wherever they may be hidden. Patients often describe their state as one of permanent wakefulness, a hyperawareness and hyperreflexivity that transforms them into, “a sort of corpse with insomnia,” in which thoughts are, “electric – heated up and intensified” (Sass, M&M 8). The world appears to undergo some consequential change, and is revealed to them as never before, the so called apophanous mood.48 Fascinated by this new way of seeing, schizophrenics engage the world with an intense and compulsory mode of observation, in which it is felt that there is a meaningful secret to be discovered just below the surface of reality (Sass, M&M 43-44). This hyperreflexivity, as Sass writes, can explain many of the negative symptoms that are so critical in diagnosing schizophrenia, and may very well be one of the most salient features of the syndrome

(“NS” 304). As to the delineation of schizophrenia‟s origins, Sass offers no concrete explanation. He denies the traditional psychiatric postulation that the source is wholly

48 This term was coined by the German psychiatrist Klaus Conrad, and stems from the Greek word apohany, meaning “to become manifest.” See in this regard the English word epiphany. 106 organic in nature, but does not deny that genetic factors and brain trauma may play a role in the manifestation of schizophrenic symptoms. Schizophrenics, he argues, may be predisposed towards the syndrome, but should not be considered ill or diseased. Theirs is a unique way of being-in-the-world, different yes, but not dysfunctional.

Likewise, Sass does not attribute these phenomena exclusively to psychological reactions to social or cultural engagement, but at the same time stresses that theories of interaction with socio-cultural factors, be they familial, economic, or other in nature, can and should not be rejected in toto (M&M 396-97). In this regard, Sass focuses on the parallel development of schizophrenic symptoms and early modernism. Citing anthropological and psychiatric sources, he notes that cases of schizophrenia do not appear to exist in any significant number before the end of the eighteenth century, at which time Europeans were leaving behind traditional rural communities, and adopting the impersonal and atomized lifestyle of the city (“TCM” 206)49. Likewise, schizophrenia appears to become more prevalent with the development and spread of modern self- consciousness and introspection, which places the human mind above all other objects of study.

Consider, first, the emphasis on disengagement and self-consciousness in

the conduct of daily life that was encouraged by philosophers such as

Descartes, Locke, and Kant, [and] by psychologies such as nineteenth-

century introspectionism and twentieth-century psychoanalysis . . . .With

this detachment comes a new ethical imperative: that we refrain from

49 “TCM” refers to “The Consciousness Machine: Self and Subjectivity in Schizophrenia and Modern Culture.” 107

simply inhabiting our traditions, habits, and presuppositions and instead

subject them to radical scrutiny and revision. (“TCM” 218)

As the nineteenth and twentieth centuries progressed, so too did the importance of introspection and self-referentiality increase, reaching a fevered pitch in the twentieth century, with the movements of , psychoanalysis, and surrealism.

Paralleling this phenomenon was a steady increase in the number of schizophrenic cases, so that by the 1990s, schizophrenia had come to be, “the quintessential form of madness in our time” (Sass, M&M 13).

The rise of schizophrenia can be traced not only historically, but also culturally, as it appears to be more prevalent, and manifested more severely in western societies.50

Referencing international studies on psychotic individuals by the World Health

Organization, Sass writes that there appears to be a statistical correlation between modern western civilization and the most severe cases of schizophrenia, “with its more persistent, severely autistic or bizarre forms (i.e., those widely viewed as the most clear- cases)”

(“TCM” 217).51 Sass also sees the characteristic phenomena shared between twentieth-

50 In support of this argument, we may look at the research done by Bhurga et al., which notes that the rate of schizophrenia in African-Caribbeans in Trinidad is significantly lower than that of second generation African-Caribbeans living in London. Mahy et al. produce similar results in their study of schizophrenia on the island of Barbados, and report that the island rate of schizophrenia is less than half that of African- Caribbeans living in London. 51 Research being done at the forefront of neurosciences may also shed light on this phenomenon. As Doidge notes in his study of neurplasticity, the physical structure of the brain, and the way in which it comprehends the world around it, is to an extent formed by the culture in which the individual resides. “Neuroplastic research has shown us that every sustained activity ever mapped – including physical activities, sensory activities, learning, thinking, and imagining – changes the brain as well as the mind. Cultural ideas and activities are no exception . . . So a neuroplastically informed view of culture and the 108 century artistic expression and the schizophrenic mind, including ego-splitting, the inadequacy of language, aesthetic self-referentiality, and multiplicity of perspectives, as possible evidence of common roots in modern society.

Sass‟ approach to schizophrenia is thus both biological and histo-cultural, whereby an individual‟s proclivity for schizophrenic symptoms, primary among them hyperawareness and hyperreflexivity, is nurtured and amplified by a post-enlightenment world that encourages introspection and self-reflexive awareness. Sass also resists designating schizophrenia as a disease, and in this way hopes to liberate the schizophrenic from the terminology of illness and insanity. Here he is sympathetic to the anti-psychiatric project, as in his model schizophrenia simply becomes yet another way of being and thinking in the world, albeit one that deviates significantly from the norm, and one that can be both alienating and emotionally painful for everyone involved - for the afflicted and for those who care for them. His balance of organic and cultural factors offers a potential bridge between psychiatry and anti-psychiatry, and this prospect makes

Sass‟ model intriguing not only for psychiatrists, but also for the humanities, which, in its reflection on schizophrenia, has often become lost in the utopian and theoretical approaches of anti-psychiatry, while giving little heed to advances made on the biological front. Unlike psychiatry and anti-psychiatry, however, Sass is adamant about recognizing the maturity and intelligence of the schizophrenic patient. His clinical experience has shown him that schizophrenics are neither demented nor completely unhinged, but marked, rather, by a hyperreflexivity and compulsive need to probe the truths of their brain implies a two-way street: the brain and genetics produce culture, but culture also shapes the brain. Sometimes these changes can be dramatic” (288). 109 own minds, and of the world around them. Sass‟ madman is not the uncontrolled, animalistic, Dionysian wildman of the western myth of insanity, and in this way, he has perhaps extended the anti-psychiatric project of liberation.

110

3. LANGUAGE EXPERIMENTS

“. . . doch ich experimentierte auf sprachlichem Gebiet in der Hoffnung, in der Sprache sei irgendwelche unbekannte Lebendigkeit vorhanden, die es eine Freude sei zu wecken.” – Robert Walser

Robert Walser wrote “Stil” in the early spring of 1926. Presenting no plot, the text is less a narrative than a three page essay on style. Thoughts and associations seem to come and go freely, leaving behind a work that upon initial read appears to suffer from the author‟s rambling. It provides, however, a model example of Walser‟s style and serves as an introduction to a discussion on the origins of the author‟s unique syntax. The text opens with the words, “Stil ist eine Art Betragen,” establishing an awareness of rules and precepts as central to the notion of style (BG 4: 175)52. It is behavior, demeanor, conduct, and the presentation of self to the world. Style becomes an act, yet it remains elusive and can be added to the list of Walser‟s slippery concepts that defy definition.

“Stil ist eine Art Betragen. Einer, der sich gut benimmt, hat Stil. Am Nil gab es seinerzeit einen Stil, nämlich den der alten Ägypter” (BG 4: 175).The initial direction of the essay is forged by a rhyming sequence, as the word “Stil” reverberates with “Nil,” which in turn calls to mind the style of the ancient Egyptians. The acoustics of language,

52 BG refers to Aus dem Bleistiftsgebiet

111 including rhyming and alliteration, are given special consideration in Walser‟s stylistics.

In “Stil,” however, rhyming is now abandoned for a string of associations that carry the text forward. Thoughts on the style of ancient Egypt instigate an historical discussion that is driven by associations including the styles of Greece, , Italy, Mexico, and Iran.

Historical associations are then replaced by categorical associations, and a listing of different forums for styles. “Es gibt einen Stil im persönlichen Auftreten, einen Stil in der

Politik, einen Stil nicht zuletzt auch in der Schriftstellerei . . . Man spricht von stilisierten

Dienern . . .” (BG 4: 176).

Categorical associations are then displaced by what one might call ambiguous associations. “So z.B. kennt man einen Jugend- und einen Alters-, gleichsam also einen morgendlichen und einen lebensabendlichen Stil. Ein Zarter und Sanfter kann ebensogut seinen eigentümlichen Stil an den Tag legen wie Säftestrotzende und Starke” (BG 4:

176). Here, the author provides very little that is tangible or that grants the reader orientation, and each of the terms above falls short of any solid reference or significance.

A possible allusion to Der Jugendstil, to which Walser‟s earlier work has at times been linked53, and with which his contemporaries would have been familiar, is revealed simply

53 Some of Walser‟s earliest success came with his move to Munich in 1901. Through his connections with , Walser became a active member of the literary circle centered around “Die Insel,” the literary voice for the Jugendstil movement. Among numerous poems and prose pieces published in the journal, Walser also published dramalettes including “Aschenbrödel” and “Schneewittchen,” the latter of which is among his most unique and widely discussed creations. While in Munich, Walser befriended other authors the likes of Richard Dehmel, Max Dauthendy, and , and during this time sharpened his own literary skills, prompting the journal‟s editor to label him a “Shakespeare enfant” (Mächler 65). Despite his success, however, Walser felt uncomfortable in Munich. “In München hatte ich einige literarische Persönlichkeiten von Rang und Belang bestens kennengelernt, aber ich hatte seltsame, drückende Empfindungen bei den künstlerischen und literarischen Assembleen, für die ich nicht recht 112 as a youthful style when contrasted with the satisfactorily vague “Altersstil.” Equally amorphous are the “morgendliche” and “lebensabendliche” styles, or those of the

“Säftestrotzende.” “Stilarten gibt es natürlich mehrere,” he writes (BG 4: 176). What style actually is, however, remains hidden. “Stil ist etwas, was von sehr vielen nicht begriffen worden ist und auch fernerhin nicht erfaßt wird” (BG 4: 176). So Walser returns to the behavior behind the style to find its source.

“Unter Stil versteht man aber immer eine Gebändigtheit und ein Behagen, das aus dieser Beherrschtheit hervorkommt und –strömt. Ungezwungenheiten können und müssen sogar aus einem Zwang stammen. Wer sich einem gewissen Zwang unterwirft, darf sich irgendwie gehenlassen (BG 4: 176). Servitude, a motif found throughout

Walser‟s writing, arises here as the underlying source and necessary condition for style.

Walser‟s own style has been described by some as arabesque, by others as imitated improvisation. He himself declared a desire to dance with words. Yet something must reside underneath this free floating, improvised style, to which the author remains bound.

In his search for the origins of style, Walser writes, “Stil bedeutet Sinn für Kultur. Mit der Kultur beginnt die Geschichte. Der ungeschichtliche Mensch unterscheidet sich vom geschichtlichen dadurch, daß er sich noch keinerlei Stil leistete. . . . Immerhin ersann er etwas ganz Wunderbares: die Sprache” (BG 4: 177-78).

taugte. . . nur so viel weiß ich: mich trieb es aus allen Salons, wo Feinheit und Exküsen herrschen, fort in die offene Welt, wo Wind, Wetter, grobe Worte, unsanfte barsche Manieren und alle Rücksichtlosigkeiten und Rauheiten regieren . . . All das Tadellose, schnurgerade, tipptoppe, elegante Benehmen flößte mir hauptsächlich nur Kummer und eine Sorte Furcht ein” (SW 6: 36). For a discussion of Walser‟s connections to der Jugendstil, see Kellenberger‟s published dissertation as well as reactions to her work by Gronau and by Tamara Evans (“„A in Prosa‟”). 113

“Die Sprache,” following the colon‟s pause, is set apart from the rest of the text and holds a place of special significance. Primitive man busies himself only with survival, Walser writes. Yet he nevertheless creates language, a feat for which the author expresses his admiration. “Mühe muß ihm das ja sicher bereitet haben. Man vermag sich hiervon kaum eine annähernd genügende Vorstellung zu machen. Bis er nur erst Feuer anzufachen lernte, mögen Jahrtausende vergangen sein” (BG 4: 178). With the wonderful complexity of language, primitive man separates himself from nature and locates himself in a temporal narrative. Speaking of the past, present and future, he ceases to be ahistorical. Language is the genesis of history and resides at the core of culture, and style, defined as having a sense of culture, is revealed as an awareness and perception of language.

“Ich erkläre es jedenfalls für ein Vergnügen, Stilgefühl zu haben. Ich muß das ja wissen, denn es ist bekannt, daß ich im Besitz eines Stiles bin” (BG 4: 178). Walser‟s style can be found in his sense of language itself, in the very “Sprache” conceived of by man. “Stil” is a text guided by the notion of style, and by the word itself in all of its rhymes and associations, both semantic and contextual. It attests to the author‟s awareness of, and obedience to language; while an essay on style as such, it is also an exercise in the author‟s own stylistics, and embodies much of what has come to be understood as Walserian.

The analysis of Robert Walser‟s stylistics begins with a close look at his unique approach to language, as much has been made of it over the past century, both by scholars and fellow authors. It has been called a “Sprache des Nächstliegenden,” “eine

Poetik des Experiments, “Nonesense Poesie” a mixture between “eine franziskanische 114

Predigt und (dem) Monolog eines Wahnsinnigen,” and “unverbindlich wie Seifenblasen.”

What is true is that Walser‟s singular writing is recognizable at a glance and is as slippery as the polished ice of an alpine peak. It is built on the rickety scaffolding of paradox, subjunctive voice, ambiguity, self negation, and the derailment of plot by tangential associations. But can one claim, as does his namesake , that Robert

Walser‟s prose defies definition? “Robert Walser schlägt einem von Mal zu Mal die

Instrumente kaputt, mit denen man ihn erklären will.” (14)? This work suggests that there is a common foundation for all of these phenomena, which on the surface appear incongruous. Unearthing it requires a consideration of the process of hyperreflexivity.

At the core of the hyperreflexive mind is a spirit compelled to question the truth and validity of the world around it. A descendant of Kant‟s categories of understanding and a Nietzschean nihilism in which there exists no external truth save that which originates in the individual, the modern mind, both artistic and schizophrenic, suffers from what has been described as a loss of trust in the natural self-evidence of the external world (Sass, “NS” 305). The terminology is borrowed from the German psychiatrist

Wolfgang Blankenburg, whose Verlust der Natürlichen Selbstverständlichkeit describes the subjective dimension of the mind, for which the “commonsense orientation to reality, with its unquestioned sense of obviousness and unproblematic background quality,” is lost (Sass, “NS” 305).

With such a loss of trust in a significant external reality comes a reconsideration of communal systems and norms, instigating a macrosocial observation and wholesale reevaluation of the governing narratives of society. This can in some instances lead to a mistrust of these norms, and a difficulty, if not impossibility, in taking for granted the 115 legitimacy and authority of social rules, resulting at times in antisocial and misanthropic behavior. It can also produce an intensified focus on aspects of the external world not salient to everyday life, and which are thus overlooked by ordinary citizens. For the hyperreflexive mind, little goes unnoticed or unquestioned. This can create alienating experiences in which even the smallest things become objects of study and reflection

(Sass, “NS” 306-07). Communication and successful functioning within society thus becomes difficult for individuals equally unconvinced by cultural frameworks, as they are intrigued and delayed by the most trivial of details.

When harnessed artistically, however, this same loss of trust can manifest itself into beautiful works, which as Sass argues, is the case for many of the canonical artworks of the modernist period. In particular, Sass sees this in the avant-garde paintings of surrealism, , and , and in the theories of Russian formalism, in which the formal aspects of shape and color, or the context of time and space are negated. The goal of this art was a coup of the familiar, automized, numbing perceptions of reality. “In order to do this, it seems necessary to destroy, not memory itself, but all the ways in which memory usually provides an implicit framework, or omnipresent, constantly updated set of expectations or schemas that guides normal forms of awareness” (Sass,

M&M 63).

The effects that mistrust in the credentials of social contracts has on language and thought process can be dramatic. Sass writes of a general desocialization that affects the individual‟s mind. Characterizing this desocialization is the individual‟s difficulty in monitoring his or her thought process. Traditionally, psychiatry has viewed this as an inability for abstract thinking and as a complete failure of logic (Sass, M&M 122-23). 116

Sass shows, however, that the difficulty that schizophrenics have seems not to be with logic, but rather in their ability to consider all possibilities of a situation, or rather, that all is possible in any given situation, the so-called “„pathological freedom‟ of schizophrenic thinking” (Sass, M&M 127). 54 “One might describe the central feature of the schizophrenic mind as a disconnectedness, an unmooring from practical concerns and accepted practices that allows consciousness to drift in unexpected and unintended directions, and to come to rest in strange orientations” (Sass, M&M 127). Where thought process is concerned, this can produce surprisingly novel, often off-putting phenomena like cryptic words and allusions, endless sentences, empty philosophizing, a lack of clear transition between thoughts and ideas, and a complete deictic breakdown (Sass, M&M

177).

Resulting as well from this mental unmooring is the autonomization of language, in which words lose their function as tools of communication and emerge instead as autonomous objects, subordinate to nothing and themselves the focus of attention and reflection. Rather than fulfill the communicative expectations of society, which have ceased to carry weight, the words come to exist of and for themselves. Once this independence of language is reached, language production comes to be guided not so

54 Here Sass‟ argument applies not only to schizophrenics, but also to those modernist artists who show hyperreflexive tendencies. He is careful throughout his work not to conflate the two groups, but emphasizes that they appear to share some psychic traits. When Sass‟ discussion of schizophrenia, schizophrenic traits, the schizophrenic mind, or schizophrenic individuals is referenced in the work at hand, I ask the reader to be aware that his arguments apply as well to that certain group of hyperreflexive artists, to which I believe Robert Walser belongs. Points solely addressing schizophrenia, or those valid only for these modernist artists, will be made explicate. 117 much by external frameworks functioning to facilitate communication, but by particular qualities inherent in the words themselves.

For instance, the language of schizophrenics is at times governed by glossomania, or the acoustic qualities of the individual words. Rhyming, rhythm, and alliteration become dominant features in linguistic organization. Sass gives the example of a patient who, when asked to identify a color, responded, “Looks like clay. Sounds like gray. Take you on a roll in the hay. Hay day. May day. Help” (M&M 178). Semantic connotations can also serve to steer the discourse, as evidenced by the transition between “may day” and “help” in the example above. In addition, individuals may be “hypersensitive to the polysemous nature of language,” producing puns or tangential associations that have little communicative function (M&M 178). Sass describes a patient, frustrated with language because each word sent him, “thinking in ten different directions at once” (M&M 178).

Thus the flow of language is guided by what are normally considered intrinsic and irrelevant features in the linguistic system, features that are generally overlooked. Those unburdened by hyperreflexivity avoid getting bogged down in the details of language, and retain the ability to function communicatively in society. For the rest, however, a loss of trust in the natural self-evidence of communicative systems can have the effect of alienating the individual from the process of language production, as the latter comes to seem an autonomous force of which they are simply a passive, albeit shrewd observer

(M&M 179).

For the poet Robert Walser, the reliability and truth of the outer world was an illusion. “One of Walser‟s ever-recurring themes centers on the notion that nothing can be ascertained with any degree of certainty. He has lost all confidence which allows a 118 person to declare that something is a certain way” (Cardinal 86). This lack of trust, as will become evident in coming chapters, extends to all aspects of the external and objective world. It is also a key element in the stylistics of his prose, as doubt is an underlying factor in his aesthetic production. “Wenn man nur recht weiß, wie wenig man weiß, kann es noch gut kommen,” he writes in Geschwister Tanner (SW 9: 248-49).

Language, as a system of linguistic rules that serves to give expression to the objective world, ceases to be obvious and unquestioned. Its ability to function as a medium of truth is lost to Walser, who can not help but question its authenticity. “Das

Verhältnis zwischen der Wirklichkeit der menschlichen Welt und dem reinen Sein ist gebrochen, sie repräsentiert es nicht, sondern ist seine Verfremdung, Verstellung . . . die echte Vermittlung des Allgemeinen mit dem Besonderen, des reinen Seins mit der

Erscheinung ist unmöglich . . . (Greven, Existenz 131-33). As language comes to be seen as separate from the idea, it becomes an object of observation for the poet, who in his writing focuses on its artificiality and highlights its superficial qualities.

For Walser, narrative observation, more specifically one marked by höchste

Aufmerksamkeit, was key to his productive process. His unique syntax reveals a heightened awareness and astute observation of the sounds of words, of their secondary and at times tertiary meanings, of puns, and of associations that can be drawn from them.

Much of what is seen in his prose, both in the earlier and latter periods, points to a hyperreflexivity akin to that proposed by Louis Sass.

Walser‟s works will be discussed in the context of characteristics of schizophrenic language. The characteristics that can be found throughout the author‟s corpus are clanging, derailment, empty content of speech, stilted speech, and word approximations. 119

Walser‟s language of possibility, what may be called his provisional phrasing, will also be addressed. A definition of terms is provided by N.C. Andreasen, whose article

“Thought, Language and Communication Disorders: I. Clinical Assessment, Definition of

Terms and Evaluation of Their Reliability,” has come to be the standard in most contemporary American studies of schizophrenic speech and thought disorder, and was accepted into glossary of the DSM III (McKenna and Oh 18-25).

Andreasen‟s research, which was purely descriptive in nature, came at a time when American psychiatry was, “in crisis” (McKenna and Oh 17). In the post-war period, the psychoanalytical movement in America had grown so large that almost every prominent position in psychiatry was held by a psychoanalyst, making psychoanalysis the

“basic science of psychiatry” (McKenna and Oh 17). The failures of psychoanalysis in diagnosing and treating the psychoses were outlined in Chapter 2, and by the time

Andreasen wrote her article in 1979, psychiatry was in desperate need of an overhaul.55

Andreasen provided clear, usable, descriptive, and for the most part uncontroversial terminology for the use in describing and diagnosing the psychoses, schizophrenia among them.

55 Psychiatry experienced a series of high profile and embarrassing misdiagnoses in the 1970s, almost all of them revolving around schizophrenia. McKenna and Oh mention a study by Cooper et al. as illustrative of the situation of psychiatry at this time. The international study compared the alarmingly high rate of diagnoses of schizophrenia by American psychiatrists in comparison to their European colleagues. The study revealed that the disparities, in some age groups as high as 10- to 20-fold, were the result of the American concept of schizophrenia, which was so broad and undefined as to include patients who in Europe would have been diagnosed as manic or depressed, or to be suffering from neurosis or personality disorder. Andreasen‟s article was a response to this problem, and has for the most part stood the test of time. 120

Clanging Clanging: “A pattern of speech in which sounds rather than meaningful relationships appear to govern word choice, so that the intelligibility of the speech is impaired and redundant words are introduced. In addition to rhyming relationships, this pattern of speech may also include punning associations, so that a word similar in sounds brings in a new thought.” (Andreasen 1320)

Clanging, or glossomania as it is referred to in some psychiatric texts, is one of the most distinctive features of schizophrenic language production. In his seminal book Dementia

Praecox oder Gruppe der Schizophrenien, Eugen Bleuler includes clang associations, those based on shared sounds, rhymes and/or partial rhymes, among his fundamental symptoms (24). 56 Schizophrenics often become sensitive to the sounds that words produce, “Looks like clay. Sounds like gray.” And frequently, the progression of discourse is dictated as much by acoustic associations as by any overarching theme (Sass,

M&M 178).

56 One of Eugen Bleuler‟s most important contributions to the psychiatric approach to schizophrenia was his division of symptoms into fundamental and accessory symptoms. Fundamental symptoms are those which are only found in schizophrenia. They are the basic phenomena that, when compounded, can bring about more complex symptoms, and accessory symptoms. Accessory symptoms are found not only in schizophrenia, but in other psychotic disorders as well, and as such, are less reliable in the diagnostic process. They are, however, often those symptoms that make successful integration into society extremely difficult and subsequently bring about hospitalization. Included among the accessory symptoms are hallucinations, delusions, and the catatonic symptoms (Raskin 231-32). The division of the fundamental and accessory symptoms is the direct result of Bleuler‟s descriptive approach to the affliction, which has exerted a continuing influence over psychiatric approaches. Andreasen, for example, explicitly states that her definitions are “written to describe speech and language disorders commonly accounted for in psychiatric patients without any attempt to characterize underlying cognitive processes” (1316). 121

This phenomenon in Walser‟s style has long since been addressed, most explicitly by Böschenstein in his article “Sprechen als Wandern.” Böschenstein argues that

Walser‟s later texts are held together not so much by a cohesive plot, but by linguistic associations, a style that he terms a “Sprache des Nächstliegenden” (20). There is at the core of Walser‟s style, he writes, a “Moment der Unvorhersehbaren, Antiselektiven . . . das aus einer Folge von Reimassoziationen besteht,” as the text comes to follow the

“Zufall von Reimzugehörigkeiten . . . die den Erzählverlauf entscheidend mitbestimmen”

(20). Böschenstein notes that the rhyming patterns constitute a text within the text, serving as signposts that mark the narrative progression, and in so doing add stability and structure to a nebulous prose (20). As an example, he selects the opening sentence from the story “Ich schlafe so brav.” “Ich schlafe so brav. Ich glaube, ich kann sagen, ich sei im Schlaf das reine Schaf. Ich finde übrigens rührend schön, wie eine gerwisse Judith vor noch nicht gar so schrecklich langer Zeit auf den Einfall hat kommen müssen, zu erklären: er kann brav küssen” (BG 1: 14). This excerpt is held together by the rhyming of “schlafe”/“brav,” “Schlaf”/“Schaf” and “müssen”/“küssen,” and as Böschenstein points out, the words “Schlaf” and “brav” continue to appear throughout the text, either as words or themes that carry the narrative forward.

Where pure rhymes are lacking, shared stem vowels, diphthongs, or consonant pairings may determine the direction of the prose. “Ich schwankte in eine Konditorei, und trank ins Wanken sogar noch Kognak. Zwei Musiker spielten mir zuliebe Grieg, aber der

Chef des Hauses erklärte mir den Krieg . . . ” (SW 8: 42). The rhythm produced by the repetition of the ank sound in “schwanken,” “trank,” and “Wanken,” and its approximation in the word “Kognak,” does as much to create an image of a tipsy drinker 122 as do the words themselves. Sound appears to be of primary concern, as Walser‟s style adopts a highly acoustic quality. As Susan Bernofsky writes, “sound not only takes precedent over sense, but seems to create its own sense, a meaning cut to fit its language, like a head to fit a hat” (“Unrelenting Tact” 82).

Where there is no sufficient rhyme to be found, new words may be coined, words that uphold the melody and resonate with the moment. “Er saß im besprochenen Garten lianenumwachsen, töneumschmetterlingelt und umschlingelt von den Schlingeleien seiner Liebe . . . ” ( SW 12: 26). The digraph sch seems to be one of Walser‟s favorites, and like a musical motif, it surfaces again and again in his writing. Another example from the Berner period reads: “Der junge Napoleon siegte schon als Schüler im Schulhof zu

Brienne in Schneeballschlachten. Schneemänner haben einen breiten Mund . . . ” (SW 8:

56).

Rhyming and alliteration appear to be more frequent in the later period, from which there are texts that present an astounding density of clang associations. The short story “Brief an Edith” provides a treasure trove of clanging. Already cited from once,

“Ich schwankte in eine Konditorei,” the opening paragraph will prove to be even more illustrative of the degree to which Walser‟s language is spurred on by sound.

Falls Du mir Gehör schenktest, würd‟ ich Dich wissen lassen, daß ich

beim Mitagessen, das aus Kaffee und Kuchen bestand, drei Wespen tötete.

Die Tat tut mir leid, aber sie machten mich mit ihren boshaft aussehenden

Leibern so nervös. Man überläßt nicht gern unverschämter Annäherung,

was man lieb hat, und so findest Du mein Verhalten vielleicht verzeihlich.

(SW 8: 39) 123

Acoustics hold court in these three sentences. The rhythm of “wissen lassen” is echoed by “Mittagessen,” and the coupling of “Kaffee” and “Kuchen” is a mere suggestion of the alliteration and consonance of the sequence, “tötete. Die Tat tut mir leid . . . .” Here, four words (“tötete,” “Tat,” “tut,” “leid”) produce eight repetitions of the “t” sound, with the article “Die” perhaps providing an imperfect ninth. The paragraph ends on a similar note, with the alliteration of “findest,” “Verhalten,” “vielleicht,” and “verzeihlich.” Walser is also keenly aware of the transformative possibilities provided by sound, seen in the acoustic evolution of “leid” to “Leibern” to “lieb.” The acoustic quality of the words reverberate louder than the actual event, the lunchtime killing of three wasps, creating a wave of sound upon which the narration rides.

Individual syllables may also be cause for word associations. Sass writes of a schizophrenic patient whose discourse was disrupted by a hypersensitivity to the sounds of word components. When writing about his father‟s demise, the patient began making references to his father‟s “dim eyes” (M&M 178). While this phenomenon is not as prevalent in Walser‟s writing as rhyming or alliteration, one does find an example in the short story “Zigarette,” in which a cigarette butt serves as the impetus for an essay on oppression:

Ich sah [die Zigarette]. Nicht, daß sie mir Mitleid einflößte. “Sie-kann

retten,” machte mich die Si-cha-rette denken. “Was das wohl für eine

wäre?” dachte ich weiter. “Sie retten gehen,” durchfuhr es mich mit

einmal. Also ein anderer Fall. Es existiert irgendwo eine Bedrängte, und

die Zigarette, die jemand vor mir fallen ließ, hat mich an sie erinnert.

(SW 17: 257) 124

In addition to word components, homophones present Walser with moments of association not guided solely by deixis, as when a city‟s pull, “mich mit seinen alten kalten und dennoch gewissermaßen warmen Armen mittelalterlich umfing. Ich warf ja dann auch in eine Sammelbüchse durch zweckdienlichen Schlitz ein Nickelstück zum

Besten der Armen. Ein geschätztes Mönchlein trug ein Kindlein auf den Armen” (BG 1:

16). The selection revolves around various usages of the word “Armen,” beginning with the metaphor the city‟s cold but welcoming arms. Present here, although hidden behind the verb “umfingen,” is the city‟s umarmen of the narrator. And out of the confluence of this embrace (umarmen) and poverty (Arm sein) comes the narrator‟s charity, and the image of the monk, who in his own poverty and self negation cradles the weak in his arms.

Clanging is at time pushed to the extreme, so that the narration behind the rhymes appears to loose any sense of substance, leaving sentences that are, their own acoustic qualities aside, virtually empty of significance. Bernofsky notes in particular that experimentation with language is the primary focus of Walser‟s final novel Der Räuber.

“What little action there is, seems not much more than the crossbars of the loom on which Walser weaves his elaborate tissue of words” (“Unrelenting Tact” 81). A second example can be found in an excerpt from the short piece, “Zückerchen.” “Auf einem

Stegli dachte ich an ein Hedeli, unter einem Tänneli an ein Änneli. Eine Katze setzte genial über eine Hecke. Hühner gingen pickend über die falbe Wiese” (SW 8: 80). The clang associations “Stegli”/“Hedeli,” “Tänneli”/“Änneli,” “Katze”/“setzte” and

“Hecke”/“Hühner” offer the most stable orientation in these three sentences, which when

125 considered semantically, appear for want of meaning, save that of yet another clichéd

Swiss mountain scene.

It is in part the cliché quality that allows for language experimentation of this sort.

The theme, itself virtually meaningless, creates a physical and contextual space that can be filled with language. It acts as the parameters for the author‟s semantic and acoustic exploration. Walser appears aware of a duality in his writing. While cliché allows for experimentation with sound and rhythm, providing a narrative canvas freed the weighty burden of significance, this same emptiness of meaning stands as an obstacle to publication and readership. Shortly after the excerpt from above, he writes, “Vielleicht komme ich nächstens in ein Mädchenpensionat: ich benutzte eine Gerte zu

Seilspringzwecken, wobei ich dachte, es sei total egal, wo ein Autor verlege, wenn er nur

Eier lege” (80). With palpable sarcasm, Walser is both aware and critical of his lack of success in the market. Perhaps a bit too ironically, the text “Zückerchen” appeared in Die

Rose, the very last collection of new prose for which Walser was able to find publication

(SW 8: 107).

In his article “Sprechen als Wandern,” Böschenstein does not explicitly address schizoid clanging, but it is evident that parallels exist. One questions, however, whether the rhyming patterns that guide the narrative are truly “Unvorhersehbar” and

“Antiselektiv” as Böschenstein argues, or whether they are characterized by an astute and calculated study of sounds and sound associations on the one hand, and on the other the need to produce sentences that are, in their own context, logical. Roser refers to Walser‟s

126 writing as a “fingierte57 Unmittelbarkeit” (25), and it does seem that Walser‟s writing exhibits too much control to be considered anti-selective. Like improvisation in jazz,

Walser gives the impression of having chord progressions in mind and to have created in concord with certain restrictive requirements.

Already cited earlier in this chapter, he expresses this in the essay “Stil”:

“Ungezwungenheiten können und müssen sogar aus einem Zwang stamen. Wer sich einem gewissen Zwang unterwirft, darf sich irgendwie gehenlassen” (BG 4: 176).

Necessary for the freedom of the artistic process is the presence, and one might say authority, of Zwang - an untranslatable word in the essence of which rings the confluence of compulsion and restraint. In the writing process, Zwang is found in restrictive grammatical frameworks that serve to ensure comprehensibility, for despite the topical maelstrom that some of his later texts present, very rarely does the reader encounter sentences that are wholly impenetrable, suggesting that Walser wasn‟t completely ceding the writing process over to randomness and the unforeseeable.58

Consider the selection from “Zückerchen.” Although the sentences themselves seem empty of meaning, and the images clichéd, they are nevertheless understandable and adhere to the rules of grammar. Unlike the experimentations of his contemporaries, Walser‟s language is always comprehensible. He wasn‟t a practitioner of

57 Emphasis added 58 This is also the case for the majority of schizophrenic patients, who do not appear to have difficulty with the rules of language, and for the most part display normal command over the grammatical and semantic rules that determine the acceptability of individual sentences. This is a pronounced difference between schizophrenic and aphasic language, the latter being markedly more disjointed and the result of probable damage to language processing centers in the brain (Sass, M&M 176). 127 ecriture automatique, as Evans suggests in her monograph (127), but was an adroit observer of sounds, rhythms, puns and patterns, rhymes and the melody of prose. He was also keenly interested in the meanings and associations of words, and often let them guide his pen.

Derailment Derailment (loose associations, flight of ideas):“A pattern of spontaneous speech in which the ideas slip off the track on to another one that is clearly but obliquely related, or on to one that is completely unrelated. Things may be said in juxtaposition that lack a meaningful relationship, or the patient may shift idiosyncratically from one frame of reference to another. At times, there may be a vague connection between the ideas; at others, none will be apparent. Perhaps the commonest manifestation of this disorder is a slow, steady slippage, with no single derailment being particularly severe, so that the speaker gets farther and farther off the track with each derailment, without showing any awareness that his reply no longer has any connection with the question that was asked.”

(Andreasen 1319)

As is the case with clanging, derailment may also be a manifestation of a hyperreflexive mind. If little or no consideration is given to the larger communicative process, and if the frameworks of social and linguistic interaction begin to lose their ability to organize an individual‟s thought and language, which can be a byproduct of critical macrosocial observation, then the mind is freed to concern itself with the flow of thoughts and associations that are sparked by individual words or ideas. As Andreasen notes, this can 128 instigate an associative process that, through a series of minor derailments, may eventually render the patient‟s statement incongruous with the original topic being addressed.

For Louis Sass, derailment, like clanging, does not constitute a cognitive or linguistic dysfunction, but rather a shift in the individual‟s attention, away from the macro level of intelligible communication, to a refocusing on the micro level of word associations and meanings.59 Derailment is “less a matter of some fundamental cognitive or linguistic dysfunction then of a shift of attitude, a turning of attention inward, accompanied by loss of interest in, or refusal of, the conventions of social discourse”

(M&M 196). As Alexander et al. note, this desocialization of language can bring about a meandering rhetoric that seems to lack much direction or intent, displaying a reduction in

“social appropriateness, narrative coherence, and veracity . . .” (qtd. in McKenna and Oh

134). What is left after the shedding of these frameworks are the words themselves, and the associations that they conjure up.

An explanation for the manner in which these associations are made is offered by the theory of semantic memory, first introduced by the psychologist Endel Tulving in

59 Much of what psychiatrists today associate with derailment had been, in earlier psychiatric texts, attributed to the so-called “defective-attention-filter-account,” whereby it was argued that schizophrenic rambling, filled with loose associations and tangential excursions, was the result of a failure of selective attention, or in other words an inability to filter out irrelevant stimuli from one‟s conscious awareness. It was proposed that schizophrenics were overwhelmed by what McGhie and Chapman termed an “undifferentiated mass of incoming sensory data,” delivered on an “involuntary tide of impressions (112, 110). While this model dominated theories of schizophrenic cognition in the 1960s and 70s, it has in recent years been largely rejected for its inability to accurately predict cognitive disturbances in schizophrenic individuals (Sass, “Disturbance” 64). Research today is showing that the “distractibility” of schizophrenics is perhaps far more selective that originally predicted by the earlier model. 129

1972. In his book, Tulving distinguished between what he thought to be the two forms, or reserves of memory, those being episodic and semantic memory. Whereas episodic memory refers to personal memories of experienced events, semantic memory is, “a kind of mental thesaurus of organized knowledge a person possesses about words and other verbal symbols, their meaning and referents and the relations among them” (McKenna and Oh 147).

The network model of semantic memory proposes that concepts are related to one another by a network of associations, whereby more closely related concepts are considered to be closer to each other on the model than more distantly related concepts.

When a concept is activated, for example through hearing, reading, speaking, or writing, a series of possible associations are also activated, and the degree to which they are activated, i.e. the likelihood that said association will be made, is proportional to the semantic distance between it and the original concept (McKenna and Oh 149). In Figure

2, when the concept “red” is activated, it is more likely that it will be associated with another color (“orange,” “yellow,” “green”) than with the concept of a “sunrise” or

“sunset.” Even less likely would be its association with “clouds.”

Generally, although a myriad of associations and secondary associations might be activated, the vast majority of them remain unarticulated, ensuring the social and communicative quality of language (McKenna and Oh 156). The issue then becomes not one of abnormal or bizarre associations, but of the inclusion of normal, although less common associations into a language act. In fact, the very act of successfully organizing and producing comprehensible sentences is only possible through the exclusion (most likely unconscious and socially defined) of less common associations (Maher 13). Were 130

Fig 2. Schematic representation of a semantic network.

Shorter lines denote a stronger semantic relationship. (from Collins and Loftus)

this unconscious censor to be removed, or weakened, the individual would presumably experience a sort of balancing of associations, whereby the semantic distance between

“red” and “sunset” might approach that of “red” and “orange.” One could understand this as semantic liberation, whereby an individual, for whom the semantic censor has been weakened, is more readily able to see the uncommon connections between ideas. At the same time, however, the diminished influence of social discourse, the reason such a

131 censor exists, may make the production of cohesive and structured communication more difficult.

One of the most distinctive and recognizable qualities of Robert Walser‟s writing style is the meandering path that his narratives often take. This is particularly true for the stories from the 1920s, but the quality can be found throughout his creative period. “Die

Trägheit des Schülers allerdings glaubt, Worte ergeben sich aus Worten. Das ist aber nichts als seine eitle und gefährliche Einbildung. Man wird viel leichter des Gehens auf der Landstraße müde, wenn man sich nicht vorher ein Ziel vorgenommen hat,” writes

Fritz Kocher with more than a touch of irony in Walser‟s very first publication (SW 1:

45). Just as Walser‟s writing is shot through and through with zielloses Wandern - see in this regard his flanerie in Berlin, “Der Spaziergang,” Geschwister Tanner, or any of the numerous spazier-texts of the Berner Period - so too are there repeated encounters with stories that offer anything but direction. Böschenstein argues that Walser‟s later texts in particular mimic the arbitrariness of the walk, in which images, or ideas, appear randomly. Reading these texts is to read a Wanderung of associations (20). However, although many of Walser‟s texts do not seem headed in any particular direction, are in this sense anti-teleological, they are not as such necessarily wholly random or arbitrary.

The short story “Brief an Edith” will once again serve to illustrate this point. The selection below constitutes approximately one third of the entire piece. A close reading of these paragraphs will illustrate the extent to which Walser‟s writing could at times be guided from one association to the next, whereby “Worte ergeben sich aus Worten.” But it will also put Böschenstein‟s argument of its random and arbitrary direction to the test.

132

Zwei Leute, die mir entgegenkamen, hielt ich für Wärter und Wärterin; in der Nähe wußte ich nämlich eine Irrenanstalt. Mit einem Rüetli oder einer

Gerte hieb ich Herbstblätter ab, die isoliert und herausfordernd hingen.

Auffallendes setzt sich leicht einer Lust in uns aus, ihm Lehren zu erteilen, genannt Denkzettel. Gewiß war‟s keine Zerstreuung von sehr zarter Art.

Ein Herrenhaus weckte den Wunsch in mir, in ihm zu wohnen. Das

Zimmer besäße eine Bibliothek, da läs‟ ich den ganzen Tag und beginge das Unrecht, über geistigem Genießen die Wirklichkeit zu vergessen. Eine

Zeitlang labte ich mich am Gedanken, in Texas seien seinerzeit Neger vor die Wagen gespannt worden, worin Damen peitscheschwingend saßen.

Du mußt wissen, ich stand vor Jahren mitunter vor dem

Schaufenster einer Berliner Buchhandlung, in von Cafés und Theatern belebtem Stadtviertel, und widmete mein Interesse Bänden, die Titel trugen wie “Sitten in Louisiana.” Im Laden saß eine imposante und zugleich, vorurteilslos zu sagen, verlebte Frau. Unweit lag ein meist von

Schweizern frequentiertes Restaurant.

Eines der Lokale nannte sich der “Kuhstall.” Dort spielte eine

Damenkapelle, deren Direktrice mir sagte, sie stamme aus Biel, ich erwiderte, mich berühre das sympathisch, ich sei auch da aufgewachsen.

Bei Aschinger gab es Kartoffelsalat mit Wurst oder, Höheres begehrend, gebratene Tauben. Letztere beglücken mich noch nachträglich.

Produkte der Kochkunst können einem lieb bleiben wie das Andenken an ein gutes Buch. 133

In eben dieser Gegend lag ein Friedhof mit Gräbern aus der Zeit

der Romantiker. Großstädtischer Wagenverkehr rasselte ohne Pietät daran

vorbei, oft sind es aber Gegensätze, nicht Übereinstimmungen, die uns ein

Aufmerken abnötigen. (SW 8: 40-41)

Prior to discussing this selection, the reader is reminded of the opening paragraph from “Brief an Edith,” as the letter‟s author admits to killing three wasps because of their

“boshaft aussehenden Leibern” and “unverschämter Annäherung” (SW 8: 39). In this image, the concepts of punishment and impudent conspicuousness, both in appearance and demeanor, are introduced, and their expression activates the gamut of possible associations. Thus does the beginning of the selection above introduce two individuals whom the author takes to be caretakers at a nearby sanitarium, wherein the madness of the patients, the consummate Others, comes to mean guilt and lawlessness. 60 The institution‟s staff, doctors and caretakers alike, acts as judge, order, authority, and executioner of punishment (Foucault, M&C 247). The punishment dealt out at the asylum is then reflected by the author himself, who teaches a harsh lesson to any autumn leaf that is so bold as to flaunt its individuality. With a switch, it is cut down for its shamelessness.

The next paragraph opens with the image of a mansion, perhaps activated by the notion of the sanitarium.61 The mansion, with its obligatory library, becomes a space in

60 That this association appears in “Brief an Edith” may attest to Walser‟s awareness of how his writing was increasingly being perceived. In Der Räuber, written around the same time as “Brief an Edith,” Walser indirectly refers to his writing as “krankhafte Literatur” (83). 61 Walser would have at this point already been well acquainted with the Waldau Psychiatric Hospital, which is situated just north of Bern, where he was living when he wrote “Brief an Edith.” Ernst Walser, Robert‟s older brother, was institutionalized in Waldau and died there in 1916. The primary building for the 134 which the author could, perhaps like the patients in the sanatorium, forget reality. His escape comes in the pleasures of reading, however, and he thereby partakes in the very non-conformity that merited discipline in the previous paragraph. The satisfaction found in this anti-social mischief is then immediately juxtaposed against the satisfaction of punishing the undesirable. Stemming also from the image of the mansion, this association takes the form of life on a Texas plantation, on which “Damen,” the counterpart to

“Herren-haus,” with whips in hand, re. the author‟s “Rüetli”/“Gerte,” ride in wagons pulled by slaves, the Other par excellence.

The joys of reading and contemplation, particularly of the horrors of Texas, are reborn in the next paragraph in a Berlin bookstore, and in a volume on morals and manners in another southern state, Louisiana. While Walser leaves the American South, the outsider motif finds fertile associative soil in the conception of the Swiss living in

Berlin, and from the cafés that surrounded the bookstore comes the associative connection to the restaurant that they frequent. At this point, the associations seem slowly to deviate from the original concept of punishment and individuality. The juxtaposition of

Germany and Switzerland can be seen in the two restaurants that are portrayed. The

“Kuhstahl” is an unsubtle play on Swiss provincialism, just as the Aschinger pub is the prototypical Berlin Stehimbiss, and the gastronomical equivalent of the tempo of the metropolis. 62 However, these paragraphs fail to address the conspicuous and

asylum at that time, the Pfründerhaus, built in a late baroque style, very much calls to mind the image of a grand manor. 62 A similar juxtaposition between Aschinger pubs and Swiss locales can be seen in the two short stories, “Aschinger,” and “Gebirgshallen.” In “Aschinger,” a noon-day guest quietly enjoys his beer and cured meats, while observing the commotion and energy of the busy Berlin imbiss. “Immer wimmelt es ein und 135 inappropriate contrast that the Swiss present in Berlin, as had explicitly been done in reference to the slaves, the autumn foliage, the asylum caretakers, and the buzzing wasps.

Rather, the associations seem less driven by the original concepts, and more so by individual words or images. Thus, the woman in the Berlin bookstore prompts an association with the women‟s chorus at the “Kuhstahl,” and more specifically with its director from Biel. The “Kuhstahl,” a Swiss “Lokal,” draws connections to Aschinger, one of Berlin‟s most visible and well known chain of pubs, whose food is so tasty that it stays with you, just like a good book.

If the reader pauses at this moment, it appears that the narrative has drifted away from its author, and that each slight derailment has brought the text farther and farther from the original concept. This “slow, steady slippage, with no single derailment being particularly severe,” is deceptively logical, and the reader is then surprised when, after only five short paragraphs, he finds that he has followed the narrator from the Swiss countryside, to the American South, and finally, unexpectedly, to a Berlin eatery.

However, the final words of the Aschinger paragraph, “Produkte der Kochkunst könnnen einem lieb bleiben wie das Andenken an ein gutes Buch,” reveal that the narration has not become completely derailed. The book reference gives rise to a mention of graves dating

aus von eßlustigen und satten Menschen. Die Unbefriedigten finden rasch an der Bierquelle und am warmen Wurstturm Befriedigung, und die Satten springen wieder an die Geschäftsluft hinaus, . . . eine Uhr in der offenen Hand, die sagt, daß es jetzt Zeit ist” (SW 3: 67-8). The “Gebirgshallen,” in contrast, are affectionately portrayed in the brimming kitsch of their provincialism. In the Swiss-themed nightclub, the dance stage becomes a glacier; the girls: “Sennhütten-Prinzessin[nen]”, and the beer: “kuhwarm[e] Gebirgsmilch” (SW 3: 43). “Wo haben Sie Ihren Bergstock?,” the narrator asks. “Zu Hause gelassen? Das nächste Mal müssen Sie wohl oder übel sportmäßig ausgerüstet im Gebirge erscheinen, für alle Fälle” (SW 3: 43). 136

Fig 3. Visual representation of associative webs in “Brief an Edith”

137 from the time of the Romantics, and to the brazenness and lack of respect with which the city traffic rattles past them. The closing words could easily have appeared in either of the first two paragraphs cited above, “oft sind es aber Gegensätze, nicht

Übereinstimmungen, die uns ein Aufmerken abnötigen.” The narration has come full circle.

It does not appear that Walser‟s writing style can unequivocally be referred to as random, or displaying a “Moment des Unvorhersehbaren, Antiselektiven,” as

Böschenstein argues (20). Rather, and this is the case for many of his works, it seems as if Walser allows for randomness and the unforeseeable, for experimentation and improvisation with language, only within certain limiting parameters. In the case of

“Brief an Edith,” these parameters are defined by the associative webs stemming from the notions of individuality and punishment. Likewise, just as the narrator allows for non- conformity within the space of the library, a space seemingly dedicated for that purpose, so too does Walser establish a framework in which he can play the language jester.

Whereas non-conformity for the author of “Brief an Edith” implies the forgetting of reality through the pleasures of contemplation, the language jester overcomes reality through as little thinking as possible, and through an obedience to the language, “d.h. dem Fluß des Erzählens gehorchen” (SW 12: 32). For Fritz Kocher, the topic of an essay serves only as a platform for the beauty of language:

Diesmal, sagte der Lehrer, dürft ihr schreiben, was euch gerade einfällt.

Ehrlich gestanden, mir will nichts einfallen. Ich liebe diese Art von

Freiheit nicht. Ich bin gern an einen vorgeschriebenen Stoff gebunden. . . .

Ich schreibe über alles gleich gern. Mich reizt nicht das Suchen eines

138

bestimmten Stoffes, sondern das Aussuchen feiner, schöner Worte. Ich

kann aus einer Idee zehn, ja hundert Ideen bilden, aber mir fällt keine

Grundidee ein. Was weiß ich, ich schreibe, weil ich es hübsch finde, so die

Zeilen mit zierlichen Buchstaben auszufüllen. Das “Was” ist mir

vollständig gleichgültig. (SW 1: 24)

Walser comes to write in and around a central concept, tethered with varying slack to a given idea. This idea serves as a springboard for a myriad of associations, but functions likewise as a gravitational pull that is strong enough to ground the narrative and ensure understandability.

Poverty of Content of Speech Poverty of Content of Speech (poverty of thought, empty speech, alogia, verbigeration):

“Although replies are long enough so that speech is adequate in amount, it conveys little information. Language tends to be vague, often over-abstract or over-concrete, repetitive and stereotyped. The interviewer may recognise this finding by observing that the patient has spoken at some length, but has not given adequate information to answer the question. Alternatively, the patient may provide enough information to answer the question, but require many words to do so, so that a lengthy reply can be summarised in a sentence or two. Sometimes the interviewer may characterise the speech as „empty philosophizing‟.” (Andreasen 1318)

Poverty of content of speech may result from a variety of underlying tendencies of the hyperreflexive mind. As the communicative value of language is reduced, it increasingly

139 ceases to be a medium of significance. Likewise, an indifference to one‟s audience encourages unnecessary arabesque in language that may come to be dominated and guided by fancy and abstract-sounding phrases that, upon closer analysis, are revealed to be empty of meaning (Sass, M&M 189-90). As discussed in previous sections, focus is shifted from language‟s mediary quality to its acoustics and to its ability, in the case of empty philosophizing, to sound meaningful, while leaving the discursive expectation of meaning unfulfilled.

This linguistic pattern may also be a manifestation of negativism, one of Eugen

Bleuler‟s accessory symptoms, discussed briefly in the introduction to this study.

Negativism can be defined simply as an action that contradicts expectations. In Bleuler‟s words, a negative symptom occurs when, “eine Reaktion, die im positiven Sinne zu erwarten gewesen wäre, negativ abläuft: die Kranken können oder wollen nichts tun, was man von ihnen erwartet (passiver Negativismus) oder sie tun das Gegenteil oder wenigstens etwas anderes (aktiver oder konträrer Negativismus)” (158). Social expectations, communicative discourse included, are defined by social systems, and empty philosophizing may serve as a provocation of their authority.

Wordy and complicated phrasing is common in Walser‟s writing. Lüssi attributes this to the lack of truth in the author‟s works. “Sein Werk zeichnet sich aus durch den fehlenden Bezug auf Wahrheit” (8). The relationship between Walser‟s writing and the

“Sein von etwas” is missing (Lüssi 9), in that there is no attempt to work towards the concrete revelation of any pure being or truth: “Das heißt: auf etwas hin, um, über, für, aber auch als etwas tätig sein ist ausgeschlossen (Lüssi 9). Released from the constraints and demands of truth, Walser achieves a degree of free artistic license that Lüssi calls

140

“reines Hervorbringen” and describes as a pure and blind experiment with language, freed from any expectation or goal. Experimentation is carried out in an indeterminate realm, where the pendulum swings between certainty and doubt, and wherein “das

Wichtige” in Walser‟s work can be felt, but not understood (Lüssi 9-11).

One manifestation of this liberty is a complicated prose that borders on emptiness and carries with it no message – a “nichtssagend[e] Kompliziertheit” (Lüssi 31). Often this complication comes in the form of confusing sentence structures that seem to dissolve any semblance of meaning that a phrase may have. In “Poetenleben” Walser writes, “Wir wollen sehen, und sobald etwas Neues ausfindig zu machen gewesen sein wird, soll es, falls nur auch dafür schon wieder genügend neues gütiges Interesse voraussetzen zu dürfen freundlich gestattet worden wäre, mit Vergnügen mitgeteilt sein”

(SW 6: 130). At other times, as in the following selection from Der Räuber, the repetitive nature of his prose seems to negate its own significance.

Der Räuber kam nun zu einem nicht mehr vorhandenen alten Haus, oder

besser gesprochen zu einem alten Haus, das man wegen seines Altertums

abgebrochen hatte und jetzt nicht mehr dastand, indem es aufgehört hatte,

sich bemerklich zu machen. Er kam also rund heraus gesagt zu einer

Stelle, an der einst ein Haus gestanden hatte. (SW 12: 103)

The house is absent in its insignificance, and provides an emptiness in Walser‟s text that is filled with a repetitive experimentation with language. This experimentation, through its repetition, negates the negated house, canceling out the emptiness and creating something new and interesting. Of importance is, “daß hier aus nichts (dem

141 abgebrochenen Haus) etwas gemacht wird” (Lüssi 33). Something important is sensed in the meaninglessness of the prose, a significant emptiness that resists definition.

Stilted Speech Stilted Speech: “Speech that has an excessively formal quality. It may seem rather quaint or outdated, or may appear pompous, distant or over polite. The stilted quality is usually achieved through use of particular word choices (multisyllabic when monosyllabic alternatives are available and equally appropriate), extremely polite phraseology

(„Excuse me madam, may I request a conference in your office at your convenience‟), or stiff and formal syntax („Whereas the attorney comported himself indecorously, the physician behaved as is customary for a born gentleman‟).” (Andreasen 1321)

A similar phenomenon to poverty of content of speech is the stiltedness of schizophrenic speech. When the expression of meaning becomes less important, or in extreme cases is wholly abdicated, individuals may at times turn to an extremely formal language that is overly complicated and stiff. Stilted syntax in common, everyday situations can appear vague and empty in its verbosity, and is often perceived as mockery (Sass, M&M 189).

This adds to the alienation of those speaking to schizophrenics, the so-called praecox feeling experienced when encountering someone, “totally strange, puzzling, inconceivable, uncanny, and incapable of empathy, even to the point of being sinister and frightening” (Bleuler, M. 15). Stilted speech may be the result of the sound and texture of language coming once again to be the determinant in the direction in which discourse is carried. It becomes a formal dance, to which multisyllabic words and a turgid syntax, in a

142 word: magniloquence, provide the complicated steps. “Ich habe die Absicht, mit Worten zu Tanzen,” writes Walser (SW 20: 248).

The stiltedness of Walser‟s writing is found both in his prose and in his private correspondence. To his close friend Carl Seelig, he writes, “Anbei retourniere ich Ihnen die mir eingesandten Besprechungen sowie zwei an Sie adressierte Briefe, von deren

Inhalt ich Kenntnis nahm” (Briefe 356). To Otto Pick of the Prager Presse, he writes,

“Darf ich Ihnen in einliegendem Marktbericht etwas für den Abdruck in Ihrer geschätzten

Zeitung Geeignetes hier überbracht zu haben hoffen?” (Briefe 239). And a letter to the

Verlag Orell-Füssli begins:

Darf ich Ihnen hier nun, an unsere Vorjahrkorrespondenz anknüpfend,

wonach Sie sich für Erzeugnisse meiner Feder interessiert zeigten,

einstweilen 27 Zeitungsausschnitte zur Ansicht einsenden und Sie bitten,

sich fragen zu wollen, ob Sie im Laufe etwa dieses Jahres in Ihrem

geschätzten Verlag solch ein Sammelbuch herausgeben könnten. (Briefe

229)

Walser‟s stilted language and complex sentence structures complicate and overshadow the message, and his cautious and tentative phrasing seems the hyperbole of politeness, while also coming across as playful and at times even mocking. His deference seems feigned in its exaggeration, creating a tone that could possibly be construed as highbrow sarcasm. Stilted speech is a of genteel and cultured speech and of social graces that have lost their validity. Perhaps nowhere more than in “Der Spaziergang” is this burlesque quality evident. As the narrator walks into a bookstore, he asks the vendor:

143

“Darf ich,” fragte ich schüchtern, “Gediegentes, Ernsthaftestes, mithin

selbstverständlich Meistgelesenes wie raschest Anerkanntes und

Gekauftes kennen und augenblicklich hochschätzen lernen? Sie

würden mich zu ungewönlich hohem Dank verbinden, wenn Sie die

Gefälligkeit haben wollten, mir gütig das Buch vorzulegen, das, wie ja

sicher niemand so genau wissen wird wie Sie, beim lesenden Publikum

sowohl wie bei gefürchteter, daher wohl auch umschmeichelter Kritik die

höchste Gunst gefunden hat und ferner munter findet. (SW 7: 86)

That the narrator is mocking both the salesman and the culture industry behind popular literature with his overt and over the top urbanity is made clear on the following page.

When the bookseller produces what he calls a must read, the narrator asks, “Können Sie schwören, daß dies das weitverbreitetste Buch des Jahres ist? . . . daß dies das Buch sei, das man absolut gelesen haben muß? . . . Ist das Buch wirklich gut?” (87). The bookseller affirms each of the narrator‟s questions.

“Dann danke ich Ihnen recht Herzlich‟, sagte ich kaltblütig, ließ das Buch,

das die fraglos weiteste Verbreitung gefunden hatte, weil jedermann es

unbedingt gelesen haben mußte, lieber ruhig liegen . . . und entfernte mich

ohne weiteres . . . „Ungebildeter, unwissender Mensche!‟ rief mir freilich

der Verkäufer in berechtigem Verdruß nach. (87)

By placing language at the fore, by dancing with words, Walser is granted a tool with which he can play with, mock, or criticize the social world around him, particularly its most widely accepted and recognized truths, which for him have ceased to carry much weight. “Ich fühle, wie wenig mich das angeht, was man Welt nennt, und wie mir groß

144 und hinreißend vorkommt, das, was ich Welt nenne, ganz im stillen,” writes Jakob von

Gunten in his journal (SW 11: 116).

Word Approximations Word Approximations (paraphasia, metonyms):“Old words that are used in a new and unconventional way, or new words that are developed by conventional rules of word formation. Often the meaning will be evident even though the usage seems peculiar or bizarre (i.e., gloves referred to as „handshoes‟, a ballpoint pen referred to as a

„paperskate‟, etc.). Sometimes the word approximations may be based on the use of stock words, so that the patient uses one or several words repeatedly in ways that give them a new meaning (i.e., a watch may be called a time vessel‟, the stomach a „food vessel‟, a television set a „news vessel‟, etc.). (Andreasen 1320)

The waning belief in the absolute nature of external systems, and the turning away from human community exhibited by many schizophrenics and modernists is often accompanied by a reduced trust in the ability of language to express the nuances of the internal and external world. Sontag writes that, “The „spirit‟ seeking embodiment in art clashes with the „material‟ character of art itself . . . particularly, in the case of language. .

. . Practiced in a world furnished with second-hand perceptions, and specifically confounded by the treachery of words, the artist‟s activity is cursed with mediacy” (5). In literature, this is most famously expressed by Hugo von Hofmannsthal in “Ein Brief”:

“Es ist mir völlig die Fähigkeit abhanden gekommen, über irgend etwas

145 zusammenhängend zu denken oder zu sprechen” (48). Language, as a means of expressing even the most banal notions, has been unmasked as inadequate.

Schizophrenics, too, will at times express frustration at the disparity between objects and their linguistic signifiers. One patient said that everyday words like, “chair, jug, [and] table,” feel “deprived of meaning . . . [like] envelope[s] emptied of content”

(Sass, M&M 187). Antonin Artaud, both an author and possible schizophrenic, puts it clearly. “What I lack . . . [are] words that correspond to each minute of my state of mind”

(294-95). A possible reaction to this crisis of language, taken at times by modernists and schizophrenics alike, may again be a turn inwards, in the hopes of finding an inner and private language less bound to crumbling external modes.

The word approximations described by Andreasen are one method of trying to give voice to the inexpressible. Of import in her definition is the continued relationship between these “private words” and the rules of linguistic systems in which they are produced. Word approximations adhere to the syntactic patterns of a language, such that compound nouns, for example, are formed in a logical manner, even if the word pairings themselves appear odd or strange. Likewise, new adjectives and verbs will look, function, and be declined like standard words. They will also be derived from an existing lexicon, allowing for their meaning to be, if not completely understood, at least approximated.63 In this way, word approximations differ from neologisms, which Andreasen describes as, “a completely new word or phrase whose derivation cannot by understood” (1320).

Neologisms have no connection to communal language and as such remain

63 This adherence to an existing linguistic system has already been noted in reference to clanging.

146 incomprehensible. As schizophrenic phenomena, they are in actuality very rare, despite the stereotyped image of the babbling, incoherent madman (Sass, M&M 177).

Even the infrequent reader of Walser will have little difficulty in recognizing the degree to which word approximations appear in his writing, for they are to be found on virtually every page. Although new verbs and adjectives are present, one is reminded of the already cited “umschmetterlingelt” in this regard, the vast majority of word approximations in Walser‟s writing come in the form of nouns, particularly compound nouns. Constructs similar to “Amerikanismusmangel,” “Unterröckchenabenteuerchen,” or “Zeilenherstellungstisch,” can be found in texts dating from all three of his creative periods, but, as is the case with many of the other linguistic phenomena discussed in this chapter, appear to be more prevalent in the later works from Bern. As expressed in

Andreasen‟s definition of the term, these words are derived from an existing and common lexicon, and obey the grammatical rules dictating the construction of compound nouns.

As German lends itself much more readily to compound nouns than does English, other aspects of Walser‟s word approximations must also be taken into consideration in order to underscore the degree to which they parallel schizophrenic constructions. First among them is the frequency of new compound nouns, for they appear in much greater number and in a higher density in his works than in , or than in the literary works of his contemporaries. Secondly, Walser‟s constructions are often much more complex than what is generally found in the standard language. Compound nouns that include multiple diminutives are not uncommon in Walser‟s prose, as evidenced by

“Unterröckchenabenteuerchen.” Nor are new words that are themselves constructed from smaller word approximations, such as “Zeilenherstellungstisch,” whereby

147

“Zeilenherstellung” is an approximation of Schreib-. These qualities lend a certain degree of strangeness to Walser‟s words, while allowing their meaning to still be guessed, perhaps more accurately for “Zeilenherstellungstisch” than for a word like

“Amerikanismusmangel.” This is the magic of Walser‟s prose. It is elusive, however not to the point of being wholly obscure, for it maintains enough relation to communal systems to ensure an understandable, although at times admittedly ephemeral and opaque, meaning. This is also the defining quality of what one might call Walser‟s provisional phrasing.

Provisional Phrasing:

The term provisional phrasing comes from Christopher Middleton‟s English translation of “Cézannegedanken,” in his collection Selected Stories. In the original, Walser writes,

“Ich bin mir hier unvollständiger Ausdrucksart bewußt, möchte aber der Meinung sein, man verstehe mich trotzdem oder vielleicht, um solcher Unausgearbeitetheit 64 willen, worin Lichteffekte schimmern, sogar noch besser, tiefer, obwohl ich selbstverständlich prinzipiell Flüchtigkeiten beanstande” (SW 18: 255). Just as word approximations are both elusive and understandable, a phrasing‟s provisional quality, its “Mangel an

Köperlichkeit,” to use Walser‟s words, creates a moment of possibility in which its very lack of definition allows for the expression of nuance and the otherwise inexpressible. In

Walser‟s writing, this is voiced through the ambivalence of subjunctive or hypothetical

64 Middleton translates this as “provisional phrasing” (189).

148 moods, and in the linguistic paradox and contradiction that permeates his style (Cardinal

19).

Thinking characterized by a severing from practical perspectives of reality can result a disconnect from the ability to successfully predict the probability of a given event

(Sass, M&M 127). The result is a thought process which seems to be attune to all possibilities of a situation, and unlike the practical mind, which is able to filter out situations which are less likely, the schizophrenic mind, “seems more often to have a simultaneous awareness of several possibilities,” demonstrating a tendency to, “shift not merely among a variety of objects or topics but among alternative frames of reference, universes of discourse, or semantic strata” (Sass, M&M 131). This vacillation may eventually lead to conflict in the individual‟s mind, as two incongruous possibilities or perspectives find simultaneous expression in the consciousness. An early patient of

Eugen Bleuler describes the conflation. “Wenn man einen Gedanken ausspricht, sieht man immer einen Gegengedanken. Das verstärkt sich nun und geht so schnell, daß man wieder nicht weiß, welcher der erste war” (Bleuler, E. 43).

A reaction to multiple possibilities, and one central to Walser‟s writing, is the attempt to articulate this contradiction through paradoxical phrasing that seems, superficially, to be self-negating. Cardinal, in her study of paradox in Walser‟s work, argues that paradox is the, “governing principle behind Walser‟s creative energies” (77).

In his works, there is an internal contradiction that continuously creates and cancels out meaning. Lüssi notes that nothing is stable in Walser‟s writing. “Alles ist in einer so komplizierten und leichtgebauten „Architektur,‟ daß es auch anders sein könnte, ja daß es nicht einmal sicher ist, wie es denn eigentlich sei” (35). Paradoxes are the expression of

149 this vacillation. They avoid clear definition, and in so doing, are representative of a hyperreflexive mind that has lost trust in empirical truths.

Cardinal‟s study focuses on numerous manifestations of paradox, including cultural and logical paradoxes, paradoxes of truth and falsehood, and sleep and wakefulness, among others. Her analysis convincingly illustrates the centrality of paradox in Walser‟s writing, and to recapitulate her arguments would be redundant. Therefore, a small selection of exemplary linguistic paradoxes will suffice to demonstrate the vacillation of a hyperreflexive mind. Walser writes that for the artist, Berlin offers an

“angenehm-unangenehmen Überfall aufs Behagen,” a paradoxical experience that spurs production (SW 15: 50). The paradoxical combination of “angenehm-unangenehmen” is typical of Walser‟s style, and the reader repeatedly stumbles across compound adjectives formed from opposing ideas. In a speech given on the 100th anniversary of Walser‟s birth,

Martin Walser told his Zürich audience, “Am liebsten würde er jedem Adjektiv sein in der Sprache vorbereitetes Gegenadjektive per Bindestrich verpassen. Er tut es auch immer häufiger” (“Unerbittlichkeitsstil” 87). In the story “Auflauf,” we read “Ich nahm mir vor, züruckweichend vorwärtszuschreiten, faulenzend arbeitsam zu sein, mich auf dem Wege der Lieblosigkeit im Gebiet des Liebens auszuzeichnen” (SW 20: 44). 65

Elsewhere, Walser writes:

Vielleicht ist Österreichelei wesentlich nichts anderes als ein

gedankenloses Gedankenvollsein, ein stillstehendes Galoppieren, ein

65 Also: “Aus lauter Treue wurde ich dir untreu, aus lauter Lust am Schönen handelte ich unschön . . .” (SW 8: 70). “Aus Stolz benahm ich mich unstolz, aus Zähigkeit weichlich” (SW 8: 60). “Ich bin blind und sehe alles, bin stumm und rede, horche auf nichts und bin der begabteste Horcher” (SW 17: 141).

150

versteinertes über die Dinge, die man beschreibt, Dahinfließen. Gewiß

lassen sich solche beruflichen Finessen nur schwer definieren. Etwas

Schwieriges läßt sich meiner Meinung nach immer eher flott und rasch

ausführen als zergliedern, d.h. begreiflich machen. (SW 19: 90)

In the final two examples, the string of paradoxes, although logically self-contradictory, create an atmosphere greater than the sum of its parts. As Cardinal writes,

“Contradictions, used in this way, create a kind of crescendo which belies the void of the semantic message within each separate contradiction . . . creating what one might want to call a pregnant vacuum with his words” (26). Paradoxes break with the conventional rules of logical thinking, and open a gate to the void beyond the limits of language‟s expressive abilities. As linguistic ciphers, they manage to convey the nuanced experience of a world of multiple and competing possibilities.

A second reaction to a dissolve of certainty, and one as equally salient to Walser‟s writing as is paradoxical thought, is a language that finds itself at home in the uncertainty and hesitation of subjunctive and hypothetical moods, a language of ambivalence that

Sass refers to as “quasi-metaphoric” (189). Individuals often qualify their statements by saying “it seems like,” “perhaps,” or “it felt to me as though,” phrases that are unlikely to provide any stable sense of meaning. This lack of definition, however, is the most definite and accurate expression of what these individuals feel, as it is their only means of articulating the instability of how they experience the world, one, as Middleton translates,

“in which the lights have a shimmering effect” (Selected Stories 189).

Walser‟s prose is full of subjunctive and hypothetical phrasing. In the text mentioned above, “Cézannegedanken,” numerous examples are to be found, including,

151

“sprach er womöglich zu sich,” “Ich meine überzeugt zu sein,” “Es mag vorgekommen sein,” “Er scheint sich seiner Frau gegenüber,” “Sie mochte diesbezüglich zu sich sagen,” and “so dürfte vielleicht der umschreibende Ausdruck lauten” (SW 18: 252-56)66. An extreme example can be taken from the story “,” in which the author writes, “Es scheint, ich wisse, er habe seine Mutter sehr geliebt” (SW 17: 157). The double use of

Konjunktiv I, coupled with the qualifier “Es scheint,” sheds a dubious light onto a self- conscious sentence, which is so reluctant that it seems barely able to stand on its own.

For Walser, the very essence of the world is a mystery which resists definition, and communication within this indeterminate and inexpressible reality requires a language that is equally concealed. “Ich halte gegenüber Büchern sowohl wie Menschen ein lückenloses Verstehen eher für ein wenig uninteressant als erprießlich,” he writes (SW

20: 428). In the story “Jesus,” in which the narrator sees an apparition of Jesus standing in the snow outside his window, the only way to write about the vision is with hesitation.

Definition destroys possibility. “Im klaren über irgend etwas sein, heißt unter Umständen alles wieder verlieren” (SW 16: 79). In the hesitation of his prose, one acquires a sense of a realm “worin Lichteffekte schimmern,” and understands the author “sogar noch besser, tiefer” because of his ambivalence.

In his book, Peter Gronau argues that Walser explodes the agreed upon order of reality through language, and in the of sparks that fall to the ground, we see a

“Fata Morgana der Illusion” (34). This imaginary space of imagination is created through an associative, metaphoric, and distanced language: “Anscheinend, scheinen, als ob,

66 Emphasis added

152

Konjunktiv, Hypothese, Zeitenwechsel, Listing . . .” (12). Much of what Gronau understands to be tools for creating an imaginary space have been discussed above in terms of the hyperreflexive mind, including words of ambivalence and subjunctive mood

(12). However, the causative sequencing of his argument can be questioned. As has been discussed, observation and doubt are central elements to Walser‟s productive process, and one wonders whether a highly attentive observation of the narrative, one of höchste

Aufmerksamkeit, is not a means to negating established reality, but can more accurately be understood as a reaction to an external reality, for which trust in its self-evident validity and authenticity, resulting from macrosocial observation of its dominant narratives, has long since been lost.

Walser‟s distrust in language‟s ability to describe the essence of a thing, the Sein von etwas, discussed in terms of his ambivalent and content-less prose, would seem to suggest that although it cannot be expressly voiced, the essence of a thing can nevertheless be conveyed through equivocation. Walser‟s language “greift immer daneben,” writes Gronau, yet we continue to read him (32). This is his provisional phrasing, which remains understandable in its un-understandability. Thus the space that is opened up by his unique and immediately recognizable prose is far from imaginary, as

Gronau suggests. It is in fact an a priori space that stands apart from empirical world, which for Walser is the imaginary realm. Expressed in the silent, vacillating ambiguity of the author‟s texts is an expansive void, insignificant and meaningless in that it exists nameless outside of a self-evident reality. The space behind the surface of language is a space freed from the gravity of this reality, and in it, Walser‟s writing becomes partially unfettered, and as such, true. Here Gronau‟s argument agrees with the theory of

153 hyperreflexivity (16). However, this is a space accessed, not constructed through

Walser‟s language, and on this important point Gronau‟s argument diverges from that at hand.

The oft-cited “Der Heisse Brei” provides conclusive evidence:

Besteht nicht Schriftstellern vielleicht vorwiegend darin, daß der

Schreibende beständig um die Hauptsächlichkeit herumgeht oder –irrt, als

sei es etwas Köstliches, um eine Art heißen Brei herumzugehen? Man

schiebt schreibend immer irgend etwas Wichtiges, etwas, was man

unbedingt betont haben will, auf, spricht oder schreibt vorläufig in einem

fort über etwas anderes, das durchaus nebensächlich ist. (SW 19: 91)

Walser‟s writing is not one appointed for the direct revelation of truth or meaning. The

“Hauptsächlichkeit,” or das Wichtige around which his words err, is able to be experienced only through a focus on the insignificance of the circumstantial. The author never comes to write about “das Wichtige” itself: “Man schiebt schreibend immer etwas

Wichtiges . . . auf ,” as he “beständig um die Hauptsächlichkeit herumgeht oder –irrt . . .

” 67 . Writing, as a system of symbols belonging to the external reality, is merely a simulation and as such, reserved solely for das Nebensächliche.

Nevertheless, emphasized in Walser‟s circulating prose is “etwas Wichtiges” that resides behind the surface of language, accessible only in the conspicuous silence of namelessness. It is “betont,” not beschrieben, for words fail to capture its essence. Riding along the surface of the language, following sounds and rhythms instead of creating

67 Emphasis added

154 meaning, Walser focuses on the superficiality of a system void of significance and emphasizes its artificiality, in this instance of the communicative rules and customs of language. What goes unmentioned, in stark contrast, is the authenticity of das Wichtige.

Once trivialities are called out for their falsehood, they are reduced to their own inconsequence, and “die Hauptsächlichkeit” shines through. Walser‟s observation of the narrative is, in such moments, a revelatory pursuit. In a 1928 letter to Frieda Mermet68,

Walser summarizes his approach: “Das was man nicht erwähnt, lebt am lebhaftesten, weil jedes Erwähnen etwas von dem Betreffenden wegnimmt, ihn‟s angreift, mithin vermindert” (Briefe 335). For Robert Walser, there is an unnamable importance and liveliness to be revealed through playful teasing of the language. In “Meine

Bemühungen,” he writes:

Wenn ich gelegentlich spontan drauflos schriftstellerte, so sah das

vielleicht für Erzernsthafte ein wenig komisch aus; doch ich

experimentierte auf sprachlichem Gebiet in der Hoffnung, in der Sprache

sei irgendwelche unbekannte Lebendigkeit vorhanden, die es eine Freude

sei zu wecken. (SW 20: 429-30)

The Lebendigkeit in language exists as potential, and is awakened in the latter‟s ability to infer in silence, and access, through self-negation, an a priori truth of unblemished and undefined limits.

68 Frieda Mermet, a laundress at the Bellelay Mental Asylum, was close friends with Walser‟s older sister Lisa. His own friendship with Mermet began in 1913 upon his return from Berlin. Mermet would remain one of Walser‟s closest friends over the years (well into the 1950s) and in the collection Briefe, appears as the most important recipient of Walser‟s letters (Schede , 113).

155

Walser‟s stylistics are rooted in a highly attentive observation of language, one that is höchst aufmerksam. Associations and puns stem from the word, and indeed the rhymes and rhythms of its material quality serve to steer the narrative. Walser‟s pen is subordinate to the surface of the language, and the author appears hypersensitive to the generally forgotten or ignored qualities of individual words, and allows them to speak for themselves, to make references free of contextual influences: Walser focuses on their existence sui generis. At the same time, the word‟s inability to express the multitude of possibilities that the author sees in the world and its failure as a medium for the essence of the idea, give rise to a language of ambiguity that mirrors the world around it. To this extent, Walser‟s language parallels that of the schizophrenic; it is both elusive and superficial. In a revelatory pursuit of meaning, the negation and removal of the external world of signifiers is undertaken with the hope that underneath lies purity and truth, waiting to be revealed.

Yet the prose projects a sense of security that may be lacking in schizophrenic discourse, as it so often seems tied to a central idea that anchors the author‟s humble craft in a sea of words and associations. In this sense, Walser‟s writing may display too much stability to truly be considered pathological. Winfried Kudzus claims that Walser‟s writing shows too much control for it to be considered schizophrenic (200). However, this analysis is based off of an earlier stereotype that schizophrenics suffer from distractibility. As many psychiatrists now believe, though, distractibility plays very little role in schizophrenia. Rather, what appears as a distracted thought process is in actuality one defined by a mistrust in social narratives and empirical truths, and one which

156 attempts to give expression to the undefined realm of possibility that is revealed when trust in the self-evidence of empirical reality is lost.

This too is the case for Walser‟s prose, with one major exception. Whereas the schizophrenic break is often an unwelcome and uncontrollable event, Walser willingly places himself into a position of obedience in the hopes of naming, and as such dismissing a system that holds no significance for him. This project, however, is bound to this same system by an original idea. “Ich bin gern an einen vorgeschriebenen Stoff gebunden. . . . Ich schreibe über alles gleich gern. . . . Ich kann aus einer Idee zehn, ja hundert Ideen bilden, aber mir fällt keine Grundidee ein” (SW 1: 24). This is the notion of

Zwang: the confluence of compulsion and restraint. .

Walser‟s compulsion to write freely and experiment with language and sound, and more importantly his compulsion to find expression for the inexpressible, is found in the restraint of the linguistic system that stands in his way. “Ungezwungenheiten können und müssen sogar aus einem Zwang stemmen. Wer sich einem gewissen Zwang unterwirft, darf 69 sich irgendwie gehenlassen” (BG 4: 176). Adherence to the restriction of grammatical rules and to the restraint provided by a “Grundidee” allows Walser to let go and establish his style. “Stil ist eine Art Betragen. Einer, der sich gut benimmt, hat Stil”

(BG 4: 175). As an understanding of culture, a social construct, Walser‟s style too must be bound to society, whether or not social or empirical reality carries any significance for him. These connections ensure that Walser‟s prose does not get completely lost in an un- understandable realm, but maintains a connection to the external world – to the reader.

Walser‟s prose lacks the alienating praecox feeling of speaking with a schizophrenic. It is

69 Emphasis added

157 difficult, at times perhaps even maddening, but this is also a madness from which the author and reader seem always to return.

158

4. ACCESSING THE REINE SEIN

“Alsdann ist Träumen für den Schauenden und Ankommenden eine längst vorbestimmte Sache. . . . Er läßt sich dann, ohnmächtig und ergriffen, wie er ist, mehr von dem Tiefschönen anblicken, als daß er es selbst anschaut.” – Robert Walser

Among the more striking moments in Walser‟s writing, moments that are quintessentially

Walserian, are the many descriptive passages marked by stasis. Often scenes of city streets or idyllic mountain vistas, these Momentaufnahmen are highly visual and marked by distance and disconnect. As descriptions in which time seems to stand still, there is an abstinence from plot and direction, and no true development of character. “Hier ist das offenbar alles nebeneinander bewahrt, Bild neben Bild in einer allerdings merkwürdigen

Zeitlosigkeit” (Greven, “Raum” 87). In these contemporaneous and paralleling slices of everyday life, the focus is on the individual existence of each object or thing, its existence sui generis.

The context of the surrounding world comes to exert little sway on the meaning or significance of any one being, which is consequently divorced from its social functions and is reduced to the status of a mere object. Grenz notes this in her analysis of one such moment: “Alle Erscheinungen sind vor dem Auge des Betrachters gleich – es sind

Wirklichkeitsteile, die an ihm vorübertreiben und die er als Teile festhält, ohne sie auf

159 eine Bedeutung hin befragen zu wollen” (28). Grenz argues that this gaze is evidence of the passivity of the narrator, who has become nothing more than the medium of expression for the street. The narrator‟s gaze, however, is far from passive. In fact, it is highly focused, and dissects the world into parts, and those parts into parts, breaking everything down until it achieves a tabula rasa, an empty stage rife for a new narrative.

Verlust der Natürlichen Selbstverständlichkeit

Wolfgang Blankenburg‟s Verlust der Natürlichen Selbsverständlichkeit, introduced in

Chapter 3 in terms of an individual‟s inability to assume and accept the authority and legitimacy of social systems and norms, produces in schizophrenia a correlative mistrust in the physical truths of the world as well. Expressed as an all-encompassing doubt and pervasive relativism, skepticism may consume the individual who questions even the most trivial phenomena of the physical world – phenomena generally taken for granted or seen as too inconsequential to warrant anything more than a fleeting glance, “for example, asking why the pigeon alighted precisely on that part of the railing, or why a person one meets happens to be named Smith or Jones” (Sass, M&M 144). This doubt, or something similar, is expressed with particular clarity in Walser‟s story “So! Dich Hab

Ich.”

Einer, der seinen Augen nicht traute, schaute eine Zimmertüre an, ob sie

zu sei. Wohl war sie zu, und zwar ordentlich, daran war nicht zu zweifeln.

Die Türe war ganz bestimmt zu, aber der seinen Augen nicht traute,

glaubte es nicht, schnüffelte mit seiner Nase an der Türe herum, damit er

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rieche, ob sie zu sei oder nicht. . . . Heftig starrte er die Türe an, und fragte

sich, ob sie zu sei. “Türe, sage mir, bist du zu?” fragte er, aber die Türe

gab keine Antwort. (SW 5: 147-48)

The man goes on to obsess about whether a letter that he has just written has in fact been written (“Brief, sage mir, bist du geschrieben oder nicht?”), and whether the glass of wine in front of him truly exists (“Glas Wein, sage mir, stehst du eigentlich da, oder stehst du eigentlich nicht da?”) (SW 5: 149-50). The debilitating skepticism affects the man‟s orientation and stability in his world, seen in his almost pathological inability to move beyond these questions, which to those around him seem so trivial. It is also reflected in the repetition of the text itself, which likewise struggles to move forward.

[Die Türe] war wirklich und wahrhaftig zu. Ohne Frage war sie zu. Offen

war sie auf keinen Fall. Sie war auf alle Fälle zu. Zweifellos war die Türe

zu. Zweifel waren auf keinen Fall zu befürchten; der aber seinen Augen

nicht traute, zweifelte stark, daß die Türe tatsächlich zu sei, obschon er

deutlich sah, wie fest sie zu war. Sie war so fest zu, wie Türen fester

überhaupt nicht zu sein können . . . . (SW 5: 148)

A mind overwhelmed by doubt and suspicion views the world as a menagerie of singular mysteries. Just as the sounds and rhythms of words become riddles to be solved, so too may such an individual, “der in Gottes Namen, wie gesagt, an allem zweifelte” (SW 5:

151), become caught up in the smallest of physical details.

This obsession with the small and the individual consequently dissolves larger contexts, which normally serve to provide meaning and definition. Objects come to exist solely as objects; they express nothing save their existence sui generis. They are equally

161 separate from one another, as they are from their own function and utility. Hierarchy, location, relationships, and categorization are all nullified by an unegoistic and distancing gaze that grants equal consideration to everything within the visual field. Lacking is the contrast between light and dark, between near and far, “the quality in which some objects, those deemed subjectively more important are as if lit up in the focus of awareness while others recede in to obscurity” (Sass, M&M 47). This is illustrated by the selection below, first introduced and discussed in Chapter 1. Here, animals and plants, man and worm, appear as equals in a shared textual space; there is no semblance of hierarchy or organization to be found.

Höchst aufmerksam und liebevoll muß der, der spaziert, jedes kleinste

lebendige Ding, sei es ein Kind, ein Hund, eine Mücke, ein Schmetterling,

ein Spatz, ein Wurm, eine Blume, ein Mann, ein Haus, ein Baum, eine

Hecke, eine Schnecke, eine Maus, eine Wolke, ein Berg, ein Blatt oder

auch nur ein ärmliches, weggeworfenes Fetzchen Schreibpapier, auf das

vielleicht ein liebes, gutes Schulkind seine ersten, ungefügen Buchstaben

hingeschrieben hat, studieren und betrachten. (SW 7: 126)

Eugen Bleuler explains that for many schizophrenics, “die einzige erkennbare

Assoziation an von außen gegebene Eindrücke [besteht] im Nennen des Eindruckes:

„Spiegel,‟ „Tisch;‟ oder der Eindruck wird durch den Satz bezeichnet: „Das ist ein

Barometer. Das ist die Gasleitung. Das sind Mäntel‟” (22). What he calls Klebedenken, a tendency towards stereotypy of speech has traditionally been linked to a lack of purposeful thinking that provides stability in an uncertain reality, the so called distractibility of schizophrenics (21). In light of more recent research, however, the

162 naming and cataloging of objects may be the individual‟s reaction to an apparent change in the visual quality of the world.

The Trema

Schizophrenic breaks, like epileptic seizures, are often preceded by an aura, what Klaus

Conrad called a Trema, taken from the theatrical slang for stage fright. In this early mood, individuals may be restless and unnerved and feel as if they have lost contact with a world that is undergoing some fundamental change. As this feeling magnifies, it blossoms into a complete transformation of the individual‟s perception of reality.

Still, everything is totally and uncannily transformed: the fabric of space

seems subtly changed; the feeling of reality is either heightened, pulsing

with a mysterious, unnamable force, or else oddly diminished or

undermined – or, paradoxically, things may seem . . . both „unreal and

extra-real at the same time.‟ (Sass, M&M 44)

The visual world adopts a weirdly artificial and yet significant quality; it is at once meaningless and meaningful. Objects take on a visual clarity so crystal-sharp that they stand out from the world around them, and are infused with a sense of individuality.

The world becomes a collection of images that seem to hang in space, separated by the prominence that they each project, and each demanding the observer‟s attention. The contextual framework in which they exist, which generally serves to define their function and locate them in an understandable reality, is overshadowed and then dissolved by these very same conspicuous individualities. This has been described by some

163 schizophrenics as hyperawareness, in which they cannot help but go through the world with eyes wide open, as if in a state of permanent wakefulness (Sass, M&M 8). In “Über den Charakter des Künstlers,” Walser describes this same wakefulness as the author‟s lot in life: “Die Guten! Sie sollen sich nur drehen und wenden. Was wissen sie von dem

Sturm, von der Glut und Wut des stetigen Aufgewecktbleibens?” (SW 15: 65). Giorgio de

Chirico calls this mood the Stimmung, and gives a haunting description of it in his manuscripts.

Day is breaking. This is the hour of the enigma. . . . One bright winter

morning I found myself in the courtyard of the palace at Versailles.

Everything looked at me with a strange and questioning glance. I saw then

that every angle of the palace, every column, every window had a soul that

was an enigma. . . . And then more than ever I felt that everything was

inevitably there, but for no reason and without any meaning. . . . Then I

had the strange impression that I was looking at all these things for the

first time, and the composition of my picture came to my mind‟s eye. . . .

Above all a great sensitivity is needed. One must picture

everything in the world as an enigma, not only the great questions one has

always asked oneself – why was the world created, why are we born, live

and die, for after all . . . perhaps there is no reason in all of this. But rather

to understand the enigma of things generally considered insignificant. To

perceive the mystery of certain phenomena of feeling, of the character of a

people, even to arrive at the point where one can picture the creative

geniuses of the past as things, very strange things that we examine from all

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sides. To live in the world as if in an immense museum of strangeness, full

of curious many-colored toys which change their appearance, which, like

little children, we sometimes break to see how they are made on the

inside, and, disappointed, realize they are empty. (5-8)

Much of what de Chirico describes is echoed by accounts of schizophrenic breaks, which some psychiatrists have partitioned into four distinct perceptual aspects, the first three of which are mere being, fragmentation, and unreality.

For the purpose of this analysis, all three aspects will be combined into one discussion, for, in the context of Walser‟s writing, they appear in tandem. 70

Phenomenologically this interdependence makes sense, as Sass stresses in “The Land of

Unreality.” As “pragmatic and conventional” modes of observation and meaning fade away, i.e. with a Verlust der Natürlichen Selbstverständlichkeit, an object‟s mere being encourages fragmentation, and as such it projects a sense of unreality (230). As addressed in the discussion of Walser‟s syntax, the loss of trust in a significant external reality empties language of any utilitarian or teleological quality. Words come to exist as autonomous objects, and cease to function as tools of communication. In a similar way, the reduction of the truth-value of empirical reality can produce a strange visual quality, whereby objects are noted for their unadulterated existence. The viewer‟s attention seems riveted by the mere being of the object perceived, by “the very fact that objects exist at all” (Sass, M&M 48). “Renee,” a schizophrenic patient who had repeatedly experienced the Trema, described the perception of mere being in her memoirs. “When, for example, I

70 Sass notes that all three aspects, unreality, mere being, and fragmentation are closely interconnected, and “are transformed into each other readily” (M&M 47).

165 looked at a chair or a jug, I thought not of their use or function – a jug not as something to hold water and milk, a chair not as something to sit in – but as having lost their names, their functions and meanings; they became “things” and began to take on life, to exist”

(Sechehaye 34).

The existence and life that Renee attributes to the objects is not imbued with the same animation as that of humans. She does not mean to say that the jug and chair are living beings that interact or communicate with her. Rather, their life is the presence that they now persistently assert, a conspicuousness that locks her attention precisely because it had never before revealed itself. “And they, the doctors, too, thought I saw these things as humans whom I heard speak. But it was not that. Their life consisted uniquely in the fact that they were there, in their existence itself” (Sechehaye 35).

Connecting these remarks to the ongoing discussion of narrative observation, the experience of an object‟s mere being paragons a narratological focus on an object‟s existence sui generis. The increasing importance of parts may cause a complete overshadowing of the whole. “Objects normally perceived as parts of larger complexes may seem strangely isolated, disconnected from each other and devoid of encompassing context; or a single object may lose its perceptual integrity and disintegrate into a disunity of parts” (Sass, M&M 49-50). Thus, a mother‟s face may no longer constitute a recognizable body, but rather a series of separate and individual features. The teeth are separate from the mouth, which is likewise independent from the cheeks. The left eye appears wholly disconnected from the right (Sechehaye 30). This aspect of the Trema is what Sass refers to as fragmentation, or the visual quality of a world that appears like a

166 photograph that‟s been torn into pieces and then taped back together (50).71 Renee likens it to a wall of indifference:

Living in an environment empty, artificial and apathetic, an invisible,

insuperable wall divided me from people and things. . . . My perception of

the world seemed to sharpen the sense of the strangeness of things. In the

silence and immensity, each object was cut off by a knife, detached in the

emptiness, in the boundlessness, spaced off from other things. Without

any relationship with the environment, just by being itself, it began to

come to life.72 (Sechehaye 58-59)

A distancing gaze transforms the world into a mosaic, in which objects may appear in the same physical space, while remaining completely independent and unaware of the existence of others.

71 Much of the German psychiatry that informs Sass‟ approach to schizophrenia is heavily influenced by Gestalt theory. This is the case for Klaus Conrad‟s Trema as well as for Paul Matussek, whose work will be introduced in the coming pages (Fish 180). Gestalt psychology has shown globalizing organizational processes to be central features of the human consciousness, perception, language production, and memory. Numerous studies over the past 30 years have shown patients with schizophrenia to have difficulty processing Gestalt aspects of stimuli. However, while failing to successfully process holistic properties, many of these patients proved efficient in processing local stimuli. In these patients, it appears that local stimuli intrude and disrupt the processing of global information, hindering the organization of stimuli into the coherent representations that are the bedrock for our perception of the world. For further reading on this topic, refer to Place and Gilmore, 1980; John and Hemsley, 1992; or Goodarzi, 2000. For a summative report on 25 years of research in perceptual organization and schizophrenia, refer to Uhlhaas and Silverstein, 2005. 72 Compare Renee‟s alienation to that expressed by Hedwig in Geschwister Tanner. The similarity in phasing is remarkable. “Ich möchte bald meinen, daß ich wie durch eine leichte, aber undurchsichtbare Scheidewand vom Leben getrennt bin” (SW 9: 164).

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Together, mere being and fragmentation contribute to an overall atmosphere that

Sass describes as a world of unreality. The unreality vision reveals clear and precise images that lack the dynamism and substance of everyday life. Objects may appear empty or strange, like two-dimensional theatrical props made of cardboard. Others are described as if seen through a pane of glass, or from a distance (Sass, M&M 47). The relationships between objects, and even between and object and its own function, are negated by their projected mere being and the resulting fragmentation. What results is a world of unreality, illuminated and disturbingly alien. Van Gogh‟s well known The Bedroom

(figure 4) may help to clarify the unreal visual quality of the Trema.73

The bedroom in the painting arrests the viewer‟s gaze first and foremost by the strangeness of its perspective. Each object in the room appears to have been painted from a slightly different angle, and as such, the continuity of the whole is compromised. Rather than unity, one senses as if each object, be it a bed, a table, a painting, or a chair, exists on its own plane. Although occupying the same space on the canvas, the objects don‟t appear to occupy the same space in reality. The contextual framework of a bedroom, which could provide some measure of harmony and balance to the image, is implied by

73 Van Gogh‟s mental condition is perhaps one of the most widely debated and researched of any artist, and the number of varied and competing diagnoses over the years speaks to the difficulty and problematics of posthumous diagnosis. Over 150 physicians have offered almost 30 different diagnoses ranging from lead poisoning, to an inner ear disorder (Ménière‟s disease), to a wide range of psychiatric conditions (Blumer 522). It is not the aim of this study to address Van Gogh‟s psychiatric or medical history, nor to suggest that he suffered from schizophrenia. Such a discussion would be far beyond the scope of the topic at hand. However, many of his paintings, particularly The Bedroom, seem to mirror much what is described in the Trema mood, and its inclusion is meant only to help clarify the visual quality of the phenomena discussed above.

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Fig. 4 Vincent van Gogh, The Bedroom, Van Gogh Museum, Amsterdam

169 the prominence of each individual object. The various pieces of furniture have the appearance of pictures cut from a magazine, and pasted together into an artificial whole.

They don‟t belong together; they don‟t seem to share so much as a common origin. The dark outlining seems to lift each of them off of the canvas all together, emphasizing their fragmentation and mere being. The bed exists solely as “thing” and fails to fulfill its function as a place to sleep. One likewise struggles to imagine the chairs as having a purpose beyond their simple existence. These are not functional objects, but rather things oddly divorced from their uses. The bedroom is detached, fragmented, and curiously unreal.

An affinity between the unreality vision and world of mere being, and much of what can be found throughout Walser‟s corpus, has already been introduced in the context of narrative observation with the terms generalizing gaze, distancing gaze, and the flattening of spatial relationships. Together these produce coldly neutral and fragmented images, lacking in depth and specificity, while exhibiting a seemingly contradictory hyperawareness for details. Consider the following street description from

Geschwister Tanner:

Die Frauen gingen alle in hellen, weißen Kleidern, die Mädchen trugen an

ihren weißen Röcken farbige, breite Schleifen, die Männer waren einfach

gekleidet in hellere Sommerstoffe, Knaben trugen Matrosenkleider, Hunde

liefen hinter ein paar Menschen her; im Wasser, in ein Drahtgitter

eingeschlossen, schwammen Schwäne herum, etliche junge Leute beugten

sich über das Geländer der Brücke und sahen ihnen aufmerksam zu,

wieder andere Männer gingen ziemlich feierlich zur Urne und gaben dort

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ihre Stimmzettel zu den Wahlen ab, die Glocken läuteten zum zweiten

oder zum dritten Mal, der See schimmerte blau und die Schwalben flogen

hoch oben in der Luft, über die Dächer hinweg, die in der Sonne strahlten;

die Sonne war zuerst eine Sonntag-Vormittagssonne, dann eine Sonne

schlechthin und dann noch eine Extrasonne für ein paar Künstleraugen,

die wohl mit unter der Menge sein mochten; dazwischen grünten und

breiteten sich die Bäume der städtischen Parkanlagen aus; unter der

dunkleren Baumschattenwelt spazierten wieder andere Frauen und andere

Männer; Segelschiffe flogen im Wind auf dem blauen, fernen Wasser, und

träge, an Fässer angebundene Boote schaukelten am Ufer; hier flogen

wieder andere Vögel und Menschen standen hier still, die blaue, weißliche

Ferne und die Berggipfel betrachteten, die am fernen Himmel wie

köstliche, weiße, beinah unsichtbare Spitzen herunterhingen, als ob der

ganze Himmel eine hellblaue Morgenmantille gewesen wäre. (SW 9: 251-

52)

What first strikes the reader is the complete lack of energy, or dynamism of the scene. It is undoubtedly crowed, so much so that one half expects objects to start spilling off of the page. But the anticipated movement and buzz of the street are lacking. One reads what seems to be a cataloging of observed objects, with little or no weight given to the relationships that hold them together. With the exception of the dogs chasing after their masters, or youths idly watching the swans, it doesn‟t appear that any of the people or animals is aware of the existence of others.

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The narrator‟s dry and distancing gaze functions as a fixed camera lens, as people and objects pass in and out of an indifferent frame that gives equal weight to all incoming stimuli (Krebs 26). Here it sees a dog. There it sees some young boys. Over there are some birds. In this single sentence that spans over two pages, there is no discernable order or pattern to the observation. “Das Ganze [erscheint] genau besehen als eine vor dem Auge des Schreibenden vorbeiziehende Bilderfolge” (Naguib 159). The women appear no more important than the swans or the swallows, or the boats that bob in the water. As is often the case with Walser, all hierarchy is negated.

The stasis of the image is enhanced by a generalizing gaze that flattens spatial relationships, a quality noted by Stefani in his analysis of the recurring figure of the walker - Der Spaziergänger (64). The few localizing words that can be found offer little support in terms of spatial orientation, as they are notably unspecific. Words like “hier,”

“dort,” and “dazwischen” are meaningless in a passage as referentially opaque as this.

These generic observations remove the scene from the confines of a spatial understanding founded on the grid of distance and direction, and this allows the narrator‟s gaze to jump from image to image, either unaware of, or unconcerned with the physical space between them.74 This spacelessness is mirrored by the timelessness of church bells that ring for either the second or third time; the narrator isn‟t sure.

The entire scene is bathed in a brilliant sunlight, in fact, sunlight par excellence.

Illumination is a key aspect of unreality (Sass, M&M 47). De Chirico‟s vision begins

74 As Walser writes in another piece: “Mit der Schnelligkeit, die dem Wind eigen ist, und zugleich mit der Unspürbarkeit eines Atomes ging ich zu ihr” (SW 20: 58). Although the man and woman, between whom the narrator‟s gaze jumps, are standing in different places and exist in different times, the spatial and temporal distance between them are negated for an observer who negates these barriers.

172 with the breaking of dawn. Renee‟s description is more explicit: “For me, madness was definitely not a condition of illness; I did not believe that I was ill. It was rather a country, opposed to Reality, where reigned an implacable light, blinding, leaving no place for shadow . . . I called it the „Land of Light‟” (Sechehaye 24). The brightness of Walser‟s street is central to the narrator‟s experience. In fact, the discussion of sunlight falls in the exact middle of the sentence, and is set off from the preceding observations by a semi- colon. The light itself is pervasive and ubiquitous; even the women and men walking in the shade seem somehow lit up, no less prominent than those standing in the sun. A complete lack of chirascuro, of shadowing and sense of depth, is typical of the unreality vision. Sass points to the paintings of de Chirico and other Surrealists as examples of art, in which the quality, whereby some objects come into focus, while others recede into the background, is missing (47). Walser‟s Momentaufnahmen likewise exhibit a lack of subjective valuation of one object over another.

The visual quality of the world during the Trema can seem an immobile and unchangeable alien landscape, where objects are crystallized, “placed here and there, geometric cubes without meaning” (Sechehaye 24). Through what resembles höchste

Aufmerksamkeit and a distancing gaze, images become fragmented and disintegrate into a collection of individual parts and pieces, leaving behind a that overwhelms any synthetic contextual whole. The disunity in which they come to exist has unique and unsettling consequences. As context dissolves, so too disappears the network of relationships and meanings that serve to mark one object as contextually more significant than another. Each part and piece demands equal consideration from the viewer.

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Divorced not only from each other and from a larger meaningful whole, objects assert a meaningless presence, a mere being, a hollow existence as „thing,‟ their existence sui generis. The experience of unreality, of its “illimitable vastness, brilliant light, and the gloss and smoothness of material things” (Sechehaye 4), can be terrifyingly alienating and crippling. Yet at the same time, its unprecedented mystery may harbor a promise of a deeper significance. In other words, the common illumination of the landscape is an illuminating encounter, the light . . . enlightening. This fourth and final quality of the

Trema follows after mere being, fragmentation, and unreality, and is often a marker of the early stages of a schizophrenic break. This is the apophanous mood.

The apophanous mood and the Wahrnehmungsstarre

The apophany, from the Greek “to become manifest,” is the curious sense of the significance of this new experience of the world. “Every detail and event takes on an excruciating distinctness, specialness, and peculiarity – some definite meaning that always lies just out of reach . . .” (Sass, M&M 52). This sense of being on the cusp of revelation is bound with the brightness of the unreality vision. Renee‟s „Land of Light,‟ is, in her words, also a „Land of Enlightenment,‟ where even the howling wind bore a message to be divined (Sechehaye 13, 29). Nothing, it seems, occurs without meaning.

Every action and every object are necessary, and perhaps highly significant. Randomness doesn‟t exist. Rather, every single thing exists with intent and for a purpose, and must therefore be understood. It is as if a veil has been lifted, and the true nature of the world is being viewed, as de Chirico says, for the very first time (6).

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The overpowering awareness of significance experienced in the apophanous mood seemingly conflicts with the experience of an object‟s mere being, which, as previously noted, emphasizes existence outside of meaning. This very duality is in part what makes schizophrenia so difficult to understand, and what causes it to be, at times, a completely debilitating affliction. The Verlust der Natürlichen Selbstverständlichkeit, which precedes the Trema, and which as Sass postulates is caused in part by a hyperreflexive stance defined by incessant questioning and doubt, issues in a contradictory quality of meaninglessness and meaningfulness to the world. Meaningless in that objects are cut off from their significance and functionality; meaningful in the novel strangeness that ushers in the apophanous mood, engendering a persistent, yet futile search to make sense of actions and objects, and to discern their hidden message.

This exacerbates hyperreflexivity, and the individual slips into a downward spiral which, in extreme cases, may result in catatonic psychosis. This is why an individual may be lost for hours postulating the singularity and limitless meaning of a solitary blade of grass or drop of coffee (Sechehaye 57).

An important and early symptom of schizophrenia is what German psychiatry has termed the Wahnwahrnehmung or Wahrnehmungsstarre, a concentrated stare and observation of the external world. “In bestimmten Stadien der Psychose vermag der

Kranke bei der Betrachtung von „Elementen‟ länger als der Normale zu verharren . . .”

(Matussek 305). Individuals may become totally engulfed in the process of observation, transfixed by a vision that is weirdly beautiful and ineffably significant. Matussek notes that looking away requires tremendous effort (305). A similar experience may perhaps be found in our observation of Isia Leviant‟s hypnotic painting Enigma (figure 5), whereby

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Fig 5. Isia Leviant, Enigma, Palais de la Découverte, Paris

176

the observer‟s gaze is drawn deeper and deeper into the two-dimensional image. Renee, during her schizophrenic breaks, struggles to control her gaze as well:

With difficulty I shifted my eyes from the drop of coffee to the black

stove. But the drop, like a magnet, drew my eyes slowly and persistently

to itself. . . . Finally, with a surge of willpower I would

get up abruptly and begin to work. But how my eyes struggled. As soon as

my gaze fell on a spot of any sort, a shadow or ray of light, I could not

drag it away, caught and held fast by the boundless emptiness of the

infinitely small. (Sechehaye 57)

This intense observation is a direct result of the unreality vision and subsequent apophanous mood (Sass, “LU” 223)75. Adapting Wahrnehmungsstarre as truth-taking- stare76, Sass argues that it is an individual‟s fascination with a changed world, and an indescribable belief in deeper meaning and promise of an epiphany that drives him or her to search out, through concentrated observation, the truth and essence of reality, to which they may now believe themselves uniquely privy.

Sass‟ Wahrnehmungsstarre correlates with narrative observation, particularly where one senses a conflation of höchste Aufmerksamkeit and a focus on an object‟s existence sui generis. Often, such moments will be underscored by an observer‟s search

75 LU refers to Louis Sass‟ “The Land of Unreality: On the Phenomenology of the Schizophrenic Break.” 76 Sass notes the unusualness of his literal translation of Wahrnehmung- into truth-taking-, but maintains that it “seems better to capture the schizophrenic experience in question” (M&M 423). He does not imply that the truth-taking-stare, which strives to exact meaning from an unreal world, is synonymous with what German psychiatry has traditionally understood as a Wahrnehmungsstarre, which is limited to rigid and stiff perception, and lacks revelatory intent (Plokker 56).

177 for truth or meaning, a revelatory pursuit that attributes to single objects or images more significance and potential than would normally be expected. A pristine example of such a moment can be found in “Die Ruine,” as an orphan stands alone in the pouring rain:

Doch da erblickte er etwas auf dem Boden, das ihm unverkennbare

Ähnlichkeit mit einer Stecknadel zu haben schien. Lange blieb er im

Anblick des interessanten Gegenstandes versunken stehen,

ununterbrochen bewegte sich das nimmermüde Leben, die unaufhörlich

sausende, brausende Zivilisation am Erstaunten vorüber, der sich,

nachdem er es sich gründlich überlegt zu haben schien, zur unscheinbaren

Nadel herabbückte, um sie seiner Wertschätzung zu würdigen. (SW 17:

126-27)

The orphan‟s highly attentive gaze locates the needle in the haystack of civilization, which bustles past both insignificants, the boy and his object, paying heed to neither. As the orphan becomes lost in his close study of the needle removed from the context of the street, which in his observation he seems to have negated, he senses in it a significance and value that is somehow accessible through his stare and consideration. His gaze is fixed on the tiny needle, as he stands motionless in a now forgotten city street, locked in some manner of Wahrnehmungsstarre.

“Naturstudie”

Considering another of Walser‟s short stories, “Naturstudie,” one discovers a text that describes an experience remarkably reminiscent of the Trema. “Naturstudie” was

178 published in 1920 in the collection Seeland, the last book published from the author‟s

Bieler period. The story is a narrator‟s account of his stirring encounter with nature, presumably the Swiss countryside. The landscape has an indescribable effect on him that in its strangeness, is akin to Renee‟s relationship to a changed world.

The story‟s first line establishes the unique mystery and power that the experience holds over the narrator. “Wie ich bei dem allem so innig ergriffen, so seltsam bewegt sein konnte, vermag ich mir heute kaum noch irgendwie zu erkären” (SW 7: 60). The world is transformed into an alien, borderline surreal landscape. “Jeder Baum, jedes Gestrüpp, jedes zierliche Gebüsch hatte hier seine liebliche, redliche Eigenart” (SW 7: 66). The objects of the world express their existence sui generis, their mere being. The narrator stands in wonder in front of them, his gaze concentrated on a single image, and then on another, locked in careful study. “Ich möchte übrigens auch hier wieder hervorheben, daß ich, indem ich herumstreifte, mir Mühe gab, alles recht genau anzuschauen, mir alles

Gute und Schöne, das ich irgendwo antreffen konnte, so fest wie möglich ins aufmerksame Gedächtnis einzuprägen” (SW 7: 68). With an observational stance marked by höchste Aufmerksamkeit, the narrator makes his way:

Was mir auffiel, war, daß jedes Vorhandene seine wesentlich saubere,

naturwahre Färbung besaß, der Stein die seine, das Holz der Baumstämme

die ihrige. Ebenso war es mit dem Erdboden, mit den Blättern. Alles war

satt und voll Lauterkeit. Jede Mauer sprach deutlich für sich und stach als

Mauer von andern Dingen reinlich ab. Rein und unbenommen stand der

Baum als solcher da, diente nicht irgend einem Park oder sonstigen

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Zweck, war niemandem als wieder nur sich selbst unterworfen. Ähnlich

war es mit allen übrigen Dingen. (SW 7: 66)

This vision recalls Renee‟s perception of unreality, as well as de Chirico‟s description of the Stimmung. For de Chirico, everything at Versailles was a mystery. “I saw then that every angle of the palace, every column, every window had a soul that was an enigma”

(5). Renee wrote of objects taking on a life of their own (Sechehaye 34).

In Walser‟s narrative, the enigmatic soul and inexplicable mere being of objects comes to be a “wesentlich saubere, naturwahre Färbung,” an existence sui generis. This purely natural tinge is an expression of the object‟s unadaltured and unmediated being, and in that sense, it is saturated with sincerity and integrity (“Lauterkeit”). Objects do not present themselves (or are not perceived as presenting themselves) through a filter of context or externally defined value, which would only yield a distortion of meaning.

Rather, they exist simply, of and for themselves. They don‟t serve a purpose, but stand

“Rein und unbenommen,” and the viewer is acutely aware of what Matussek calls “das

Wesenhafte” (296), or what in Walser scholarship is commonly referred to as das reine

Sein.

Das reine Sein ist das unmittelbar Gegebene, das Dasein in Wahrheit und

Freiheit Begründende, und zugleich das Unerreichbare, da es als

Unendliches dem Endlichen des Daseins, als “schlafender” Grund dem

Rationalen und als reines Absolutes der partiellen Interessiertheit

transzendent ist. (Greven, Existenz 43)

The amplified importance of the existence sui generis of things instigates a breakdown in context and cohesion, and the narrator‟s vision splits into a series of

180 smaller visions that, although experienced contemporaneously, are comprehended as individual and separate. Fragmentation divides the objects from one another, and from their function in the world. “Jede Mauer sprach deutlich für sich und stach als Mauer von andern Dingen reinlich ab,” and the trees stand only for themselves, not in the service of any park or purpose. The entire scene is one of liberation and unhinged freedom, where nothing is subjugated to anything but itself. The world becomes one of unreality.

Renee describes the land of unreality as an “immense space without boundary, limitless, flat; a mineral, lunar country, cold as the wastes of the North Pole” (Sechehaye

24). The narrator‟s experience has a similar quality. “Die Erde und das Leben erschienen mir still, kühn, groß. Alles besaß eine ganz bestimmte Feinheit . . .” (SW 7: 60). The strangeness of the world‟s transformation is what touches and captures him so powerfully, both his imagination as well as his gaze. Such encounters “bannen, fesseln, beeindrucken in urgewöhnlicher Weise . . . sie halten den Blick fest und verleihen der

Gegend eine ganz bestimmte Tönung, nämlich die des Naturhaften und Urwüchsigen”

(Matussek 292). In harmony, Walser writes “An so treuherziger, kerniger, urwüchsiger

Aufführung konnte ich kaum anders als große Freude haben, weswegen ich mich wohl fühlen durfte, wie selten zuvor” (SW 7: 66). With every step he sees something strange and new, something that arrests his gaze. “Ich ging und stand still, ging wieder und bleib später wieder still am Fleck stehen und schaute mich nach allen Seiten sorgsam um, wie ein Soldat tut, der auf Wache steht. Auf mich schien ein Strom des Außerordentlichen zu fließen” (SW 7: 63).

This same experience appears to be behind the text “Spaziergang (I),” which was discussed in detail in Chapter 1. The story recalls the narrator‟s stroll through the Swiss

181 countryside, from one observational station to the next, the perceived objects markedly fixed, illuminated, and curiously hypnotic. The vast and static country described in

“Naturstudie” is bold and clear, but also atemporal. “Eigentümlich ist, wie mir Frühes und Spätes, jetziges und Längstvergangenes, Deutlich-Gegenwärtiges und

Halbschonvergessenes in- und übereinanderschwimmen und schimmern und wie blitzende Lichter, schwerfällige Wellen zusammenfallen und übereinanderwogen” (SW 7:

60). Experiences dominated by objects and space, rather than by actions and time are common in schizophrenic discourse. One might say that it is often weirdly timeless (Sass,

M&M 155-56).

The vision described by the narrator is Walser‟s realm of reinen Seins, a previously hidden state of pure being. “Durch den Wechsel von Ferne und Nähe, von

Bewegung und Stillstand werden Einzelheiten isoliert und das Ungesehene im scheinbar

Bekannten . . . aufgezeigt” (Evans, Moderne 124). It is expansive, fragmented, unadulterated, and free of any pre-conceived notion or expectation. At the same time, division between past and present, then and now, remembered and forgotten dissolves. So too does the separation between subject and object appear to disappear, as the narrator‟s distance as observing subject is replaced by synchronic perspectives. This is most explicit in the moments where the world looks back at the narrator, and when the “Naturstudie” becomes nature‟s study.

Indem ich an dieser oder jener Stelle wie unter Zauberbann stillstand und

das Land still und lang und sorgfältig anschaute, geschah das Sonderbare,

daß alles schöne Äußere nun seinerseits auch auf mich blickte. Mir schien

sehr eigentümlich, daß ich für das Sichtbare selber wieder sichtbar sei, daß

182

alles, was ich sah, selber wieder rund um sich schaue. Betrachten,

sorgsames Prüfen, Aufpassen, Horchen, vielfältiges Schauen und Merken

sowie Fragen und Überwachen schienen gegenseitig geworden zu sein.

Wo ich selber andauerlich forschte, wurde wieder ich selbst erforscht,

aufmerksam betrachtet. Wenigstens bildete ich mir ein, daß dies so sei.

Wo ich staunte, wurde vielleicht auch ich bestaunt; fraglich, bedenklich,

wie die Umgebung für mich zu sein schien, war ich auch für sie.

Mindestens schien mir dies möglich. Das Land und all seine Schönheiten

hatten Augen, und ich war damit zufrieden. (SW 7: 64)

This mutual observation occurs in numerous texts by Walser, and is exemplified in “Guten Tag, Riesin,” as the sky becomes a blue-eyed wonder that keeps watch over the street below. Greven argues that reciprocal observation stems from a new way of seeing the world. “[Walser] sieht die Welt tatsächlich neu und anders, und er beschreibt sie nicht nur so, sondern . . . er thematisiert dieses Sehen als solches, die Beobachtung, die . . . immer eigentlich Selbstbeobachtung ist” (“„Den Blick anzublicken‟” 19). It is common during the Trema for schizophrenics to feel as if they are being observed by the objects themselves. Intense concentration on an item produces from it the expression of its soul, or of its reinen Seins. This isn‟t always understood to be a psychological aberration of the schizophrenic‟s own mind, which is imposed upon the object as if from above. Rather, this life-quality seems to radiate out from the object, which expresses and affirms its pure being. “Daher können auch augenlose Gegenstände „blicken‟” (Matussek 296). Animate objects appear alive and in possession of objectifying capabilities, and the schizophrenic is rendered the object of their observation, a thing among things.

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An aesthetically productive experience

What makes Walser‟s descriptions intriguing and perhaps sets them apart from those more classically schizophrenic, is his ability to distance himself from his own descriptions and to recognize them as products of his own imagination or fantasy. In the selection above, as is often the case where the reader encounters synchronic perspectives, the description is qualified with subjunctive voice: “daß ich . . . sichtbar sei, daß alles, was ich sah, selber wieder rund um sich schaue.” More revealing is the peppering of qualifiers: “Mir schien,” “Wenigstens bildete ich mir ein,” “Mindestens schien mir dies möglich.” From this moment of mise en abyme, whereby the narrator comes to reflect on his own process of perception, to make observations on his own observation of his observed observing self, the analysis can set off in two interpretive directions.

Firstly, Walser‟s reflection upon his fantasies and imaginations might be understood as a continued process of hyperreflexivity, in which even delusions lose their self-evident truth values and are subjected to doubt and scrutiny. The moment that the products of one‟s own mind, even delusions, cause one to waver is a perilous juncture, as it marks a break with one of the last remaining anchors to reality available in a post-

Enlightenment world – the Cartesian cogito (Sass, M&M 214-15). In schizophrenic psychosis, as in much of modernism, the very assumption of cogito ergo sum can no longer be relied upon. In Jenseits von Gut und Böse, Nietzsche gives voice to the impending split:

Es gibt immer noch harmlose Selbst-Beobachter, welche glauben, daß es

“unmittelbare Gewißheiten” gebe, zum Beispiel “ich denke” . . . wenn ich

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den Vorgang zerlege, der in dem Satz “ich denke” ausgedrückt ist, so

bekome ich eine Reihe von verwegnen Behauptungen, deren Begründung

schwer, vielleicht unmöglich ist . . . Was gibt mir das Recht, von einem

Ich, und gar von einem Ich als Ursache, und endlich noch von einem Ich

als Gedanken-Ursache zu reden? . . . ein Gedanke kommt, wenn “er” will,

und nicht wenn “ich” will . . . Es denkt: aber daß dies “es” gerade jenes

alte berühmte “Ich” sei, ist, milde geredet, nur eine Annahme, eine

Behauptung, vor allem keine “unmittelbare Gewißheit”. (22-24)

The schizophrenic is no “harmlose Selbst-Beobachter,” as hyperreflexive introspection can be a relentless process, and doubt can be consuming. When reflections upon reflections engender skepticism, and the thinking subject comes into question, a new psychological state is reached, one of infinite cancellation and the eventual nonexistence of self (Sass, M&M 228). Just as Renee became trapped in the contemplation of a single drop of coffee, the schizophrenic disappears into a study of the limitless nothingness of the „I‟, a subjectivism without a subject caught in an endless retreat from reality. This model has shadings of R.D. Laing and the wholesale implosion of the unembodied “true self,” and threatens to completely destroy the individual‟s ability to function with or within society; in their state of pervasive suspicion and hesitation, they may slip completely out of relation to the rest of the world.

However, this doesn‟t seem to apply to Walser himself, who, although he retreated to the asylums of Switzerland for 27 years, still managed to maintain contact

185 with the outside world through publication77, letter writing78, and visits from friends . . . most notably Carl Seelig. As a communicator, Walser was not rendered fully incompetent.

Additionally, there is an awareness of the fantastic nature of experiences like those described in “Naturstudie,” as the narrator refers to them as “voll Phantasie” (SW

7: 64). This recognition does not conform to the phenomenon of double bookkeeping common in schizophrenia. Rather than a conflation of delusions with reality, or a negation of one by the other, both delusional and realistic notions seem to exist simultaneously in a process of double or multiple bookkeeping. Individual‟s hold firmly to their belief in delusions, even when they sense that delusions relate only to private experiences, and contradict reality (Sass, M&M 275). “Nicht nur in verschiedenen

Bewußtseinszuständen nacheinander, sondern bei voller Besonnenheit nebeneinander existieren Wahn und Wirklichkeit auch da, wo sie sich ausschließen sollten (Bleuler, E.

103). For schizophrenics, delusions may be logically impossible, but are nevertheless perceived as being as equally true as what is generally understood to be reality. “The patient who talked of objects coming out of her eyes, for example, did not say it was as if these things were flying out; nor do patients concerned about world catastrophe generally say that it is only as if the world were coming to an end” (Sass, M&M 288). This leads to

77 Walser was institutionalized in Waldau in January of 1929, but wrote and published until his move to Herisau. Among his publications were works printed in the newspapers of Berlin and Prague, first and foremost the “Berliner Tageblatt.” Walser also managed to organize a new edition of “Geschwister Tanner” in 1933, which would be published by the Verlag Rascher in Zürich (Mächler 219-20). 78 Walser continued to write letters to close family and friends throughout the 30s and 40s, primarily to Carl Seelig, Frieda Mermet, and his sisters Fanny and Lisa, while his correspondence with publishing houses seems to trail off with his move from Waldau to Herisau in 1933.

186 a second interpretation of Walser‟s reflection on his perception of reality, an approach that will be of increasing importance in the coming chapters.

Walser‟s qualification of the Trema-like transformation of the world found in

“Naturstudie” hints that this might have been an instigated and purposeful psychic departure, an act instrumental in the author‟s aesthetic process. “Ich möchte übrigens auch hier wieder hervorheben, daß ich, indem ich herumstreifte, mir Mühe gab79, alles recht genau anzuschauen,” he writes (SW 7: 68). Further evidence for this can be found early on in the piece:

Wie ich nämlich annehmen zu dürfen glaube, bin ich allen diesen Dingen

gegenüber weit weniger von Begeisterung und Schwärmerei, als vielmehr

nur von überaus starker Aufmerksamkeit ergriffen gewesen, die mir ein

Zustand zu sein scheint, wovon ich denke, daß er höher zu schätzen sei als

irgendwelche Benommenheit, die über jedes exakte Beobachten, richtige

Besinnen, Einprägen und feste Denken gern hinwegschwimmt. Noch sehr

genau weiß ich und vermag daher auszusagen, daß ich eher kühl und

mißtrauisch als warm und sorglos war. (SW 7: 62)

A cold, mistrustful, and exacting observation of everything in the world is the act, the process by which the realm of reinen Seins can be accessed; it the method that initiates the Trema and ushers in the apophanous mood. The narrator is acutely aware of his relationship to the world, so much so that he is able to step back and analyze it. The subjunctive voice, which in the earlier selection casts doubt on the truth-value of the fantasies, and as such calls into question any argument stressing the inevitability and

79 Emphasis added.

187 exclusively psychotic nature of the experience, is used here only to qualify the valuation of the experience as a whole, as either good or bad, beneficial or not. With uncharacteristic certainty, Walser‟s narrator dissects the observational stance: “Noch sehr genau weiß ich und vermag daher auszusagen, daß ich eher kühl und mißtrauisch als warm und sorglos war.” The explicit belief in the true nature of a method of perception, which is itself defined by reservation and doubt, suggests a self-awareness that distances the subject from his actions, and as such, may preclude an understanding of the latter as strictly involuntary symptoms of a schizophrenic break.

The narrator‟s positive valuation of the experience also indicates a different relationship to the Trema than described by others. Renee suffered greatly from her breaks and struggled against the crisis of unreality. “An indescribable anguish squeezed my heart, an anguish no resolve could allay. . . . I fought with all my strength not to let myself sink in the Enlightenment . . . It was ghastly, intolerable” (Sechehaye 36-37). In

“Naturstudie,” however, this is a state of mind to be treasured. “Das reine Sein wurde mir zu einem Glück, wofür ich weder Worte noch Gedanken fand” (SW 7: 69). This is both a meaningless and meaningful land of clear fragmentation and nebulous dissolve, a

“gewiss(e) Undeutlichkeit, worin alles verfeinert ist,” inaccessible to the majority, “weil sie trotz hochentwickelter Intelligenz an Trübheiten und Voreingenommenheiten kläglich kleben bleiben, trauriger Eigenschaften bange Sklaven sind” (SW 7: 60, 70). The epiphany of the reinen Seins is its lack of definition and meaning, its vacuous nothingness that promises liberation and begs to be filled with unhemmed imagination:

Alle Erschinungen standen fest und doch auch weich, und zwar weich,

weil frei in völliger Eigenheit, Unabhängigkeit, mit Spuren fröhlicher

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Wunderlichkeit und Zeichen von angenehmer Keckheit unbeeinträchtigt

da, waren nicht hinderlich, doch auch selbst keineswegs gehemmt und

behindert, und in all die helle, breite, weite Freiheit hinab und hinein

glänzte reizendes, heiteres, farbendurchtränktes Himmelslicht . . . Seit

wann wäre der Himmel nicht der große, gute Freund alles Guten? Doch

wo bin ich denn jetzt wieder?

Ich glaube, daß ich nur die Gedanken wieder ein wenig ordnen,

und die zerstreuten Geister, die sich über alles eilig hinbreiten möchten,

einigermaßen wieder sammeln sollte. (SW 7: 67)

For the author, reines Sein is a tabula rasa, for the painter it i a blank canvas. “Ich bin erklärter Freund des Ungewissen,” the narrator says (SW 7: 60). Pure being is pure aesthetic and fantastic potential, unencumbered by expectations or pre-prescribed meanings, or, as suggested in Chapter 3, the limitations of the medium itself.

The role of reinen Seins in an aesthetically productive process is described in more detail in the story “Der Spaziergang,” which, like “Naturstudie,” was published in

1920 in the collection Seeland. In the story‟s opening lines, the narrator, a poet by trade, bounds out of his writing studio and into the streets below. The walk on which he embarks is central to his writing process, for it allows him to exist in the world, and to pass through it as an observer.

Observation, as has been shown, serves to liberate the world from imposed meanings and “Voreingenommenheiten” (SW 7: 70), of reducing objects to empty and functional-less things, of locating their identity in a world of false contexts, and calling it out for its insignificance. Once decontextualized, the epiphany of the reinen Seins of the

189 world and everything in it is realized. The process of decontextualization begins before the narrator reaches the street, with the encounter with a woman described as “eine

Spanierin, Peruanerin oder Kreolin” (SW 7: 83). The identifying labels placed on the woman become increasingly ambiguous. In the Switzerland of 1920, “Peruvian” implies a more exotic and racially mixed society than that of Spain, but nevertheless one that maintains a dominant national and linguistic identity. The latter two, which help stabilize the woman‟s identity for the narrator, disappear with the label “Creole,” which is not only racially, linguistically, and nationally vague, but in the limited context of the encounter, creates a ciphered identity detached from the codifying sphere of Spanish colonialism.

Upon reaching the street, the narrator is well on his way to looking through categorizations, and seeing the world anew, for what it really is. In the Trema experience, patients will talk about seeing the world for the first time, a world, previously veiled, but one that has now become visible (Sass, M&M 44). The narrator of “Der Spaziergang” is also struck by the novelty of what he sees. “Die Morgenwelt, die sich vor mir ausbreitete, erschien mir so schön, als sehe ich sie zum erstemal” (SW 7: 83). The unsullied vision is not distracted nor led astray by appearances; it hones in on essences, seeks to see behind the masks and lay bare deceit. The narration of the ensuing walk offers much that could be of interest in the ongoing discussion of hyperreflexivity and narrative observation, and provides numerous visions, scenes, and encounters that align well with the argument at hand. Analysis will be limited, however, to two visions that describe a Trema-like experience, and that illustrate its productive qualities.

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At the midway point of his walk, the narrator describes an experience that is possibly the most concise description of a Trema-like vision to be found in Walser‟s work.

Alles Menschliche und Gegenständliche schien sich in eine von

Zärtlichkeit erfüllte Seele verwandelt zu haben. Silberschleier,

Seelennebel schwammen in alles, legten sich um alles. Die Weltseele habe

sich geöffnet und alles Böse, Leidvolle und Schmerzliche sei im

Entschwinden begriffen, phantasierte ich. . . . Aufmerksam schaute ich auf

das geringste und Bescheidenste, indes der Himmel sich hoch empor und

tief herab zu neigen schien. Die Erde wurde zum Traum; ich selbst war ein

Inneres geworden und ging wie in einem Innern herum. Alles Äußere

verlor sich und alles bisher Verstandene war unverständlich. An der

Oberfläche herab stürzte ich in die Tiefe, die ich im Augenblick als das

Gute erkannte. Was wir verstehen und lieben, versteht und liebt auch uns.

Ich war nicht mehr ich selbst, sondern ein anderer, doch gerade darum erst

recht wieder ich selbst. Im süßen Liebeslichte glaubte ich einsehen zu

können oder fühlen zu sollen, daß der innerliche Mensch der einzige sei,

der wahrhaft existiert. (SW 7: 131)

The strangeness of the world‟s transformation is experienced by the observer as a revelation, an uncovering of a life-quality that he calls a soul. The opening up of the

“Weltseele” lays a blanket of substance over everything. “Silberschleier, Sellennebel schwammen in alles, legten sich um alles.” Nothing in the world is left untouched by this soul. Everything takes on life and meaning, or so the narrator fantasizes. With an

191 attentive and dissecting gaze, he studies the smallest and most modest of things in the world in revelatory pursuit, and in so doing, superficial meanings and false understandings dissolve. This focus is quickly revealed as a process by which the narrator achieves some deeper, more meaningful experience and unity with the “Weltseele.”

“Alles Äußere verlor sich und alles bisher Verstandene war unverständlich. An der

Oberfläche herab stürzte ich in die Tiefe, die ich im Augenblick als das Gute erkannte.”

Recognition of reality‟s surface is a tool in emphasizing the superficiality of externally located meaning, in nuce removing it from consideration and creating a pathway to its reinen Sein. Trust in contextually defined significance is a bulwark to this revelation, and will remain so for the majority, “weil sie trotz hochentwickelter

Intelligenz an Trübheiten und Voreingenommenheiten kläglich kleben bleiben . . .” (SW

7: 70). Once unfettered, the world becomes an undefined realm, freed from anything outside of itself, rife for fantasy. “Alsdann ist Träumen für den Schauenden und

Ankommenden eine längst vorbestimmte Sache,” writes Walser in 1903 (SW 1: 95). The acts of observation and dreaming are consonant in “Naturstudie” as well. “Die Erde wurde zum Traum; ich selbst war ein Inneres geworden und ging wie in einem Innern herum” (SW 7: 131). The narrator, too, melts into this realm of synchronic perspectives, and is likewise unburdened of the weight and expectations of the external world.

Walking and observing are central to Walser‟s writing process (Stefani 24). They are “nicht nur gesund, sondern auch dienlich, und nicht nur schön, sondern auch nützlich,” for the poet, “. . . der freilich nicht mit niedergeschlagenen, sondern mit offenen, ungetrübten Augen spazieren muß, falls er den Wunsch hat, daß ihm der schöne

Sinn und der weite, edle Gedanke des Spazierganges aufgehen sollen” (SW 7: 125-26).

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Without this connection to the world, this fusion with its “Inneres,” its reinen Sein, the poet would be unable to write a single letter, much less a poem in verse or prose (SW 7:

125).

The experience, while aesthetically productive and thus valuable to the artist, is not entirely benign. Although a willed break from the external world, the experience as a whole may actually have roots in unintentional, autonomous Trema-like events with which Walser was afflicted. In “Brief an die Geduldige,” he writes of having sporadic attacks that are epileptic in nature (SW 18: 127). In a letter to Therese Breitbach, he describes dizzy spells during which lights glimmer before his eyes. “Ich bekam vor zirka zehn oder elf Jahren Schwindelanfälle, die sich hie und da vorübergehend wiederholen.

Ganz plötzlich, unvermutet kommt das. Man bekommt ein glitzern vor den Augen. Es sind vielleicht Grippe-Überbleibsel” (Briefe 326). The goal of an instigated Trema-like break is complete decontextualization and liberation. It is, by its very nature, unfulfillable without the complete loss of self.

Complete freedom from meaning and significance requires a freedom from the limits of one‟s own identity, a shedding off of the ego. The negation of the ego is achieved through the same process as the negation of the external world, through acute observation and reflection that objectifies the self as object, producing a non-existent inner core (Sass, M&M 234). “Ich war nicht ich selbst, sondern ein anderer,” says the narrator, who then believes himself to have reached a state of pure existence, “doch gerade darum erst recht wieder ich selbst” (SW 7: 131). Persistent, exigent introspection of one‟s own state of existence, what might be called a “centrifuging of self,” can never fully be realized (Valéry 355). Each new self, new ego-platform makes claims and places

193 limits on the individual, and is eventually experienced as an external significance that must be cancelled out (Laing 49).

There is, thus, a danger inherent in Walser‟s process of aesthetic production. This danger is in a complete loss of control, and the permanence of an unhinged state of mind.

“An der Oberfläche herab stürzte ich in die Tiefe, die ich im Augenblick80 als das Gute erkannte” (SW 7: 131). The benefits of the experience are passing, and “das Gute,” over time, reveals itself to be a fall away from an ordered and stable reality, and into a maddening chaos:

Geheimnisvoll schleichen dem Spaziergänger allerlei Einfälle und Ideen

nach, derart, daß er mitten im fleißigen, achtsamen gehen stillstehen und

horchen muß, weil er, über und über von seltsamen Eindrücken, Geister-

Gewalt benommen, plötzlich das bezaubernde Gefühl hat, als sinke er in

die Erde hinab, indem sich vor den geblendeten, verirrten Denker- und

Dichteraugen ein Abgrund öffne. Der Kopf will ihm abfallen. Die sonst so

lebhaften Arme und Beine sind wie erstarrt. Land und Leute, Töne und

Farben, Gesichter und Gestalten, Wolken und Sonnenschein drehen sich

wie Schemen rund um ihn herum; er fragt sich: “Wo bin ich?”

Erde und Himmel fließen und stürzen in ein blitzend

übereinanderwogendes, undeutlich schimmerndes Nebelbild zusammen.

Das Chaos beginnt und die Ordnungen verschwinden. Mühsam sucht der

80 Emphasis added.

194

Erschütterte seine Besinnung aufrechtzuhalten; es gelingt ihm. Später

spaziert er vertrauensvoll weiter. (SW 7: 128)

The pleasure is gone from the experience, replaced by confusion and uncontrolled thought. Also gone seems to be the volition of the act. Whereas the narrator of

“Naturstudie” stresses the objective of his actions, “Ich möchte übrigens auch hier wieder hervorheben, daß ich . . . mir Mühe gab, alles recht genau anzuschauen” (SW 7: 68), the narrator of “Der Spaziergang” is compelled to observation. He has lost control, and is slipping into a world of chaos, and it is only with difficulty (“mühsam”) that he is able to pull himself out of it. As for Nietzsche, the narrator‟s thoughts and ideas are autonomous subjects that, rather than originating from his own mind, slither after him in pursuit. It is only with difficulty that the Spaziergänger is able to clear his head.

Thus it seems that hyperreflexivity and narrative observation, which are central to

Walser‟s writing, produce a liberated and undefined psychic state crucial for fantasy and the aesthetic process. Its benefits are fleeting, however, as the unhinged world is quickly transformed into a spinning chaos that threatens to engulf and trap the author in a permanent condition of maddening fog. This is the duality of the reinen Seins. The moment in which volition and control are replaced by an unmanageable flood of ideas and impressions will be the focus in the following chapter.

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5. A LOOMING BREAK

“ . . . so dürfte es vielleicht des öftern der Kunst und dem aufopfernden Bemühen eines Schriftstellers vorbehalten bleiben, dem achtlos und gedankenlos dahinflutenden Strom des Lebens Schönheitswerte, die Eben am Ertrinken und Untergehen sind, mit Gefahr seiner Gesundheit zu entreißen . . .” – Robert Walser

In order to adequately address the positive and negative qualities of the freedom offered by the reinen Sein, the analysis must return to the previous discussion of Blankenburg‟s

Verlust der natürlichen Selbstverständlichkeit, and must address it in terms of the break from society that it necessarily implies. A patient of Blankenburg describes her experience of natürliche Selbstverständlichkeit: “Jeder Mensch muß wissen, wie er sich verhält, hat eine Bahn, eine Denkweise. Sein Handeln, seine Menschlichkeit, seine

Gesellschaftlichkeit, all diese Spielregeln, die er ausführt: ich konnte sie bis jetzt noch nicht so klar erkennen. Mir haben die Grundlagen gefehlt” (78). Consider, as does

Blankenburg, the word “Spielregeln.” A central concept to Conrad‟s theory of the Trema, as it later became for Sass, the adherence to Spielregeln is necessary for successful social interaction and communication.

Erving Goffman places this concept at the foundation of his theory of as well. The development of a defined identity and stable psychic state, he argues,

196 necessitates that an individual successfully perform a role that conforms to society‟s expectations. The part that is to be played, and Goffman likens it to acting, is defined by

“officially accredited” social, regional, or situational (ie: the momentary environment) rules that can range from written laws to morals or customs (Goffman 35). All approaches, the psychological of Conrad, Blankenburg, and Sass; and the sociological of

Goffman, underscore the importance of conformity to expectations whose origin lies outside the self, the Spielregeln der Gesellschaft, as Blankenburg‟s patient might have described them.

Die Spielregeln der Gesellschaft

As to what can be categorized under the heading of social rules, Sass suggests numerous behavioral acts whose significance is externally defined, and the disregard or ignorance of which can create schizoid-like phenomena. Among others, he notes rules of socially appropriate behavior, which when unrecognized may produce acts of negativism; rules and expectations of communication, which, ignored, can lead to speech pathologies similar to those discussed in depth in Chapter 3; and the basic self evident truth of the physical world, which when doubted, as discussed in the previous pages, can produce the intense stare and apophonous mood associated with schizophrenia.

Social rules organize our “alltägliches Zusammenleben,” writes Blankenburg

(79). As an external system, however, they also serve to establish a socially confirming trajectory for our actions and manner of being in the world. That is to say, a successful and „healthy‟ existence requires not only a solid grounding in society, but a symbiotic

197 relationship with the latter, in which actions and thoughts are carried out along a path that leads back to society, confirming and reinforcing its values.

This very constellation is at the core of the argument between the robber and the

Henrirousseaufrau in Walser‟s final novel, Der Räuber. “„Du erfüllst deine Pflicht als

Mitglied der Gesellschaft nicht‟” she accuses. “„Sind Sie Doktorin?‟ fragte der

Fliehende” (SW 12: 18). Fleeing from the Spielregeln der Gesellschaft, the robber fails at the same time to give back to society by participating in the social narrative, and is marked as ill 81 . “Thus, when the individual presents himself before others, his performance will tend to incorporate and exemplify the officially accredited values of the society . . .” (Goffman 35). This trajectory is a defining feature of „healthy‟ social interaction. Indeed, such an established course to thoughts and actions is as vital to communal integration as are the thoughts and actions themselves. “Jeder Mensch muß wissen, wie er sich verhält, hat eine Bahn,82 eine Denkweise,” as Blankenburg‟s patient states with acumen. For the artist, however, this predetermined pathway can serve to limit aesthetic creativity. This is particularly the case in modernism.

81 A similar unwillingness to participate in a social narrative can be found in the dialog between Klaus and Simon Tanner, in the novel Geschwister Tanner. “Vieles, das dich verletzen sollte, kränkt dich in keiner Weise, und verletzen läßt du dich von ganz selbstverständlichen, aus Welt und Leben herausgewachsenen Dingen,” says Klaus. “Du mußt versuchen, Mensch unter Menschen zu werden, dann wird es dir sicher gut gehen; den im Erfüllen von allerhand Anforderungen kennst du keine Ermattung, und einmal die Liebe der Menschen gewonnen, wird es dich dann reizen, ihnen zu zeigen, daß du sie verdient hast” (SW 9: 185). Like the majority of Walser‟s protagonists, however, Simon refuses to participate actively in society, as he remains unconvinced by “von ganz selbstverständlichen, aus Welt und Leben herausgewachsenen Dingen.” For Simon, the Spielregeln der Gesellschaft have undergone a Verlust der Natürlichen Selbstverständlichkeit. 82 Emphasis added

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Much of the art of the early twentieth century throws down the gauntlet in the face of inherited traditions. Modern art, as writes, “must tend toward anti- art, the elimination of „the subject‟ (the „object,‟ the „image‟), the substitution of chance for intention, and the pursuit of silence” (5). What she calls a “perceptual and cultural clear slate” (17), this is achieved by retreating from the symbiotic relationship with society. “„Du bist ein Feind der Allgemeinheit. Du schuldest mir Zärtlichkeit. Im Namen der Zivlisation hast du unbedingt zu glauben, du seist wie für mich gescahffen‟” (SW 11:

18), levies the Henrirousseaufrau against the robber. Her expectation that he conform to the governing norms of his “Mitmenschen,83 die [ihn] zu etwas Brauchbarem machen möchten,” however, are left unfulfilled by his artistic existence (SW 11: 16). Direction and goal are abandoned by the modern artist, and traditional aesthetic genres are frustrated. The limits of Lessing‟s Laokoon are challenged by dada‟s performative poetry.

Art comes to both alienate and be alienated from society.

Robert Walser was not a stranger to the criticism of alienated readers. Eduard

Korrodi, former editor of the feuilleton section of the Neue Zürcher Zeitung, once said that publishing Walser‟s works always carried with it a degree of risk, as he would afterwards receive letters not from bored or apathetic patrons, but from angry and annoyed readers, who would threaten to cancel their subscriptions if such nonsense didn‟t cease (Mächler 147). Walser, too, was aware of the reaction that his work commonly caused. “„Wissen Sie, was mein Verhängnis ist?” he asks Carl Seelig. “All die herzigen

Leute, die glauben, mich herumkomandieren und kritisieren zu dürfen, sind fanatische

Anhänger von . Sie vertrauen mir nicht. Für sie gibt es nur ein Entweder-

83 Emphasis added

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Oder: „Entweder du schreibst wie Hesse oder du bist und bleibst ein Versager‟” (15). The lack of wide public acceptance of Walser‟s writing has been well documented.84 The annoyance expressed by his audience results from their unfulfilled expectations of a text.

Walser refuses to participate in a shared dialog, one culturally defined.

The readers‟ frustrations can be cognitively explained. Research carried out by a team of Italian scientists in the late 1990s highlights the link between imitation and the neurological development of feelings of empathy and shared experience (Rizzolatti 92).

Such a link was already postulated by Aristotle in Poetics, when he suggested that the human ability for imitation is what separates us from the animal kingdom, and what makes possible empathetic identification with art, particularly with tragedy (Lindenberger

15-16). Imitation, and thus empathy, is predicated on a common frame of reference between art and the consumer. The empathetic tragic-hero must be a “man like ourselves”

(Aristotle 27). Art produced outside of this frame of reference, or in a calculated confrontation with it, as is often the case in modernism, can estrange the audience.

For Walser, the reader was the carrier and personification of society‟s expectations and moral codes. To fashion a tabula rasa, to establish an undefined context for writing, he needed to rid himself of the limitations of cultural traditions, in effect become unreadable for much of his audience.85 In the text “Minotauros,” which will be

84 For a discussion of Walser‟s success on the market, with statistical information pertaining to published exemplars from the years 1904 – 1983, see Greven‟s chapter “„Wenn Robert Walser hunderttausend Leser hätte . . .‟” in Figur am Rande, im wechselndem Licht. 85 That Walser was able to conform to what Mächler calls “einem sachgebundenen Normalstil” is evidenced by the Der Gehülfe, which was his most marketable book during his lifetime (101). The realistic and straightforward style of Der Gehülfe deviates greatly from the novel which came before it, Geschwister Tanner, and from that which was to follow on its heals, Jakob von Gunten. “Nie vorher und nachher, hat

200 the focus of the discussion in the coming pages, Walser expresses his awareness of the possible schism that this shedding of expectations causes between himself and his audience.

Daß dies hier kein Seidenstrumpfaufsatz wird, freut mich und wird, wie

ich mir vorstelle, vielleicht einem Teil meiner geneigten Leser

ausnahmsweise angenehm sein, da dieses beständige

Mädelmiteinbeziehen, dieses unaufhörliche

Frauennichtaußerbetrachtlassen einer Eingeschlafenheit ähnlich sein kann,

was von jedem lebhaft Denkenden wird zugegeben werden können.

(SW 19: 191)

“Minotauros” is not a “Seidenstrumpfaufsatz,” yet another of Walser‟s word approximations. There is no love interest, no siren, no Charlotte, Julia, Magdalena, or süßes Mädel. Walser‟s short text is an explicit deviation from this tradition and set of expectations, this “unaufhörliche Frauennichtaußerbetrachtlassen.” He imagines, however, that it will be “vielleicht einem Teil [seiner] geneigten Leser ausnahmsweise angenehm,” a wish couched among numerous qualifiers and expressed with no small amount of what one might call preemptive backpedaling. This language of ambiguity and hesitation is, like the author‟s refusal to write a “Seidenstrumpfaufsatz,” a rebuff of the generally accepted practices of society.

Robert Walser gesagt, habe er sich solche Mühe gegeben, realistisch zu erzählen”(Mächler 101). The novel was not received well by literary critics, being charged with “Langweiligkeit” and “Substanzlosigkeit,” but was financially successful enough for Bruno Cassirer to issue a second and third printing (Mächler 101).

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As has been discussed, this „turning of the back‟ upon society is at the center of

Walser‟s writing process, and is the root of his stylistics. “Aus den Scherben zerfallener

Gattungen und trivialer Mitteilungsmuster fügte er wie aus Mosaiksteinen diese

Sprachefelder zusammen, die Neues kundtun konnten” (Greven, “Geburt” 29). His language thus fails to communicate in the normal way, granting autonomy to rhythm and rhyme. The unquestioned validity of established truths and contexts is likewise negated.

Both processes, achieved through a hyperflexive macrosocial observation, allow privileged access to an a priori and limitless realm of reinen Seins. A third quality of

Walser‟s writing, one both a result and structural representation of the Verlust der

Natürlichen Selbstverständlichkeit, and one likewise frustrating for the reader, is the lack of teleology in many of his works. Roser calls this Walser‟s “Schwätzerstil”: the weaving of a decentralized text, removed from traditional literary styles (25).

“Minotauros”

The unhinged movement of language and associations characteristic of this quality is illustrated in the short story “Minotauros,” an unpublished work written between 1926 and 1927. Roser notes the movement around an empty, or non-existent center within the text. The text itself has a circulating structure, in which various topics (nationhood, the

Lombards, the Niebelungenlied, and the Minotaur itself) surface in a seemingly haphazard manner. The Minotaur, however, never fully appears in the piece as a figure, but remains a vague concept. Rather than battling the narrator in a climactic fight to the death, the Minotaur is only heard from a distance, and remains a beast, “den ich

202 gewissermaßen meide” (SW 19: 192). Although the powerful and meaningful center of

Daedalus‟ labyrinth, the Minotaur is missing from Walser‟s, and the labyrinthine progression seems endless. “Es gibt einen Weg, aber kein Ziel,” writes Utz in his analysis of the story‟s anti-labyrinthine structure (“Labyrinth” 125).

In the original Greek myth, Theseus must find his way to the center of the labyrinth to slay the Minotaur, for only through the monster‟s death is he able to return to society. There are thus two levels of direction that Theseus takes, and two established goals. Movement into and through the labyrinth, and towards battle with the Minotaur is but a step in a more significant journey: the return to society and eventual victorious journey back to . The Minotaur, half-man, half-beast, living in seclusion and posing a constant threat to the citizens of Crete and, every seven years, to the youth of

Athens, is the antithesis of civilization. Its existence, however, is inextricably linked to communal membership, in that it serves as the only gate, if one will, through which

Theseus is able to return to society.

In Walser‟s story, a close relationship between the Minotaur and society can likewise be detected, although they exist in a slightly different constellation. “Im Gewirr, das vorliegende Sätze bilden, meine ich von fern den Minotauros zu hören . . .,” he writes

(SW 19: 192). These words hint at an organizing, if not stabilizing presence existing contemporaneously to the chaos of Walser‟s prose. Perhaps too distant to wield significant influence, the Minotaur‟s bellows nevertheless echo through the passages. In their ringing are the Spielregeln der Gesellschaft described by Blankenburg‟s patient.

“Um des bißchen Glückes willen,” writes Walser, “scheint es mir um

Seidenstrumpfdistanz zu tun zu sein, die ich mit der Distanz zur Nation vergleichen

203 möchte, welch letztere vielleicht mit einer Art von Minotauros Ähnlichkeit aufweist, den ich gewissermaßen meide” (SW 19: 192). Parallels are drawn between the cultural expectations of a “Seidenstrumpfaufsatz” and the communal nature of the nation. In

Walser‟s words, the nation “aussieht als fordere es mancherlei von mir,” and later: “Alle diese irgendwie aufgerüttelten Nationen stehen ja wahrscheinlich vor den und den, dank- oder undankbaren Aufgaben, was für sie außerordentlich gut ist” (SW 19: 192-93). The demands of society, and the teleology inherent in the obligations and expectations of the collective, are manifested in the figure of the Minotaur.

The artist, however, must avoid the Minotaur (“den ich gewissermaßen meide”), and seek to unburden himself from the limitations dressed in the cloak of social obligation and utility: “. . . lieber nicht zu stark von Tauglichkeit strotzen” (SW 19: 192).

Spurning the Minotaur constitutes an aesthetically productive refusal to participate in the

Spielregeln der Gesellschaft. “

In laying aside the issues and demands of nationhood and of community, the narrator likewise lays aside a “mich belästigendes Etwas” (SW 19: 192). As an artist,

Walser must remain within the maze. The Minotaur means order, orientation, the gravity of meaning, and a return to civilization, as is also the case for Theseus. For Walser, however, this spells the end of the creative process. The aesthetic necessity of withdrawal, not physical but of the mind, of a psychic retreat from the governing rules of society, is established in the story‟s opening sentence. “Bin ich schriftstellerisch wach, so gehe ich achtlos am Leben vorbei, schlafe als Mensch, vernachlässige vielleicht den

Mitbürger in mir, der mich sowohl am Zigarettenrauchen und Schriftstellern verhindern würde, falls ich ihm Gestalt gäbe” (SW 19: 191).

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The reader may be inclined to comment that the author‟s “achtlos” relationship to life contradicts much of what has been argued up to this point, namely that Walser‟s relationship to the world was one of höchste Aufmerksamkeit. In the context of this sentence and of this story, however, achten cannot be understood as the act of „paying attention to detail‟, as was earlier argued for the term Aufmerksamkeit. Rather, achten implies here a recognition and adherence to socially prescribed rules and customs. Thus, the author‟s “achtlos” state is one in which he neglects his role in society, as a citizen living in, and fulfilling the expectations of the collective. This is the role of the

“Mitbürger,”86 a term which, more so than its etymological sibling Bürger, emphasizes membership, cooperation, and collaboration within a community. The disassociation of the writing process from a socially confirming trajectory, achieved in the refusal to write a “Seidenstrumpfaufsatz,” through the frustration of the direction and orientation of the

Minotaur myth, and through the author‟s general neglect of social obligations, creates a liberated textual space that is, for lack of a better description, empty. And this emptiness is saturated with freedom and potential.

The second sentence of “Minotauros” also warrants discussion. “Gestern aß ich

Speck mit Bohnen und dachte dabei an die Zukunft der Nationen, welches Denken mir nach kurzer Zeit deshalb mißfiel, weil es mir den Appetit beeinträchtigte” (SW 19: 191).

The satirical rhyme pairing of “Bohnen” with “Nationen” sufficiently undermines the importance of the latter, and notions of nationhood, and of the implied Spielregeln that govern them, interrupt the author‟s meal, and ruin his appetite. Perhaps more accurately: his appetite is disrupted, for thoughts of social obligations and of a symbiotic relationship

86 Emphasis added

205 with society make difficult the process of fulfilling hunger desires. The same has been argued in the previous pages about the effect of such obligations on the fulfillment of artistic desires, and on the aesthetic process. This struggle between society and the productivity of unfettered wish fulfillment has prompted some scholars to read Walser through the prism offered by schizoanalysis.

Walser and schizoanalysis

Much of Walser‟s prose suggests a productive process similar to that of the schizophrenic in Deleuze and Guattari‟s Anti-Oedipus. Specifically, many of the phenomena addressed in the previous pages and chapters appear to share qualities with the products of the deterritorialized mind. Walser‟s language is, in part, autonomous. His style can be aesthetically subversive, and prose often directionless. In the jargon of schizoanalysis,

Walser appears to practice microphysics, and to write from the molecular unconscious.

Rather than produce in a manner that both conforms to and confirms the “perspectives of the large aggregates” (D&G 280), in other words a molar production that is teleologically defined, Walser‟s aesthetics seem to derive from “desire without aim” (D&G 378). His is a subjective rather than a subjected investment (D&G 280).

Cited by some scholars as evidence of quasi-schizoid 87 production is the predominance of movement in Walser‟s decentralized texts (Roser 35). Like the continuous production of production detailed in Anti-Oedipus, his prose is never still nor static. To be sure, movement is to be found in almost all of Walser‟s texts, and is most

87 Schizoid is used here in the context of schizoanalysis, rather than in a clinical sense.

206 apparent in his numerous stories on walking. The „walk‟ is also privileged by Deleuze and Guattari. Consider their introductory example of “desire without aim,” which they see exemplified in Büchner‟s Lenz.

A schizophrenic out for a walk is a better model than a neurotic lying on

the analyst‟s couch. A breath of fresh air, a relationship with the outside

world. Lenz‟s stroll, for example, as reconstructed by Büchner. This walk

outdoors is different from the moments when Lenz finds himself closeted

with his pastor, who forces him to situate himself socially, in relationship

to the God of established religion, in relationship to his father, to his

mother. While taking a stroll outdoors, on the other hand, he is in the

mountains, amid falling snowflakes, with other gods or without any gods

at all, without a family, without a father or a mother, with nature. (D&G 2)

The selection‟s focus on walking, and on a retreat from society and into nature, is strikingly similar to so many of Walser‟s sketches, particularly those from the Bieler period. The reader is referred back to Chapter 1, and to the discussion of the stories

“Spaziergang (I),” and “Ein Nachmittag.” Exemplary of Walser‟s style upon forsaking metropolitan Berlin for provincial Biel, these stories, like many others, tell of walks through the “Three Lakes Region” of Switzerland. Fleeing the utilitarian constraints of society, Walser‟s narrators experience unity with nature, a “Verschmelzung zwischen

Innen- und visionär wahrgenommener Außenwelt” (Schaak 77). The frequency of such literary walks through the Swiss countryside has led many scholars to note the

207 predominant role played by nature, as a “kulturfrei definierte[r] Raum,” in the experience of reinen Seins88 (Schaak 284).

Movement in is not limited to the narrator‟s stride alone. Equally significant is the vacillation of ideas and language within the text. Walser‟s prose is composed upon a sandy truth, upon dunes that rise and fall in perpetual evolution, ever shifting under foot.

This creates a continuous searching within the texts, and an uninterrupted movement within the reader induced by dialectically insoluble paradoxes (Utz 122-23). One might, along these lines, mention Christopher Middleton‟s article on Walser and schizophrenia.

While not a schizoanalytic approach per se, Middleton focuses on qualities in the author‟s writing that largely overlap with what Deleuze and Guattari describe. He argues that Walser shows signs of a liminoid personality, writing “that a particular vein of imaginative energy, with which certain artists are endowed, tends to oscillate back and forth across regions of the mind, provinces of expression that are normally marked by heavy distinctions, barriers, borders, boundaries, and thresholds” (190). This liminal state, like that of the anti-oedipal schizoid, is one of complete psychic enfranchisement, where imaginative or wishful energy is unencumbered by any external rampart.

Aspects of this liminoid personality can be seen in Walser‟s paradoxes, and in his sentence structure which often, “begins with an assertion, then qualifies it, then modifies the qualification, then soon is unraveling itself through (typically) interstitial details and eventually it cancels itself out in a labyrinth of negative/positive qualifications”

(Middleton 192). Scholars more expressly influenced by Deleuze and Guattari, read

Walser‟s “quecksilbrig unfaßbaren und widersprüchlichen Stil, seine um Ich-Identität

88 Greven also establishes the centrality of nature in the reinen Sein (Existenz 48).

208 unbekümmerten Wandlungen, seine Flucht vor den Normen von Familie und

Gesellschaft,” as a clear example of schizoid deterritorialization of reality and the establishment (Hiebel 242). Indeed, Walser‟s use of language that was outlined in

Chapter 3, and with which he seeks to give expression to a hidden quality in the words, seems to closely parallel Deleuze and Guattari‟s concept of schizorevolutionary art:

It is here that art accedes to its authentic modernity, which simply consists

in liberating what was present in art from its beginnings, but was hidden

underneath aims and objects, even if aesthetic, and underneath recodings

or axiomatics: the pure process that fulfills itself, and that never ceases to

reach fulfillment as it proceeds – art as “experimentation.” (370-71)

Compare this to Walser‟s experimentation with language - “ . . . doch ich experimentierte auf sprachlichem Gebiet in der Hoffnung, in der Sprache sei irgendwelche unbekannte

Lebendigkeit vorhanden, die es eine Freude sei zu wecken” – and it appears as if his approach is exemplary of the schizoanalytic ideal (SW 20: 430).

What Middleton and others describe, and is likewise buried among the theories of

Deleuze and Guattari, are cognitive and aesthetic processes that are not only prevalent in

Walser‟s writing, but are at the core of it. The cognitive approach informing the discussion at hand, one based in clinical psychiatry, offers a similar description of what seem to be products of a liminal mind. “One might describe the central feature of the schizophrenic mind as a disconnectedness, an unmooring from practical concerns and accepted practices that allows consciousness to drift in unexpected and unintended direction, and to come to rest in strange orientations” (Sass, M&M 127). Psychic liberation seems to be the common denominator. There are, however, two qualities of

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Walser‟s writing that complicate a strictly schizoanalytic reading and understanding of his texts, and it is for this reason that cognitive models, like those proposed by Conrad,

Blankenburg, and particularly Sass, are perhaps more fruitful approaches to his texts.

The first point of departure from Deleuze and Guattari‟s theory has origins in the nature of deterritorialized production, which was first introduced in Chapter 2. While deterritorialization allows for a productive process that is carried out separately from the realm of social norms and expectations, a productive space that seems also to have been the desire of Walser, there is another side to the coin. Genuine schizoid wish fulfillment, for Deleuze and Guattari, resists re-appropriation and re-subjugation; it does not return to society or the socius, which in the modern world constitutes a reterritorialization under capitalism.

In their discussion of the value of art, Deleuze and Guattari assign it a revolutionary potential not granted any other field, save science: “. . . the value of

[schizorevolutionary] art is no longer measured except in terms of the decoded and deterritorialized flows that it causes to circulate beneath a signifier reduced to silence, beneath the conditions of identity of the parameters, across a structure reduced to impotence . . .” (370). Art‟s potential is the rippling effect that it creates, and the schizoid flows that it produces complicate, saturate, and eventually undermine the governing order of society (D&G 375, 379). The schizophrenic process is thus, “not an illness, not a

“breakdown” but a “breakthrough,” however distressing and adventurous . . .” (D&G

362).

That the schizophrenic process breaks through reality‟s organizing narratives emphasizes its animation outside of, and then beyond these governing principles.

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Schizorevolutionary art is no exception. While the artwork (the artifact) will eventually be axiomated, and its flows “choke[d] off” by “properly aesthetic molar formations that are characterized by goals, schools, and periods” (D&G 369, 370), art itself remains a process without goal, and stands outside of traditions or movements (D&G 370). Its revolutionary quality lies in the jarring effect that it has on the viewer. The moment it ceases to causes ripples on the surface of society is the moment that it ceases to stand outside of society; it is the moment that it ceases to be schizophrenic. “And perhaps this, as we have seen, is where we find the commodity value of art and literature: a paranoiac form of expression that no longer even needs to “signify” its reactionary libidinal investments, since these investments function on the contrary as its signifier . . .” (D&G

370). Whereas the artifact is subsumed back into society, an inevitability under capitalism‟s financial structures, the process itself, if it is to be genuinely schizophrenic, must exist outside of the influence of the socius: “art as a process without goal” (D&G

370). Thus, a truly schizoid and deterritorialized aesthetic production is not, could not, be one which, at the moment of its conception, is influenced by the market.

Klaus-Michael Hinz, in his article “Robert Walsers Souveränität,” identifies the childlike and dandy qualities of many of Walser‟s protagonists, particularly Simon

Tanner in Geschwister Tanner, and the robber in Der Räuber. These characters, he writes, represent “heterogene Elemente in der Homogenität der bürgerlichen

Gesellschaft” (471). Occupying the position of the child or the dandy, Walser‟s protagonists distance themselves from society, particularly from the material and economic ideals of the bourgeois world. What Hinz sees as their schizoid-clownery deterritorializes the given conditions of society (467). The protagonists‟ unwillingness to

211 participate in the bourgeoisie world is reflected in Walser‟s own biography, he notes

(468). “ . . . alle Nützlichkeiten sprangen mir nach und erinnerten mich an die sauren

Obliegenheiten meines so schönen und kostbaren Berufes, der die Eigenheit hat, kein

Geld einzutragen,” wrote Walser in a 1925 letter to Therese Breitbach (Briefe 240).

However, while Robert Walser often ignored social expectations and shunned convention; and while he seems to have retreated from his contemporaries and peers, both aesthetically and physically, with his return to the provinces of Switzerland, it appears that, despite these remarks in 1925, Walser was unquestionably aware of his works as marketable artifacts. In “Minotaurus,” this is expressed in his wish that the story might appeal, albeit as an exception, to his “geneigten Leser” (SW 19: 191). Although he led a remarkably frugal lifestyle, Walser‟s writing, particularly in the feuilletons of

Berlin, Prague, and other major newspaper markets of the German speaking world, served as a source of income. The financial boon provided by European periodicals is often a topic that he discussed with Seelig on their many walks. In a 1937 discussion,

Walser refers to his productivity during the Berner period.

Ich jagte wie der Jäger hinter dem Wild den poetischen Motiven nach. Am

fruchtbarsten erwiesen sich Promenaden durch Straßen und lange

Spaziergänge in die Umgebung der Stadt, deren gedanklichen Ertrag ich

dann zuhause aufs Papier brachte. Jede gute Arbeit, auch die kleinste,

bedarf der künstlerischen Inspiration. Für mich steht fest, daß das Geschäft

der Dichter nur in der Freiheit blühen kann. . . . Mein bester Kunde war

damals die vom tschechischen Staat finanzierte “Prager Presse,” deren

Feuilleton-Redaktor Otto Pick alles von mir brachte, was ich schickte,

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auch Gedichte, die von anderen Zeitungen wie Bumerangs zurückflogen.

Häufig habe ich früher auch den “Simplicisimus” bedient. . . . Mindestens

fünfzig Mark pro Geschichtchen, also kleine Vermögen für meine

Tasche.89 (Seelig 11-12)

Once again we see that writing requires freedom. We see too, that this freedom is associated with „the walk,‟ or “Promenaden” and “Spaziergänge” as Walser puts it.

However, writing is at the same time a “Geschäft,” a metaphor accompanied by economic and financial undertones. Walser‟s stories are works of „poetic motifs‟ and

„artistic inspiration,‟ but also products sold to his best customers in Prague and Munich for a little bit of pocket money. This is underscored on another walk with Seelig, one year later. “Der Erfolg war, daß . . . zunächst viele An- und Aufträge ausländischer Zeitungen für mich einliefen” (Seelig 20). The line in the sand between art and commodity is not so clearly drawn as would be necessitate by a schizoanalytic reading.

The degree to which Walser understood publication as part and parcel of the author‟s existence is further evidenced by the involvement that he sometimes took in the nuts and bolts of the publishing process. On numerous occasions, he expresses a clear opinion on the font in which his stories should be printed, namely in a “ganz kleinen

Fraktur” (Briefe 31).90 Perhaps most revealing of Walser‟s awareness of his stories as

89 On another visit with Seelig, Walser says: “Meine Kundschaft: das war in der Berner Zeit vor allem das “Berliner Tageblatt,” das mich fürstlich zahlte, und die “Prager Presse,” die mich schlecht zahlte” (Seelig 74). 90 This request was in a letter to the Insel Verlag in 1904, and is in reference to his first publication Fritz Kochers Aufsätze. Similar requests can also be found in letters to Ernst Rowohlt at the Kurt Wolff Verlag, to the Verlag Huber & Co., and to the Rascher Verlag, between the years 1912 – 1918. In each letter, Walser emphasizes his preference for a light, easy, and simple Fraktur (Briefe 56, 102, 104, 148).

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„products‟ can be seen in a letter sent to the Verlag Huber & Co. in 1917, in which he discusses in detail the format of his upcoming book Poetenleben, which was published in

November of that same year. In his note, Walser addresses the location of page numbers, the boldness and placement of the stories‟ titles, and what he generally finds to be superfluous ornamentation in the proof copy sent to him by the publisher. Showing consideration for the impact that layout has on the reading experience, and thereby, implicitly, for the economic value of the work, he stresses that the format express a

“nutzensprechende Schlichtheit” (Briefe 106). For Walser, published texts constitute more than just a string of narrative building sentences. Stories become artifacts to be received and experienced as a whole by the reader.

Nowhere is this concept of reception more clearly illustrated than in the author‟s reaction to the proposed font for the body of the text, in which he finds something

“Gekünsteltes” and, as such, “durchaus Unvolkstümliches” (Briefe 104).

Ich schlage eine schlichte, altherkömmliche, ehrbare, an Schul-

Lesebücher mahnende, einfache, ehrliche, un-reformierte Fraktur vor,

ganz dem Traditionellen ensprechenden, warm und vor allen Dingen:

rund. . . . Das Satzbild soll weich, rund, bescheiden, warm und ehrlich

aussehen. Das Buch soll womöglich aussehen, als wenn es im Jahre 1850

gedruckt worden sei. Mit andern Worten: Mein sehr lebhafter, inniger

Wunsch in dieser hinsicht is: Unmodernität! (Briefe 105)

The very modern, often alienating style of Walser‟s writing that has been discussed so far is thus contrasted by his wish for a simple, traditional, and un-reformed font that is useful in conveying an aesthetic experience. This reflection upon the reading experience is at the

214 same time a reflection upon future readers, who, as potential “geneigten Leser,” are themselves reflections of the book‟s marketability, and of the author‟s possible long-term financial security. Like much of his correspondence with publishers, this letter opens with a mention of money owed the author. “Sehr geehrter Herr. Für Ihr wertes Schreiben vom

12. d. Mt. danke ich Ihnen. Heute bitte ich Sie höflich, falls ich den Artikel 4 unseres

Vertrages richtig verstehe, wonach das Honorar bei Vertragsunterzeichnung ausbezahlt wird, um gütige Erledigung desselben” (Briefe 104). That Walser understood his writing not only on aesthetic, but also on economic terms is evident in this letter to Huber & Co, in which financial concerns, rather than artistic or creative, are at its core.

This is not to argue that Walser was an eager participant in the industry of culture

- quite the contrary. It was never his ideal to become a feuilleton author, as he wrote to

Christian Morgenstern in 1907. “Wenn ich aber Zeitschriftenlieferant werden sollte, lieber ginge ich “unter die Soldaten” (Briefe 49). However, the industry was necessary for Walser‟s survival, as he outlines in “Für die Katz.” “Ich schreibe das Prosastück, das mir hier enstehen zu wollen scheint, in stiller Mitternacht, und ich schreibe es für die

Katz, will sagen, für den Tagesgebrauch” (SW 20: 430). Walser imbues “Für die Katz” with a dual meaning. Maintaining its standard reference, his writing is, indeed, for the birds. Written for the “Tagesgebrauch,” the story is of no consequence.

However, the “Katz” is also an industry establishment for which authors work on a daily, if not hourly basis. As such, it implies some degree of value, if only financial.

Granted, writes Walser, this “Kommerzialisiertheitsinbegriff” is a threat to culture and education (“Bildung”), but without it, “scheint man . . . nicht existieren zu können, denn sie ist selbst . . .” (SW 20: 430). “Oft wird die Katz mißverstanden, man rümpft

215 die Nase über sie, und gibt man ihr etwas, so begleitet man diese Beschäftigung mit durchaus nicht wohlangebrachter Auffsassung, indem man hochmütig sagt: “Es ist für die

Katz,” als wären nicht alle Menschen von jeher für sie tätig gewesen” (SW 20: 431-32).

The disdain in Walser‟s tone is difficult to overlook, and one senses a valuation of the culture industry as „for the birds,‟ as if he‟d written: Die Katz ist für die Katz. Running parallel to this, however, is an undeniable admission of this same industry as a financial necessity to which Walser, like all others of his time, must acquiesce - what Walser might have called a worthwhile worthlessness.

One might be quick to note the close parallels between what Walser at another point calls the “Zivilisationsmaschinerie,” and what in Chapter 2 was introduced as

Deleuze and Guattari‟s concept of the capitalistic socius, both of which might be described as “die Zeit selbst.” It does seem that Walser has, in part, predicted the latter‟s‟ theory. Schizoanalysis, however, fails to adequately explain the author‟s reaction to producing in such a civilization machine. Walser decontextualizes the systems and meanings around him through macrosocial observation, and attempts to access the realm of reinen Seins and complete freedom. This production, however, is only decontextualized, not deterritorialized, as Deleuze and Guattari would have it for their schizoid rebels. Walser is not freed from the market, but accepts it, although perhaps begrudgingly. “Alles, was geleistet wird, erhält zuerst [die Katze]; sie läßt sich‟s schmecken, und nur was trotz ihr fortlebt, weiterwirkt, ist unsterblich” (SW 20: 432).

Writing makes two demands upon the author, one aesthetic, and the other financial. It is

Walser‟s hope that they are not mutually exclusive, but that great art can be both palatable and immortal.

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Thus, Walser‟s writing is not purely liberated, for there exists at the moment of its conception, the concept of reader reception, financial security, and most significantly for a schizoanalytic reading, the market. Deleuze and Guattari write of a “rupture with causality” as necessary for a revolutionary, deterritorialized state (377). Walser‟s break with social expectations is aesthetically productive and the creative source of his writing process. But remarks made in the texts themselves, as well as in private correspondence and conversations, betray an underlying need for acceptance and participation within society. This constitutes a double bind for the author. A break from social discourse is demanded by aesthetics. But this same break, which allows for uninhibited creation, makes the text‟s reintegration into society through the market that much more difficult, in that it fails to conform to the expectations of the readers. Later in his life, after more than a decade and a half of institutionalization, Walser would look back on this paradox with clarity. “Wissen Sie, warum ich als Schrifsteller nicht hochgekommen bin? Ich will es

Ihnen sagen: ich besaß zuwenig gesellschaftlichen Instinkt. Ich habe der Gesellschaft zuliebe zu wenig geschauspielert. Sicher, so war es! Das sehe ich heute vollkommen ein”

(Sellig 42).

The second point of departure from schizoanalysis is the positive valuation of the schizoid state in Anti-Oedipus. For Deleuze and Guattari, the deterritorialized, schizoid psyche offers the potential for a move beyond capitalism and subjugation as a whole, and into a reality “where molecular formations of desire that must master the new molar aggregate operate and are inscribed. Only by making this passage do we reach the revolutionary break and investment of the . This cannot be achieved except at the cost of, and by means of a rupture with, causality” (377). The schizophrenic, and here the

217 term is still being used in a schizoanalytic context, inhabits a post-political realm of universal history, and as such, his very existence is revolutionary (D&G 380). The function of schizophrenic art is to decode and deterritorialize the productive flows that circulate within the socius. Like a prophet, it prepares the way for a new order, which for

Deleuze and Guattari would be one of disorder.

This sort of positive and revolutionary quality is not to be found in Walser‟s texts.

The freedom that shares qualities with deterritorialized molecularism, what for the author typifies writing within the reinen Sein, is only temporarily, even fleetingly liberating and positive. As seen at the end of the previous chapter, this boundless freedom quickly collapses upon itself, and is transformed into a dangerous and uncontrollable chaos. A recontextualizing return to society, which in Walser‟s work is envisioned as a return to the Minotaur, is both negative and positive. While it marks the end of the creative process, a re-fettering of the imagination, and a departure from the realm of reinen Seins, it also ensures that the artist doesn‟t succumb to the chaotic freedom of emptiness, or become permanently lost in Daedalus‟ maze. Thus the stability within the labyrinth, however distant, promised by the Minotaur. Perhaps nowhere is this duality better described than in Walser‟s best known novel, Jakob von Gunten.

The inner chambers

The Institut Benjamenta, the servant‟s school that Jakob attends, which will teach him to be a “reizende, kugelrunde Null im späteren Leben” (8), is yet another of Walser‟s labyrinths. The school is constructed of a series of inter-connected cells through which

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Jakob passes. One cell functions as a classroom, one as the head-master‟s office, numerous as dormitories for the students, and still others are imagined as the cells in which the ever-absentee instructors slumber. Jakob‟s movement from room to room, and back again, deviates from that of Theseus in that there is no real progression or direction.

This prompts Hiebel to read the novel as a decoding of the myth of teleology, both in terms of human development (Bildung), and in reference to the structure of the novel, which doesn‟t lead anywhere (246-51).

Like Daedalus‟ maze, however, the institute does have a center cell around which all movement revolves. However, unlike in the Cretan myth, the “innere Gemächer” of the school are meaningless, and for Jakob, quite anti-climactic once he finally gains access to them.:

Ich bin übriges jetzt endlich in den wirklichen innern Gemächern

gewesen, und ich muß sagen, es existieren gar keine. Zwei Zimmer sind

da, aber diese beiden Räume sehen nach nichts Gemachartigem aus. Sie

sind möbliert wie die Sparsamkeit und Gewönlichkeit selber, und sie

enthalten durchaus nichts Geheimnisvolles. . . . Es sind allerdings

Goldfische da, und Kraus und ich müssen das Bassin, in welchem diese

Tiere schwimmen und leben, regelmäßig entleeren, säubern und mit

frischem Wasser auffüllen. (SW 11: 130-31)

This encounter with the chambers is the second in the novel, and the banality with which

Jakob describes them is a result of their inclusion into the accepted and expected

Spielregeln of the school. “Und ich habe so felsenhaft an die innern Gemächer geglaubt.

Ich dachte, es müsse da hinter der Türe, durch welche das Fräulein stets aus- und eingeht,

219 von schloßartigen Zimmern und Gelassen wimmeln” writes Jakob (SW 11: 131). Gone now are his earlier dreams of ancient and long-corridored libraries; of chapels and perfumed dining halls; and of old women huddling around a fire, warming themselves from the wet and falling snow. “Und Frauen, was für Frauen. Die eine sah einer veritablen Prinzessin ähnlich, und sie war es auch,” he declares. “Ja, die inneren

Gemächer, sie lebten, und jetzt sind sie mir quasi gestohlen worden. Die karge

Wirklichkeit: was ist sie doch manchmal für ein Gauner. Sie stiehlt Dinge, mit denen sie nachher nichts anzufangen weiß” (SW 11: 132-33). Previously forbidden to Jakob, the inner chambers are now routine, and cleaning them has become one of his chores in the school. As such, they have become tied to reality, and are inseparable from the rules of the institute.

The ennui and melancholy that saturate Jakob‟s descriptions of the inner chambers are only understandable if juxtaposed to earlier descriptions, which promise mystery and magic:

Über der Türe, die in die geheimnisvolle unbekannte Welt der innern

Gemächer führt, hängt als Wandschmuck ein ziemlich langweilig

aussehender Schutzmannssäbel mit ditto quer darüber gelegtem Futteral.

Darüber thront der Helm. Diese Dekoration mutet wie eine Zeichnung

oder wie ein zierlicher Beweis der Vorschriften an, die hier gelten. (SW:

11: 35)

For Jakob, the inner chambers originally constitute the unknown space beyond (here literally) the rules and expectations of the institute, past “den eisernen Klauen der zahlreichen Vorschriften” (SW 11: 130). In his first encounter with the chambers, one

220 which is only achieved through dreaming, they become a realm of freedom, enlightenment, space, and epiphany. In short, this is yet another passage that bears striking resemblance to the Trema experienced during a schizophrenic break.

In Jakob‟s dream it is Fräulein Benjamenta, his teacher, who acts as his guide into and through the chambers. Once again, observation plays a critical role, for Jakob‟s first lesson is one in which he is taught how to see in the darkness:

Vor unseren Augen, wenigstens vor den meinigen (vor ihren vielleicht

nicht), lag alles in ein undurchdringliches Dunkel gehüllt. “Das sind die

innern Gemächer,” dachte ich, und ich täuschte mich auch nicht. Es

verhielt sich so, und meine liebe Lehrerin schien entschlossen zu sein, mir

eine bisher verborgen gewesene Welt zu zeigen. Doch ich muß Atem

schöpfen. Es war, wie gesagt, zuerst ganz dunkel. Das Fräulein nahm mich

bei der Hand und sagte in freundlicher Tonart: “Siehe, Jakob, so wird es

dunkel um dich sein. Und da wird dich jemand dann an der Hand führen.

Und du wirst froh darüber sein und zum erstenmal tiefe Dankbarkeit

empfinden. Sei nicht mißgestimmt. Es kommen auch Helligkeiten. (SW

11: 98-99)

A language of vision, “Augen,” “zeigen,” “Siehe,” intertwined with that of darkness and light, recalls the apophanous mood of the Trema, and Renee‟s “Land of Enlightenment”

(Sechehaye 13). Here too, the world is illuminated. The moment Jakob learns to see, he observes a white and blinding light, “eine herrliche Licht-Feuer”: “Ich hatte noch nie etwas so Glanzvolles und Vielsagendes gesehen . . .” (SW 11: 99). Not only illuminated,

221 the inner chambers are illuminating (Vielsagendes), and Jakob‟s revelatory observation will uncover a previously unknown truth.

Like the unreality vision, this encounter is also one in which temporal distinctions are negated by the contemporaneity of present and future, and in which Fräulein

Benjamenta reveals to Jakob his “zukünftiges Glück” (SW 11: 99). As Jakob and his guide continue on, deeper into chambers, they eventually find themselves skating on the wide open ice fields of freedom:

“Komm,” sagte sie, “wir wollen uns jetzt ein wenig Freiheit, ein wenig

Bewegung gönnen.” . . . und wir befanden uns auf einer glatten, offenen,

schlanken Eis- oder Glasbahn. Wir schwebten dahin wie auf wunderbaren

Schlittschuhen, und zugleich tanzten wir, denn die Bahn hob und senkte

sich unter uns wie eine Welle. Es war entzückend. . . . Und über uns

schimmerten die Sterne in einem sonderbarerweise ganz blaßblauen und

doch dunklen Himmel, und der Mond starrte, überirdisch leuchtend, auf

uns Eisläufer herab. “Das ist die Freiheit,” sagte die Lehrerin, “sie ist

etwas Winterliches, Nicht-lange-zu-Ertragendes. Man muß sich immer, so

wie wir es hier tun, bewegen, man muß tanzen in der Freiheit. Sie ist kalt

und schön. (SW 11: 101)

Dancing is a motif that repeats itself throughout Walser‟s oeuvre, for it is an unmediated expression of the purity of reinen Seins. This was alluded to in Chapter 3, as Walser dances with language, which for him is at times guided by sound and rhythm, rather than by meaning. “Ich habe die Absicht, mit Worten zu Tanzen” (SW 20: 248). However, there is caution in Fräulein Benjamenta‟s advice, as this freedom is something “Nicht-lange-

222 zu-Ertragendes.” On the one hand liberating, it likewise threatens the security of the individual. “Verliebe dich nicht nur in sie,” she warns.” “Das würde dich nachher nur traurig machen, denn nur momentelang, nicht länger, hält man sich in den Gegenden der

Freiheit auf” (SW 11: 101). Rather than positive permanence, the boundlessness of this experience must be ephemeral, lest it be accompanied by peril. Fräulein Benjamenta cautions Jakob to be on his guard, and to keep his wits about him, because this realm of fantastic freedom can quickly swallow the dreamer whole.

Jakob, however, doesn‟t heed his teacher‟s warnings and makes himself comfortable in the next room to which they come:

. . . es war ein kleines, mit raffiniertem Wohlbehagen ganz gefüttertes und

erfülltes, köstlich nach Träumereien duftendes, reich mit allerhand

lüsternen Szenen und Bildern tapeziertes Ruhe-Gemach. . . . Musik

rieselte an den bunten Wänden wie Anmutsschnee herunter . . . Eine

Zigarette von selten gutem Geschmack flog mir von oben herab in den

unwillkürlich geöffneten Mund, und ich rauchte. Ein Roman schwirrte

herbei, mir gerade in die Hände, und ich konnte ungestört darin lesen. (SW

11: 102)

Jakob loses himself in a haze of cigarette smoke, music, reading, and dreams. He watches as a novel flitters into his hand, a novel that exists only because he dreams it, only because he dreams the inner chambers. This entire sequence is marked with synchronic perspectives and observational mise en abîme, as Jakob observes his own fantasy as he creates it, and observes his own actions within this creation. He forgets his teacher‟s instruction to be continuously on the move, “Man muß sich immer . . . bewegen, man

223 muß tanzen in der Freiheit.” Instead, Jakob lies down and gives in to the chaos. He breaks his connection to Fräulein Benjamenta, who as his guide through the chambers is also a stabilizing force within the chaos, and as such, a link to the outside world.

Once more she tries to direct him, but her warning comes too late, for the freedom rolls over Jakob like a terrible flood. “„Steh auf. Komm lieber. Die Weichlichkeit verführt zur Gedankenlosigkeit und Grausamkeit. Hörst du, wie es zornig einherdonnert und – rollt? Das ist das Ungemach‟” (SW 11: 102). The “Ruhe-Gemach” in which Jakob lounges is quickly displaced by an “Ungemach” of doubt and disquiet:

. . . da schwamm ich in einem dickflüssigen, höchst unangenehmen Strom

von Zweifel. Durch und durch entmütigt, wagte ich gar nicht, mich

umzuschauen, ob sie noch neben mir sei. Nein, die Lehrerin, die

Hervorzauberin all dieser Erscheinungen und Zustände, war

verschwunden. Ich schwamm ganz allein. Ich wollte schreien, aber das

Wasser drohte mir in den Mund zu laufen. O dieses Ungemach. Ich

weinte, und ich bereute bitter, mich der lüsternen Bequemlichkeit

hingegeben zu haben. (SW 11: 102-03)

Jakob has been taught how to move past the rules of the institute, in order to see beyond their system of order and control and into the vacillations of the inner chambers. He has learned to doubt limitations, and to access a world of pure dreams and fantasy. But Jakob fails to realize that this journey into the freedom of the inner chambers is only safe if he remains somehow tethered to these very same systems of organization. Just as Theseus ties twine to the entrance pillars of the labyrinth, so too must Jakob ensure that he can find his way back out of the chaos. Fräulein Benjamenta, although the one who shows

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Jakob the way into the chambers, remains a symbol of the institute itself, and of its rules that she ceaselessly reinforces in her lessons. The two are so closely intertwined as to share the same fate, for when the Fräulein eventually dies, so too does the Institut

Benjamenta dissolve. Thus, when Jakob chooses to linger too long in the inner chambers, his connection to Fräulein Benjamenta, and as such his tether to the security of external

Spielregeln, is severed. Doubt overcomes him and muffles his screams. Jakob drowns in freedom.

“heiligen, gefährlichen Quellen gleich”

The terrifying and dangerous turn that dreaming takes in Jakob von Gunten is a crucial aspect of the aesthetic process. Mentioned earlier, the alienation of and from society that is conducive to liberated production has the negative effect of preventing an eventual reintegration into society. Here, embodied in Jakob‟s dream, one senses a decisively more severe risk inherent in this same process, one which threatens the very basic security of the individual. The “Land of Enlightenment” and the realm of reinen Seins, is a space where the freedom to produce and create is absolute. However, it is imperative that this experience be controlled, for to dwell too long within it, to relax and become comfortable in the inner chambers, is to be permanently lost within the labyrinth.

Connections can be made, once again, with the memoirs of Renee, whose changed perception and experience of reality sparked an unstoppable drive to analyze and observe the world around her in a permanent wakefulness. Intense study is then not a desire or a wish, but an imposition, compelling Renee to ponder a drop of coffee for

225 hours on end. Her thoughts and actions are no longer her own, but autonomous subjects, suggesting a “lack of self-monitoring and conscious deliberation” (Sass, “Introspection”

19).

This, as has been shown in the context of both Jakob von Gunten and the lengthy discussion of “Naturstudie” in Chapter 4, means not only a threat to one‟s social identity, but more critically, a serious threat to the stability of one‟s own psychic state. The narrator of “Naturstudie” is petrified and tormented by the pursuit of his own thoughts, and Jakob almost drowns as his fantasy breaks free and turns against him in an untamable flood of doubt. Thus, simply put, hyperreflexive introspection, achieved through a dissecting observation and mistrust of macrosocial rules, is a process that allows for the productive freedom of the realm of reinen Seins, but one that can quickly and without warning spin dangerously out of control, leaving the artist trapped and powerless in a persecuting state of persistent doubt and psychic vacillation: the keeling over of artistry into madness.

The awareness of a looming break with reality is expressed quite clearly, and without characteristic Walserian ambiguity, in one of the author‟s earliest pieces. In “Die

Schauspielerin,” an actress explains the nature of an artist‟s existence. Artists, she says, must “messen, zerschneiden, auseinanderlegen” and “berechnen” the world around them

(SW 2: 65). Far from being divine inspiration, artistic production has its roots in an almost analytical study of the world. As a painter in another early piece explains, the artist‟s eye must be exact and reliable, his art cold, calculated, and of intellect and observation (SW 1: 73-74).

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As illustrated, this process is inherently dangerous. “Wir Kunstlerinnen sehen unser ganzes Dasein in der Kunst dahinfließen,” the actress says (SW 2:63). “Wir pröbeln und schneidern mit Dingen, die in der Brust anderer Menschen gesund und geheimnissvoll und unangetastet ruhen, heiligen, gefährlichen Quellen gleich, die man nicht ungestraft beständig hervorreizt” (SW 2: 65). See also “Guten Tag, Riesin!,” the story with which this discussion of observation in Walser‟s writing began: “. . . so dürfte es vielleicht des öftern der Kunst und dem aufopfernden Bemühen eines Schrifstellers vorbehalten bleiben, dem achtlos und gedankenlos dahinflutenden Strom des Lebens

Schönheitswerte, die eben am Ertrinken und Untergehen sind, mit Gefahr seiner

Gesundheit zu entreißen . . .” (SW 3: 131). The artistic process is one of observation, dissection, and fragmentation, but also one that was a threat to the safety and security of the artists . . . a threat of which Walser was keenly aware.

In 1911, four years after publishing “Die Schauspielerin,” Walser would again describe the character of artist, and the conflict within him between production and loss of self. In “Über den Charakter des Künstlers,” he writes: “Daß er nie zur Sicherung oder

Versicherung seiner selbst gelangt, scheint sein Los. Es ist dies weder ein sehr trübes, noch ein sehr leichtes Los. Es brennt, es ist das Los der immerwährenden Spannung” (SW

15: 63). He continues:

Ein seltsamer, fast gespenstischer Geist beherrschet ihn. . . . Vertraulich

sein kann er nicht, Mensch sein darf er nicht. Er kann und darf beides,

aber . . . es ist immer eine Frage da, ein Gedanke, ein Geist, ein

Fortlaufendes, und es bricht immer in ihm, es tönt, und er bildet sich ein,

immer bildet er sich ein, treulos zu sein an einem schönen,

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unbezwinglichen, gräßlichen Etwas, das da ist und nie da ist, das nie da

ist, weil es selbst ist, weil er das selbst ist, was da ist und immer fortgeht.

So lebt er in fortlaufenden überzarten Sorgen, die ihm die

gesunden Sinne zu verrücken drohen. . . . aber er traut sich nur dann, wenn

er mitten im Fieber des Schaffens begriffen ist. Ist er müßig (von Zeit zu

Zeit muß er es doch wohl sein) so zittert es in seinem Schlund-Bewußtsein

wie von Vulkan-Feuern, die beides nicht recht können: nicht ausbrechen

und nicht verlöschen. (SW 15: 64)

The nature of the artist drives him to create. It demands that he study the world around him, that he dissect it coldly so that it can work upon him. The demand comes from within, from the abyss of consciousness. Damned if he does, damned if he doesn‟t, the artist has no choice but to submit to the fever. This “pröbeln und schneidern” is positive and negative; beautiful, irresistible, and terrible; holy and dangerous at once.

An anchor is therefore needed to tie the artist to reality, and to guarantee that he remains among the „healthy,‟ while still allowing for the fever of creation. Simon Tanner, the protagonist of Walser‟s first novel Geschwister Tanner, realizes exactly this need.

“Man darf beim Träumen nie den Boden des Natürlichen aufgeben . . . ” he warns (SW 9:

143). The question then becomes: how does one ensure security in the writing process?

How does one provide for macrosocial observation and the negation of society and its

Spielregeln, while remaining at the same time connected to these very same rules? How is such an existence of freedom and dependency possible, and how does Robert Walser represent it in his works?

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6. STAYING GROUNDED

“Das ist die Freiheit . . . sie ist etwas Winterliches, Nicht-lange-zu Ertragendes. . . . Verliebe dich nicht nur in sie. Das würde dich nachher nur traurig machen, denn nur momentelang, nicht länger, hält man sich in den Gegenden der Freiheit auf.” – Robert Walser

Robert Walser‟s oeuvre, perhaps more than that of most authors, is marked by recurring themes. In this sixth and final chapter, I would like to suggest that some of these themes are to be found again and again because of the central role that they play in the creative process, both as means of achieving a liberated space in which to produce (das reine

Sein) as well as a check against the otherwise uncontrolled nature of this liberation. They thus function as possible answers to the questions with which the previous section ended, and in them one sees the duality of freedom and dependency. Although there are perhaps numerous themes that function in such a way, some more prevalent than others, the discussion at hand will be limited to two that are among the most dominant in Walser‟s texts, namely: servitude and the theater.

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“Das Theater, ein Traum”

The discussion begins by turning to the function of the theater, as it was one of the earliest influences on Walser as an artist. As a teen, Walser quit school and accepted a position as an apprentice at the Berner Kantonalbank in Biel, where his father was the bank‟s director. During these years, the adolescent Robert filled his free time with

Reclam publications of the classics, and with frequent visits to the theater. Sitting in the third-class seats of the gallery, he escaped a disagreeable reality through the freedom and fantasy provided by the stage. It was during a production of Schiller‟s “Räuber” that

Walser decided to pursue a career in the theater (Mächler 37). He fictionalizes the experience in the short story “Ein Genie (I),” first published in 1907.91 “Ich bereite mich gegewärtig darauf vor, Schauspieler zu werden. Mein erstes Auftreten auf den Brettern ist nur noch die übliche Frage der Zeit. Momentan lerne ich Rollen auswendig. Den ganzen

Tag, trotz des herrlichsten Wetters, sitze oder stehe ich aufrecht in meiner Bude und deklamiere in allen Tonarten. Ich bin vollständig vom Theaterteufel verschlungen” (SW

3: 49).

In the fall of 1895, Walser abandoned a bourgeois future of office work and left

Switzerland for Germany, and for his dreams of a life as a thespian. Living with his older brother Karl, who during those years was apprenticed as a decorative painter in ,

Walser first found work at the Union Deutsche Verlagsanstalt, and then later at Verlag

91 This experience is also a likely source for his piece “Wenzel”: “Von da an ist sein heimlicher Entschluß gefaßt: er will Schauspieler werden. . . . Und so schleppt er den Schiller, Goethe und den großen Engländer unter dem Arm in seine Dachkammer, ins elterliche Haus, und beginnt mit dem Rollenstudium” (SW 2: 82).

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Cotta (Mächler 39-41).92 On the side, he continued to chase, albeit unsuccessfully, a career on stage. His audition with the great Austrian actor Joseph Kainz would prove disastrous, and as Mächler suggests, helped convince him of the futility of the pursuit

(41). Stretched out on an ottoman, like Tischbein‟s Goethe, Kainz acknowledged

Walser‟s audition with but a flick of his foot, just enough to dismiss him (Mächler 41).

The meeting with Kainz would not be wholly fruitless, however, as it too would materialize in the story “Wenzel,” which concludes with the lines: “Er fährt nach dem

Schwabenland. Dort hat man ihm aber eines Tages dann ganz gehörig die Meinung gesagt, es hat einfach geheißen: “Junger Mann, von wo Sie auch abstammen, gut oder minder gut bürgerlich, Ihnen fehlen die göttlichen Funken!” (SW 2: 91).

Walser‟s time in Stuttgart, and his failed audition with Kainz, may also be represented in the short story “Die Talentprobe,” published in the same collection as

“Wenzel.” In a master class with the court actress Frau Benzinger, an aspiring actor is told that he is too shy and nervous to be on stage. “Das ist nichts. Danken Sie Gott, daß

Sie einem Menschen in die Hände gefallen sind, der es so gut mit Ihnen meint, daß er offen zu Ihnen spricht,” she tells him. “Aber Sie besitzen auch nicht die leiseste Spur eines schauspielerischen Talents. Alles ist verborgen, verhüllt, vertieft, trocken, holzig an

92 Karl Walser is an interesting figure in his own right. Arguably the more successful of the two brothers during their lifetime, Karl became an established and well known artist in Berlin, whose work was impressively varied. In addition to painting, he also illustrated books by Cervantes, Kleist, E.T.A. Hoffmann, Hesse, and R. Walser himself, among others. He also designed stage sets for Max Reinhardt‟s Deutsches Theater and Hans Gregor‟s Komische Oper, and decorated the homes of cultural figures the likes of Rathenau and Paul Cassirer (Mächler 80-81). The influence of Karl Walser on his younger brother‟s development is difficult to quantify, but was undoubtedly significant. A decade after his move to Stuttgart, Robert would follow Karl to Berlin, and the latter‟s professional connections opened doors for his younger brother to the worlds of Samuel Fischer, Bruno Cassirer, and Christian Morgenstern.

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Ihnen. . . . auf der Bühne, im goldenen Licht der Rampe, wären Sie häßlich, glauben Sie es mir” (SW 2: 67-69). Although his pursuit of acting ultimately failed, the theater would come to occupy a central role in Walser‟s work.93 Indeed, Borchmeyer, in his article

“Robert Walsers Metatheater,” concludes that it would be difficult to overestimate the role of the theater in Walser‟s writing, going so far as to claim that his collected works build what might be called a “Theaterroman” (134). A simple summary of the prose pieces that, in some manner or another, deal with the theater, would fill pages. “Allein die

Prosastücke, welche den Figuren Schillers gewidmet sind,” he writes, “ließen sich zu einem eigenen Büchlein zusammenfassen” (135).

Rather than focus on structural elements of drama that are present in the author‟s prose, or on his adaptations of the works of well known dramatists, for the purpose of the study at hand, the emphasis will be on the theater experience. To achieve this, the texts to be discussed will be those written from the perspective not of the dramatist or of the actor, but of the spectator. As the analysis up until this point has centered on the process of observation, the viewing audience‟s point of view will be of upmost import.

It will become evident that the theater not only nurtures and encourages an observational experience that is very similar to that described in the previous chapters, but that it also serves to curtail this same experience, and to prevent an overwhelming flood of liberation like that in which Jakob almost drowns. Two stories in particular will

93 Both “Wenzel” and “Die Talentprobe” were published in Geschichten in 1914. Geschichten is a collection of short prose originally published in periodicals between the years 1899 and 1912, and reflects the importance that the theater had on Walser‟s writing during these early years. In addition to these two pieces, the collection includes “Theaterbrand,” “Lustspielabend,” “Katzentheater,” “Die Schauspielerin (I),” and “Kerkerszene,” which is adaptation in prose of a scene from Schiller‟s Maria Stuart.

232 help carry the discussion forward. Published eleven years apart, “Das Theater, Ein Traum

(I)” and “Das Theater, Ein Traum (II)” provide a rich description of what one might call the magic of the theater, and are particularly revealing in the context of the argument at hand because they focus exclusively on the experience of the viewer.

The theatrical experience begins long before the curtains rise, or even before the viewer takes a seat in the gallery. As the second of these two essays makes clear, the viewer goes through a manner of psychic preparation on the way to the theater itself.

Passing through the snow-covered city streets, the theatergoer disposes himself to receive the other-worldliness of the stage. This entails, above all else, a deconstruction of external and internal governing structures through macrosocial observation, which for

Walser resulted in the “angenehm-unangenehmen Überfall aufs Behagen” (SW 15: 50).

“Ich eilte ins Theater, und indem ich so ging, sagte ich mir, daß viele üble Gewohnheiten endlich einmal abgelegt werden müßten” (SW 16: 36). There is a conscious decision to set aside “üble Gewohnheiten,” customs and habits that, like blinders, limit experiential possibilities. By their very nature, such customs are self-evident, and are spared much introspection. They exist just below the surface of general awareness, unattended, yet stable and out of sight. A loss of this self-evidence, as Blankenburg has shown, creates the possibility for what Walser‟s narrator calls “Neue Lieblichkeiten, gänzlich neue

Gesetze” (SW 16: 36).

Achieving these “neue Gesetze” is a process that requires a shift in the individual‟s perception of the world, a psychic state that has been seen before in the

233 course of this discussion.94 The external world, and all of its qualities, must be deemed suspect and their Selbstverständlichkeit questioned. This brings about a revelation of reality‟s incidental nature, which is pushed to the side in revelatory pursuit, in order to grant access to some manner of purity that defies description, save in the vaguest of terms. “Alles Nebensächliche, Unwichtige war wie von einer Hand fortgezogen worden, damit nur Wesentliches übrig bleibe” (SW 16: 36). The expressed desire for the removal of insignificance from consideration was seen earlier in Walser‟s metaphor of the heiße

Brei, introduced in Chapter 3.

Besteht nicht Schriftstellern vielleicht vorwiegend darin, daß der

Schreibende beständig um die Hauptsächlichkeit herumgeht oder –irrt, als

sei es etwas Köstliches, um eine Art heißen Brei herumzugehen? Man

schiebt schreibend immer irgend etwas Wichtiges, etwas, was man

unbedingt betont haben will, auf, spricht oder schreibt vorläufig in einem

fort über etwas anderes, das durchaus nebensächlich ist. (SW 19: 91)

Walser‟s focus on die Nebesächlichkeit des Nebensächlichens, on the inconsequence of the inconsequential, robs it of any claim to significance. Recognized and labeled a distraction, it is in effect removed from consideration, “damit nur Wesentliches übrig bleibe” (SW 16: 36).

94 Consider also the opening sentence from the piece “Eine Theatervorstellung (II),” in which the abnormal mental state of the theatergoer is expressed. “Der Winternachthimmel war ganz mit Sternen gespickt, ich lief den Schneeberg hinunter, in die Stadt, an die Kasse des Madretscher Stadttheaters, ließ mir eine Fahrkarte verabfolgen und fuhr wie ein geistig nicht mehr Normaler die steinerne, uralte Wendeltreppe hinauf, die ins Stehparterre führte” (SW 3: 13).

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The “Wesentliche” that the narrator experiences is the intangible and indefinable reine Sein, which language can only approximate. “Sommerlandschaft tauchte weich vor mir auf. Ich sah mich baden, bergsteigen, rudern, unter hübschem grünem Gebüsch liegen. Eine Tänzerin tanzte in der Nähe, Blumen standen im dichten Gras, frische Luft strich mir um den Kopf . . .” (SW 16: 37). Dancing and nature are metaphors for the culturally free realm of reinen Seins (Greven, Existenz 42).95 The movement of the dancer and fluidity of nature, the latter of which is most often embodied by forests or water, are representative of the liberation and unhinged spirit of the dream-like moment.96 Like the dream, they are amorphous and drift in every direction with effortless grace: “der Wald fließt, er ist ein grünes, tiefes Davonfließen, Davonlaufen, seine Zweige sind seine

Wellen, das Grün ist das liebe feuchte Naß, ich sterbe und fliehe mit dem Naß, mit den

Wellen. Ich bin jetzt Welle und Naß, bin Fließen, bin Wald, bin Wald selber, bin alles, bin alles, was ich je sein und erreichen kann” (SW 1: 100).

The feeling of freedom and omnipotence comes from the impression that all limitations have been lifted, including the limitations of the self. Gone are the cultural boundaries that declare what can, and cannot be. Gone too are the limitations of reason, which dictate how one is to think, and which mental associations are acceptable. The

95 The diametric opposition of culture and nature, and the latter‟s reason defying essence, are represented in Walser‟s early short story “Der Wald,” which was published in his first collection Fritz Kochers Aufsätze. Here, nature communicates in a pure language, unblemished by logic and reason. “Da redet der Wald eine Sprache ohne Laut, ohne Atem, ohne Bildung, und alles ist süße kalte Verständnislosigkeit” (SW 1: 95). 96 In “Stück ohne Titel (II),” yet another short text on the theater, the fluidity of the dream and of the reinen Seins is likewise expressed with a liquid metaphor. “Jetzt saß ich im Theater, daß mir traumhaft schön vorkam, obgleich es bequem von mit ist, das zu sagen. . . . Im Zuschauerkopf wogten und schwellten mir Wälder wie Schaum von auflaufender heißer Milch” (SW 19: 303).

235 forest, and to a greater extent bodies of water, are representative of the limitless possibility of the dream.

This same promise can be found within the walls of the theater. In “Das Theater, ein Traum (II),” the boundless potential of the stage is expressed as follows:

“Träumerisch schön war‟s. Es war, als gebe es keinen menschlichen Wunsch mehr, der nicht bald in Erfüllung ginge” (SW 16: 36). The liminality of the experience, in which the mind is unmoored from utility, pragmatism, and cultural expectations, and is allowed to flow freely across thresholds and over barriers (Sass, M&M 127), is cultivated in the theatergoer.

“Das Theater gleicht einem Traum” (SW 15:7). So begins “Das Theater, Ein

Traum (I),” what Schaak is correct in terming one of the central texts to all of Walser‟s work (283). Originally published in 1907, this essay on the theater, more so than “Das

Theater, Ein Traum (II),” provides a description of the theatergoing experience, as well as suggests the theater‟s role in reining the experience in, before it becomes uncontrollable.

Critical to its ability to provide both freedom and limitation are the clearly established spatial and temporal limits on the theater-dream experience.

“Das Theater gleicht einem Traum. Im griechischen mag es anders gewesen sein; unseres is von einem dachbedeckten, dunkeln Haus geheimnisvoll und fremdartig eingeschlossen” (SW 15: 7). The theater becomes a dream-space, a mystical but also physical domain. Having, on his way to the theater, prepared himself mentally for

“gänzlich neue Gesetze” (SW 16: 36), the theater patron steps into a space the very nature of which is mysterious and alien. Unlike the open amphitheaters of ancient Greece, which were not only open to the elements but, more importantly for Walser, were not physically

236 separated from the rest of society, German theaters are in contrast closed in by walls and a roof. The audience sits in “dunkeln, nachdenklichen Löchern,” having left the worries of the day, and their “Geschäfte und nützlichen Absichten” behind them (SW 15:8). The theater is want of pragmatism. It is not socially expedient, but rather the interim home of the temporary Taugenichts.

Sitting in the darkness of the theater, pressed into their narrow seats, ties with the external world for the moment severed, theatergoers are prepared to dream. “Sind nicht auch die Dichtungen Träume, und ist denn die offene Bühne etwas anderes als ihr großgeöffneter, wie im Schlaf sprechender Mund?” (SW 15: 8). The theater functions with its images and sounds like a dream, and the experience of both is visual, as images are observed as they rise before the dreamer (SW 15: 10). “Im Traum haben die Bilder, die einem vor dem Auge enstehen – es mag das Auge der Seele sein -, etwas Scharfes,

Festgezeichnetes” (SW 15: 7). Similar to the numerous examples discussed in the previous chapters, the images of the dream and theater are likewise sharp, and their edges are clearly defined.

In Renee‟s vision of unreality, objects were transformed into two-dimensional theatrical props, like “pasteboard scenery” (Sechehaye 28-29). For a dissecting and distancing gaze that seems to emphasize the objects‟ existence sui generis, a sense of reality is missing. “Die Bilder flammen und brennen vor den Augen, die Figuren des

Stückes bewegen sich übernatürlich groß, wie nie gesehene Gestalten, vor uns” (SW 15:

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9).97 Although the images themselves are crystal clear, there is a parallel blurring of the line between the observation of actual images, and the perceived observation of the mind;

“es mag das Auge der Seele sein.” As with Jakob and his detailed descriptions of the inner chambers, which were observed in a dream-like state, the observational experience of the theater straddles the line between real and imaginary, and allows for a synchronicity of perspectives.

The break from the outer world, provided by the physical barriers of walls and a roof, allows for a continuation of the “gänzlich neue Gesetze,” which are established on the way to the theater. This includes, most visibly, a deconstruction of physical laws, such as those of space and distance. On stage, perspective is changed and distorted.

“Raumhaft natürliche Perspektiven, einen realen Erdboden, frische Luft gibt es da nicht

(SW 15: 7). Snowy landscapes stretch out for miles, and the trains that cut across them disappear into the distance, beyond where the eye can see. “Ferne und Nähe sind im

Theater dicht nebeneinander. Zwei Schurken flüstern immer zu laut; der edle Herr hört alles, und er stellt sich doch ahnungslos” (SW 15: 10). A break with logic allows for the truncation of space, a flattening of spatial relationships; Walser describes this as an

“ideale dramatische Verkürzung” (SW 15: 7).

Schaak argues that such truncations allow the viewer to separate significance from the inconsequential, the “Wesentlich[e]” from the “„Nebensächliche[n]‟ der

Realität” (58). However, the very fact that such “Verkürzungen” are possible in the first

97 Such descriptions can be found in other works of Walser as well, as in “Eine Theatervorstellung (II).” “Die Gestalten bewegten sich alsobald, riesige, plastische, übernatürlich scharf gezeichnete Gestalten, und spielten Maria Stuart von Schiller” (SW 3: 14).

238 place is predicated by an already existing break, one which happens as the audience prepares itself mentally for the dream of the theater. The theater itself, thus, continues a process already underway, nurturing and heightening it within its walls. “Wie schön ist es, wenn zwei Kerle laut brüllend miteinander flüstern, während des andern Gesichtszüge sagen: wie still ist es rings umher!” (SW 15: 11). This is a pleasurable experience for the viewers, who feel both the weight of the day, and the burden of reality lifted from their shoulders.

Where the perspective, distance, and space of reality become mere suggestions, rather than prescribed laws to which one is beholden, the audience also experiences a bending of categorical rules of logic, and of the language in which they are declared.

Colors are, paradoxically, both bright and muted, and are experienced through a variety of senses. They appear as smiling or threatening faces, or cut with their sharpness into the viewer‟s eye like a knife into an apple, only to bleed away into nothing. Or they are audible, and can be heard as the melodies of singing, sobbing, or laughter (SW 15: 7-9).

The loosening of reality‟s bonds allows for transformations of other kinds as well, as a river morphs into a horse, whose rider drives it up a narrow stairway. An earthquake destroys a city, toppling the buildings and spraying the air with blood:

Ein Erdbeben ist auf einem städtischen Platz, die Häuser sinken schräg

nach vorn, die Luft ist wie mit Blut bespritzt, feurig-rote Wunden hängen

überall; Menschen schießen ihre Gewehre ab, sie wollen mit der Natur im

Mord wetteifern; dazu ist der Himmel von einem süßen Hellblau, aber er

liegt ganz kindlich über den Häusern, wie ein gemalter Himmel. Das

Bluten ist wie Werfen mit kleinen Rosen; die Häuser fallen immer und

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stehen doch, und es ist immer ein entsetzliches Geschrei und

Büchsengeknall und ist doch keines. (SW 15: 9)

Houses that fall and yet remain standing, and the terribleness of nonexistent screams and gunshots tear at the viewers, and carry them away. The division between real and false is blurred, and the rationality of the outer world, if not supplanted, is paralleled by the irrationality of the theater and the dream state.

This shift in perception is expressed most starkly in the above description of the heavens, which in their light-blue, appear as if painted above the stage. As this is a

German, and not a Greek theater, and as the stage itself is located within “einem dachbedeckten, dunkeln Haus,” the sky must be, in actuality, a painted representation of the sky, rather than the sky itself. However, as the viewer‟s frame of reference has undergone such a profound shift, this painted quality is judged false not against the reality of the outer world, but against the rest of the dream that is described in the first half of the sentence, and which is perceived as the new real. Thus, whereas the painting is in reality a two-dimensional representation of the sky, when viewed through the perceived reality of the dream, it likewise appears as if painted, although the reality to which it fails to conform has been fundamentally altered. Its falseness is founded upon its inability to pass as real in the false reality of the theater. The bending of the rules of physics, and toying with logic, is accepted precisely because it happens on stage and within the walls of the theater. Dreamers and theatergoers don‟t question it, but, because of their physical separation from the external world, are as subject to this new logic as much as are the images on the stage themselves (Schaak 61).

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This complete immersion into the viewing experience allows for empathy with the characters, and for a visceral and emotional response to the actions on stage, regardless as to whether or not they are rational or realistic. “Wie war nun tiefes

Mitempfinden schön, tiefes Mitleben mit dichterischen Gestalten, das Mitleiden mit den leidenden, das Mitfreuen mit den fröhlichen Mienen, der Anblick der sprechenden

Gebärden und das Verstehen der Sprache, die von seltsamen Lippen tönte” (SW 16: 37).

Here, Walser‟s notion differs from that of Aristotle‟s theory of the tragedy, in which an audience‟s empathy requires mimesis that is consistent and “true to life” (28). For

Walser, the commonality between the audience and the stage, and the shared frame of reference between viewer and viewed, is precisely a shrugging off of the constraints of the external world and the limitation of imitation. This allows for a momentary escape.

“Ganz gebannt vom Andern, ergriffen vom Gespielten, hingerissen vom Dargestellten, trüge es mich über vieles Wirkliche, was ich allzu ernst nahm und scharf ansah, groß und frei hinaus, und ich belächelte jetzt, was mich bitter erregt hatte” (SW 16: 38). There is neither demand nor need for realism or for rationality within Walser‟s theater walls, and as such, new connections and new logic are both proposed and accepted.

This is a liberating experience, as well as one marked by apophany. “Darum lobe ich das Theater. Die Phantasie erlöst uns, und der Traum ist unser Befreier,” writes

Walser at the end of “Das Theater, Ein Traum (II)” (SW 16: 38). Like Renee‟s Land of

Enlightenment, the theater is a wide-open space in which the bright lights of the stage, and the dream that plays out upon it, are starkly contrasted against the cramped darkness in which the viewer sits. “Das Schlafzimmer ist dunkel, nur der offene Traum glänzt in dem starken Licht, blendend, redend, daß es einen zwingt, mit offenem Munde

241 dazusitzen” (SW 15: 9).98 A new false-reality is achieved through a revelatory pursuit, one in which the rules and expectations of the world outside the theater walls have been turned on their heads, where one sees “nie gesehene Gestalten” that are equally real and unreal, and which both dumbfound and transfix the viewer. Walser‟s description of the theater is remarkably similar to the Trema, and particularly to the vision of unreality of the schizophrenic break, in which the world may become paradoxically “unreal and extra-real,” as one patient put it (Sass, M&M 44). In Walser‟s words, this comes to be the beautiful true-falsity of the dream – “Das ist das Traumhafte, das wahre Unwahre, das

Ergreifende und zu guter Letzt das Schöne” (SW 15: 10-11).

As the groundwork for the experience of the true-falsity of the reinen Seins is laid down during the walk to the theater through macrosocial observation and the stripping away of common rules and habits, the theatergoer is prepared for its fulfillment upon entering the theater. Seated, and surround on all sides by the confinement of the theater walls, he waits with growing anticipation. “Der Platz war etwas eng, doch fand ich es schön, so im Menschentum zu sein und zu erwarten, was alle andern erwarteten. . . . Da der Vorhang aufging, war alles mäuschenstill. Alle Augen waren auf die Bühne gerichtet” (SW 16: 37). The rising of the curtain is like the parting lips of an “im Schlaf sprechende[n] Munde[s],” through which the dream, with flicking tongue, bellows and spits both alienation and assurance at the audience (SW 15: 8).

98 The visible brilliance of the stage is mentioned repeatedly in Walser‟s writing, often in terms of a glowing, glimmering fire. “Ich war ganz atemlos und konnte nun ein wenig verschnaufen, bis der Vorhang in die Höhe ging, das tat er nach etwa zehn Minuten, er erhob sich und ließ in ein Loch voll Feuer blicken.” Sitting in the darkness of the theater, the viewer‟s eyes begin to burn , “und jetzt mußten sie in eitel Feuer, Glut, Pracht und Glanz schauen. Wie schön und groß das war” (SW 3: 14).

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The dream-state of the theater is controlled, however, and herein lies its greatest deviation from the compulsatory nature of the Trema and the schizophrenic break.

Whereas the rising curtain helps initiate the dream, it also brings about its decisive end. “.

. . ein Fluß wird zu einem Pferd, und das Pferd will mit seinen behuften Füßen eine enge

Treppe emporsteigen, der Reiter zwingt es, man verfolgt ihn, man will ihm das Herz aus dem Leib reißen, man kommt näher, aus der Ferne sieht man die Mörder herstürmen, namenlose Angst packt einen an – der Vorhang sinkt” (SW 15: 9). Characteristic of many moments in Walser‟s writing in which the narrated experience threatens to spin uncontrollably out of the narrator‟s grasp, the end of the theater-dream is abrupt. For the reader, and one senses somehow for the narrator as well, this comes unexpectedly.

The physical structure of the building provides a similar barrier to the experience.

Although the walls and ceiling of the German theater separate the viewers from the laws and expectations of the external world, thereby providing a physical space in which the

“wahre Unwahre” can be experienced, they likewise curb the ability of the dream to become all-consuming. Preventing the rules of reality from penetrating the realm of the stage, the theater walls also prevent the dream of the stage from spilling out into the streets of society. They contain it, and set clear limits on how far it can spread.

Physically limited, the dream experienced in the theater is also limited temporally.

The fall of the curtain marks the end of the play. After a few hours of staring in wonder, with observant gazes and gawking mouths, the audience gets up and leaves. “Man tritt hinein, tritt nach ein paar Stunden wie aus einem merkwürdigen Schlaf wieder heraus, an die Natur, in das wirkliche Leben, und ist dann dem Traum entflohen” (SW 15: 7). For

Walser, the theater was, as Borchmeyer writes, a “Spielraum des Möglichen” (137), or a

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“Lügentheater” of large, unnaturally beautiful, golden, and ideal lies (SW 15: 35). The lies are enchanting, but as we‟ve discussed in the context of other works, pose a threat to the dreamer, for their permanence means the destruction of the social self. Hence, the narrator does not simply exit the theater upon the curtain‟s fall, but flees from it, “und ist dann dem Traum entflohen.” “Man ist dann eben im Theater gewesen und hat sich an einer fremden, edeln, schönen, sanften Welt berauscht” (SW 15: 35). The experience is, and remains, temporary, “Mann ist . . . im Theater gewesen,” and this temporality ensures that Fräulein Benjamenta‟s warning to Jakob is heeded.99

Central to the experience of the theater, and to its aesthetic potential for Walser, is the fact that the separation between the laws of the theater and those of the society, between inner and external realities, safeguarded by the limitations discussed above, guarantees that the dream is recognized as such upon the viewer‟s return to the outer world. As Schaak writes, “. . . die Bühne mit ihrer Möglichkeit, vor den Augen des

Zuschauers jeweils vollständige Welten entstehen zu lassen, die im Moment der

Wahrnehmung wirklich sind,” is counterbalanced by their cursory existence, such that they in the end only appear to be real (283). Upon leaving the theater, and putting space between himself and the fantasy of the stage, a stable perspective is achieved. What can be understood as a re-contextualization, this allows for contemplation, meditation, and artistic reflection upon the experience. The dream is identified as an illusion, as Schein.

“Oh, wie der Traum göttlich schauspielert!,” the narrator writes (SW 15: 9). Once this

99 “„Das ist die Freiheit,‟ sagte die Lehrerin, „sie ist etwas Winterliches, Nicht-lange-zu-Ertragendes. . . . Verliebe dich nicht nur in sie. Das würde dich nachher nur traurig machen, denn nur momentelang, nicht länger, hält man sich in den Gegenden der Freiheit auf‟” (SW 11: 101).

244 realization is made, the dream is no longer a potential threat, but an enjoyable experience.

From the terra firma of reality, the narrator points to the dream and calls it false.

Through a return to the world outside of the theater walls, the events on stage are also transformed from a lived experience into a remembered experience, and into material that Walser would fold into his prose.100 “Momente gibt es im Traum, deren

Erinnerung wir im Leben nie vergessen können” (SW 15: 10). The distance that the narrator puts between himself and the dream is thus both physical and psychic. Left behind in the theater, it is also left behind in the recesses of his memory to be processed at a later time, and with a clear mind. This separation, and the corresponding limitations placed on the theater-dream by the physical and temporal boundaries of the theater, provide for an aesthetically productive and existentially safe process of accessing the realm of reinen Seins, and prevent the loss of control that threatens Jakob in the inner chambers.101 In “Eine Theatervorstellung (II),” the narrator concludes with the following:

100 For a good example of this, we can look to a production of Schiller‟s Maria Stuart that Walser must have seen no later than April of 1905. This particular experience appears to be reworked and reflected upon in at least three of Walser‟s short stories, including “Eine Theatervorstellung (I),” “Eine Theatervorstellung (II),” and “Das Theater, Ein Traum (I).” It may also be the impetus for the piece “Eine Kerkerszene,” which as Greven notes, is not a reproduction of any one scene or character in Maria Stuart, but is rather a variation on a “typologische[n] Situation” from Schiller‟s work (SW 2: 130). 101 The relationship between memory and dream has long been the focus of study in theories of cognition. Freud‟s theory of the Primär- and Sekundärvorgang postulates not only two levels of dream processing, but two distinct cognitive processes that resonate with the study at hand. The Primärvorgang, which experiences the dream, is closely tied to the process of observation (Wahrnehmung). However, the Sekundärvorgang, which organizes and makes sense of the dream, invokes the subject‟s cognitive faculties (Denken) (Die Traumdeutung 589). More contemporary research done in the cognitive sciences seems to support Freud‟s theory that the dream, upon wakening, becomes a remembered experience that is organized by a reasoning mind. All dreams, by which is meant our conscious recognition of the experience, rather than the experience itself, are “post-cognitive productions,” writes Walsh (143, 146). And their

245

Dem Verstand war‟s hurenhaft, dem Gefühl titanisch. Ich wußte nichts

mehr. Ich hatte genug, ich packet das Bild mit meinen Augen, wie mit

zwei wehrhaften Fäusten, an und trug es über die steinerne Wendeltreppe

hinunter, zum Theater hinaus, an die kalte, winterliche Madretscher Luft

hinaus, unter den eisig-schauerlichen Sternenhimmel, in eine Kneipe von

zweifelhafter Existenzberechtigung, um es zu ersäufen. (SW 3: 18)

Whereas Jakob almost drowns in a flood of reinen Seins, this narrator reverses the role.

Leaving the theater, the space of dreams and ideal lies, he becomes master of his experience, and it is he who will do the drowning.

Servitude, an answer to the double bind

The security provided by the walls of the theater is a necessary response to the danger of the dream, but more significantly, reflects a quality of Walser‟s experience of the world, which up until this point has been discussed at length, but not been clearly labeled.

Walser‟s relationship to the world is defined by a double-bind (Herzog 23).102 Introduced

organization, he argues, is a narratological process that organizes dreams as “discreet temporal experiences” (146). 102 Herzog writes that the double-bind relationship originates from Walser‟s troubled relationship with his own mother, which he sees dramatized in Schneewittchen, and which he argues is the most important relationship in the world for the author (39). While a strictly anti-psychiatric reading would suggest this to be the case, more resent research in psychiatry and neurobiology has flipped this argument on its head. Communicative conflict of this sort is increasingly being viewed as aetiologically biological, rather than developmental (Willick 28-29). In this line of argumentation, individuals are biologically predisposed to experiencing the world as a double-bind. Herzog‟s troubled mother-child dyad would, therefore, be understood as a result rather than a cause of a communicative tangle.

246 in Chapter 2, Bateson‟s theory of the double-bind can be radically simplified into the following: A double-bind is constituted of two mutually exclusive demands that are imposed upon an individual, whose attempt to fulfill one of them will necessarily violate the other. As Bateson writes, this leaves the individual feeling “put on the spot,” and unsure as to how he or she should react. An example can be taken from Jakob von

Gunten, as Herr Benjamenta, the rector of the school and Jakob‟s “Vorsteher,” commands him to be insolent. “Jetzt, bitte, werde frech” (SW 11: 94). Jakob‟s insolence would only serve to confirm obedience to Herr Benjamenta, and as such would not be insolent. His only means of disobeying this particular order, and thereby defying the rector, is to hold his tongue. His silence, however, would be an affirmation of the standing regulations of Herr Benjamenta‟s school, primary among them is to strive to be a “Kleines und Untergeordnetes im späteren Leben” (SW 11: 7). Jakob is trapped.

Bateson postulates that schizophrenia develops out of a communicative tangle in the individual‟s mind, an experience that can cause severe pain and maladjustment (272).

As an individual‟s personality is predicated on successful communication and identification with the world, such disruptions can discredit conceptions of self (Goffman

243). Bateson claims that such individuals find themselves at a crossroads; one road leads to pathology, while the other, the more difficult path, leads to creativity.103 Displayed in

103 Johnston and Holzman, in their clinical assessment of schizophrenic thinking, make similar claims as to the division between artistry and pathology. “The schizophrenic patient appears to be driven by his thoughts; the artists orders them. The patient‟s thoughts are peremptory and insistent; the artist‟s are formed and modulated.” It is the presence of “control voluntarism and purposefulness” that separates aesthetic creativity from psychosis (17).

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Walser‟s work is a double-bind centered around what have in the previous pages been referred to as the Spielregeln der Gesellschaft. The author‟s relationship to social rules, as has been demonstrated, is conflicted. While it is evident that he yearned for acceptance and wanted to belong to society, at least to a minimal degree, it is also clear that the rules, mores, and expectations of society were foreign to him, and limited him not only as an artist, but also as an individual.

Breaking with these rules, often achieved by breaking through them, was an artistic necessity, as it was the source of Walser‟s productivity and allowed him a glimpse of the reinen Seins. However, this willful alienation from society, if cultivated, only compounded the unwanted alienation that already existed, making integration increasingly difficult (Grenz 68). This break with society is likewise threatened by permanence, and it seems as if Walser found himself at Bateson‟s crossroads, with creativity on one side, and the lasting discord of pathology on the other. Survival, as manifested in figures like Simon Tanner, and Jakob von Gunten after him, is possible only through a continuous switch between freedom and dependency, and between inner and outer worlds (Grenz 81). This is possible only if a connection to reality can, at all times, be maintained.

The social position which offers both permanent ties to reality, and the ever present opportunity to exist outside of the influence of the Spielregeln der Gesellschaft, is, perhaps surprisingly, one of complete subjugation. The role of the servant is one which is played simultaneously within, and removed from society. Like pieces of furniture in the dark corners of rooms, servants are present during social interaction, but do not often take part in it. They are at once “part of the host‟s team,” and someone “who

248 isn‟t there” (Goffman 151). Like the flâneur who dominates much of Walser‟s Berlin texts, the servant is both the present and absent observer of his surroundings. His lack of participation in society grants him the privileged position of the bystander. Like the

Taugenichts in the countryside, he is an impartial observer of everything around him.

“Man darf hier nicht allzuviel tun, sonst verlöre man den Überblick über das schöne

Ganze, verlöre den Anstand des Zuschauenden, der nun einmal auch in der Welt sein muß,” writes the tramp Simon Tanner (SW 9: 152). The servant‟s non-participatory position establishes a degree of security and protection from the alienation of social expectations, while ensuring that some ties remain.

For individuals, for whom adherence to society‟s rules is difficult, if not impossible, which as Sass argues is the case with the hyperreflexivity found in schizophrenia, the role of the servant can function as a form of defense (Goffman 153).

Already during the infancy of schizophrenia research, Ernst Bleuler suggested as well that schizophrenics found security in “bestimmt vorgezeichneter Arbeit, z.B. als

Bauernknecht, als Dienstmädchen” (74). The anxiety created by the communicative tangle of the double-bind does not negate the fact that, as R.D. Laing writes without reserve, “life must go on” (67). Such servile role playing, or in Laing‟s theory of schizophrenia, the unconscious adoption of an unembodied personality, functions as a defense mechanism, as the individual dons a mask when confronting reality. This “false self,” as Laing calls it, functions for the inner “true self” as a buffer against the threats of reality (71). So effective is it, that “the body is felt more as one object among other objects in the world, than as the core of an individual‟s own being” (Laing 71). It is this

249 masked self that interacts and conforms to social rules. It is the masked self that participates in society. True identity lies safely buried beneath the role being played.

Servitude provides for such a masked existence. Although holding a defined and stable position within the social world, the role of the servant is passive. The servant is not expected to actively participate in society himself, but rather to serve as a tool for carrying out the orders of his patriarch. He is not to seek the fulfillment of his own desires, but those of his superiors, and his body no longer belongs to him, but becomes an extension of his master‟s. As such, he is protected from coming into any real conflict with reality, because his thoughts and actions are not his own, but those of another.

The breaking down of the individual necessitated by servitude is the stated goal of the institute in Jakob von Gunten. Students are not only taught to abandon their will for that of their master, but any expression of individuality is forbidden. Hands are deemed

“die fünffingrigen Beweise der menschlichen Eitelkeit und Begehrlichkeit,” and are to be kept out of sight at all times (SW 11: 55). Noses, too, are a threat to the servant‟s developing nothingness, for “sie scheinen alle mehr oder weniger nach der Höhe zu streben . . . Nasen von Zöglingen sollen stumpf und gestalt erscheinen, so verlangen es die Vorschriften, die an alles denken, und in der Tat, unsere sämtlichen Riechwerkzeuge sind demütig und schamhaft gebogen. Sie sind wie von scharfen Messern kurzgehauen”

(SW 11: 55). Eyes are cheeky and inquisitive, and it would be better if they didn‟t exist at all. Likewise, a yawning mouth is proof of a thinking mind that is elsewhere, busy with the forbidden individuality of one‟s own thoughts. Only the servant‟s ears are of use, for they receive the master‟s order. “Ein festgeschlossener Mund deutet auf offene, gespannte Ohren, daher müssen die Türen da unten, unter den Nasenflügelfenstern, stets

250 sorgsam verriegelt bleiben” (SW 11: 56). The servant‟s every expression, his every movement, his very hands, nose, and mouth, mirror those of his master. “Ein Diener kann gar nicht anders als die Masken und Allüren seines Herrn annehmen, um sie gleichsam treuherzig fortzupflanzen” (SW 11: 56). To embrace the role of the servant is to embrace the role of the master.

The figure of the servant is among the most common in Walser‟s works, and most well known among all of them is Jakob von Gunten, who attends Benjamenta‟s school for boys. The school itself teaches but one lesson, and this lesson is repeated again and again. “Es gibt nur eine einzige Stunde, und die wiederholt sich immer. „Wie hat sich der

Knabe zu benehmen?‟” (SW 11: 8-9). This lesson reinforces in the boys their subjugation to the institute‟s rules, and forces from them any expression of pride or individuality.

“Klein sind wir, klein bis hinunter zur Nichtswürdigkeit. . . . Aber das Eine weiß ich bestimmt: Ich werde eine reizende, kugelrunde Null im späteren Leben sein” (SW 11: 8).

The boys of the school are being trained for a life of self negation, obligation, servitude, and deference.104

104 Military service shares similar qualities to that of domestic service, but receives much less treatment and recognition in Walser‟s writing. Der Gehülfe provides an exception, and the description of the army‟s regulations could have been lifted straight from “Was bezweckt Benjamenta‟s Knabenschule,” the only book taught in Jakob‟s school. Joseph‟s eight weeks of military training are summarized in a handful of sentences: “Jetzt kommt eine Eisenbahnfahrt durch ein frühlingsverzaubertes Land, und dann weiß man nichts mehr, denn von da an ist man nur noch eine Nummer . . . Man ist nichts mehr Eigenes, man ist ein Stück Gehorsam und ein Stück Übung. Man schläft, ißt, turnt, schießt, marschiert und gestattet sich Ruhepausen, aber in vorgeschriebener Weise. Selbst die Empfindungen werden scharf überwacht” (SW 10: 26).

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A servant figures at the center of another of Walser‟s novels. In Der Gehülfe,

Joseph Marti serves as a clerk in the home of the Swiss entrepreneur Carl Tobler. Like

Jakob, Joseph‟s position in the home is one of little individuality. He is expected to function as Tobler‟s voice and representative, both in business concerns and in family life. While in Tobler‟s employment, he is not to identify as himself, but as the

“Buchhalter und Korrespondent des technischen Bureau C. Tobler” (SW 10: 258). The position sought out by Joseph is a refuge from active participation in the world. He cannot successfully interact with his peers. He is, as Walser writes, a loose button on a jacket that won‟t be worn very long. “Ja, seine Existenz war nur ein provisorischer Rock, ein nicht recht passender Anzug” (SW 10: 23). Struggling to communicate with his fellow students at a vocational school for business and technology, Joseph sits mostly in silence.

As an employee of Carl Tobler, however, Joseph does not speak nor write as himself, but as Tobler. In this manner, successful communication with the outer world is achieved, without risk to the self.

While by no means the only examples of servitude in Walser‟s oeuvre - an account of all of the butlers, clerks and pages in his stories would fill pages – Jakob and

Joseph do express the function of servitude in Walser‟s writing. Significantly, both of these novels, as is often the case with Walser‟s works, are based on his own experiences as a servant. In his “Prolog über Walser,” published in Die literarische Welt in 1925,

Franz Blei writes the following: “Walser sah immer aus wie ein Page. Von solchem

Dienst schwärmte er auch” (qtd. in Mächler 86). In July of 1903, two years before his move to Berlin, Walser was employed as a secretary and bookkeeper in the home of the

Swiss inventor and entrepreneur Carl Dubler. In his afterword, Greven reproduces

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Walser‟s 1920 letter written to Curt Wüest, the editor of Pro Helvetica, and to which the poet attached a photo of a beautiful Swiss manor.105

Hier erblicken Sie die Villa zum Abendstern, wie sie noch zu Wädenswil

am Zürichsee steht. In dieses Haus trat ich einst as „Gehülfe,‟ und hier

wohnte jene Familie Tobler und hier hat sich dieser bei Bruno Cassirer

verlegte, einfache Roman abgespielt, der ja eigentlich gar kein Roman ist,

sondern nur ein Auszug aus dem schweizerischen täglichen Leben. (SW

10: 299)

This „slice of the everyday Swiss life‟ is the novel Der Gehülfe, the characters and setting of which all find their basis in the author‟s brief interlude as a clerk in Dubler‟s home.

Likewise, Walser found material during his matriculation in a Berlin school for servants two years after working for Dubler. Walser completed the course in 1905, and from October until the end of that year, he worked as a servant in Schloß Dambrauin in

Upper Silesia106 (Mächler 84, 270). Dressed in patent leather loafers and a gold buttoned tailcoat, „Monsieur Robert‟ served dinners, polished silverware, stoked ovens, and beat clean his lord‟s Persian rugs (Mächler 84). After only a few months of service, Walser left the manor and returned to Berlin. His time in the school for servants, and the following months in Schloß Dambrau, would form the foundation for the novel Jakob von Gunten, which would be published three years later.

There are numerous explanations as to why servitude played such a large role in

Robert Walser‟s writing and in his biography. Borchmeyer suggests that it, in part, stems

105 A facsimile of the entire letter can be found in Mächler‟s biography. 106 Today: Dabrowa Niemodlinska in south-west Poland.

253 from a reaction to Nietzsche‟s Übermensch, and a feeling of kinship with the humility and bohemian nature of Jesus Christ. “Jesus als Verächter von „Besitz und Bildung‟ als den beiden Säulen, auf denen der Status des Bürgers ruht, als Feind der gleichen zivilisatorischen Errungenschaften, die in Jakob von Gunten ad absurdum geführt werden! . . . Nichts anderes steht hinter der Dieneridee! . . . [Jesus] will nichts, er ist nur, hält sich aus allen Richtungskämpfen heraus” (64). Jesus, and subsequently the figure of the servant, embodies much of Walser‟s idealized artistic existence: the ideal of nullity and servitude, an anti-bourgeois fecklessness, the position of the outsider, and a mistrust of civilization.

However, Walser‟s radical “Vereinzelung an der Peripherie dieser Welt,” and his

“bewußte Annahme der Rolle des outcast” (Borchmeyer 23), which are expressed both in his biography and in many of his title characters, may also function to strike a balance between the conflict with the social world and an artistic approach that requires not an avoidance of social rules, but their destruction and decontextualization. The servant, unlike the figure of Jesus, does not live outside of bourgeois society, but exists within it, while remaining aloof. Walser‟s servants are removed from the rules of society at large, as they act not on their own behalf but on that of their master. However, because they remain bound to the set of rules of the household in which they serve, they can hardly be viewed as „free‟. These surrogate expectations are arguably more restricting and narrow than the broadly defined rules of the world outside the manor doors. They are also more immediate and clearly defined, as seen in the claustrophobic chambers of the Institut

Benjamenta, whose regulations are spelled out in black and white in the school‟s only book of instruction, “Was bezweckt Benjamenta‟s Knabenschule?” (SW 11: 8).

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The immediacy of the rules is compounded by the limited community that is responsible for their communication. In Tobler‟s household, this is a community of eight:

Tobler, his wife and four children, a maid, and Joseph Marti. This small household actually represents a relatively large community in Walser‟s works, in which the communication of rules is more often than not restricted to a master/servant dyad. Even

Jakob‟s training in the institute, although he is one of numerous students, is designed to place him into the restricted community of a single household. Social rules on the streets of Berlin, in comparison, while perhaps more complex and far-reaching, are also obscured by the undulation of millions of people across the city‟s parks and promenades.

They are also diluted by the amount of space for movement, which is boundless relative to the confines of the master‟s home. In “Der Spaziergang,” the narrator is accused of being a tramp and of wasting his time while others are hard at work. “„Du spazierst wieder einmal, wie mir scheint, am hellen Werktag‟” calls out a metallurgist (SW 7: 93).

The narrator only smiles and continues on his way, putting distance between himself and his accuser.

The question that begs asking is: If an existence within society, while removed from active participation with its expectations, could be found in the figure of the

Spaziergänger or flâneur, who is able to be “at the very centre of the world, and yet to be unseen by the world” (Baudelaire, 399-400), why did Walser turn at times to servitude, both in his own life and in those of his fictional characters? Although the servant no longer comes into contact with the external world as himself, but only in the guise of his master, he nevertheless remains beholden to external rules and expectations. It appears as

255 if he has exchanged the looser shackles of the Spielregeln der Gesellschaft for those more binding of the Spielregeln des Herrn.

The answer lies in the very proximal obligation inherent in servitude. For Walser, the imposing definition of the master‟s rule is more conducive to momentary freedom than are the attenuated expectations of the larger community. An individual act of defiance only imperceptibly diminishes the power and momentum of social codes. In servitude, in contrast, the individual finds himself facing a set of expectations that are concrete, concentrated, and inflexible; but expectations that are also more likely to crumble if subjected to enough pressure. The expression of individuality and free will within society, while rebellious, is quickly absorbed by an amorphous mass. Yet the servant, who is expected to have no identity outside that of his master, creates a violent and destructive act against his master‟s laws by claiming his independence, or daring to think his own thoughts.

By placing his characters in positions of subjugation, where such expressions of self are forbidden, feelings of individuality are prized even more.

Was nicht sein darf, was in mich hinab muß, ist mir lieb. Es wird dadurch

peinlicher, aber zugleich wertvoller, dieses Unterdrückte. . . . Was ich

sagen wollte: etwas nicht tun dürfen, heißt, es irgendwo anders doppelt

tun. Nichts ist fader als eine gleichgültige, rasche, billige Erlaubnis. . . .

Ich muß demnach unbedingt annehmen und es als Feste Überzeugung

aufbewahren, daß Vorschriften das Dasein versilbern, vielleicht sogar

vergolden, mit einem Wort reizvoll machen. (SW 11: 104-05)

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Jakob likens his forbidden individuality to a suppressed laugh that grows within him and strains to erupt.107 When it does, as it invariably does for Jakob, such an affront to the rules of the school is rewarded with harsh, sometimes physical retaliation by the head of the institute.

At one point in the novel, unable to restrain himself any longer, Jakob enters

Herrn Benjamenta‟s office, bows deeply, and speaks the following: “Ich habe Arme,

Beine und Hände, Herr Benjamenta, und ich möchte arbeiten, und daher erlaube ich mir,

Sie zu bitten, mir recht bald Arbeit und Geldverdienst zu verschaffen” (SW 11: 61). His willful expression of individuality flies in the face of school regulations, which demand that even individual body parts be either hidden or denied. Herr Benjamenta fumes at

Jakob‟s impudence, “Hüte dich, frech zu werden” he warns (SW 11: 61). Jakob, recognizing the danger that he is in, and intimately familiar with the blows of his rector‟s fists, screams out one final, angry insult, and slips out through the door behind him. Such altercations are a rush for Jakob, who loves to break the rules, to do “das Vorschriften-

Kränkende” (SW 11: 13). Only the inflexible regulations placed on the servant allow for such attacks on regulation as such. The rebellion of the man on the street can only be minimal, for it happens in a too large and yielding context. In the immediate and clearly defined rules of servitude, disobedience creates a much wider tear in the fabric of the limited community of servant and master.

107 See also the robber‟s suppressed laughter at authority: “Denn sobald jemand Miene macht, mir gegenüber sich zum Meisterlein zu erheben, fängt etwas in mir an zu lachen, zu spotten, und dann ist es natürlich mit dem Respekt vorbei, und im anscheinend Minderwertigen entsteht der Überlegene, den ich nicht aus mir ausstoße, wenn er sich in mir meldet” (SW 12: 144).

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Through this tear, which is the temporary dismantling of externally imposed rules and contexts, one glimpses the realm of the dream and the reinen Seins, or the creation of

“der souveränen Sphäre” (Hinz 471). It is the pulling back on the curtains, behind which is the freedom of the stage. Jakob and his comrade Schacht, himself an artist and dreamer, secretly smoke forbidden cigarettes in their bunks. While so doing, they exchange fantastic stories.

Wir erzählen uns ganze Geschichten, wenn wir so liegen, Geschichten aus

dem Leben, das heißt Erlebtes, aber noch viel mehr erfundene

Geschichten, deren Tatsachen aus der Luft gegriffen sind. Dann scheint es

um uns her, Wände hinauf und hinunter, leise zu tönen. Die enge, dunkle

Kammer erweitert sich, es erscheinen Straßen, Säle, Städte, Schlößer,

unbekannte Menschen und Landschaften, es donnert und lispelt, redet und

weint usw. (SW 11: 14)

The pair also light candles in their rooms, which Jakob assures is strictly forbidden.

“Aber gerade deshalb macht es uns Spaß, es zu tun. Vorschriften hin, Vorschriften her:

Kerzen brennen so schön, so geheimnisvoll” (SW 11: 15). In the candles‟ mysterious light, Jakob imagines that he is a great man, with servants of his own to bring him fur coats. “Das ist Unsinn, aber dieser Unsinn hat einen hübschen Mund und lächelt,” writes

Jakob in his journal (SW 1: 15). Like the “im schlaf sprechender Mund” of the theater

(SW 15: 8), the break from external authority achieved through disobedience gives voice to the beautiful dream of nonsense.

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Die Spielregeln des Herrn

One of the purest examples of this phenomenon comes from Der Gehülfe. Joseph Marti not only acts as Carl Tobler‟s secretary and bookkeeper, but steps in for him on family outings as well. Donning his master‟s mask in both professional and domestic affairs,

Joseph‟s position of a clerk is extended to that of a servant. He becomes “ein richtiger

Mann für alles” (SW 10:49). One cool evening, Frau Tobler suggests a gondola ride on the nearby lake. Carl Tobler, mumbling his assent, sends Joseph off to rent the boat.

When Joseph returns, however, only Frau Tobler and her children board the small vessel.

Herr Tobler remains behind, on land. Joseph adopts the role of his employer as he rows out onto the lake. He controls the “Schiff” in which Tobler‟s family sits (SW 10: 50). He alone is responsible for the direction and safety of the family on the water, just as Tobler controls the business, and as such, the security of his family on land. Even Leo, the family dog, swims after Joseph and his brood, as they put distance between themselves and the shore (SW 10: 50-51).

With each row, Joseph and the family float farther from the stability of land.

Tobler stands firmly in the world of “Nützlichkeit . . . wo die Brauchbarkeit und die

Besonnenheit als das Höchste gelten” (SW 10: 51). The water offers the respite of leisure, where romantic indulgence and half-forgotten souls “einmal erwärmen und lebendig werden, aber das wiederum nur für kurze Zeit” (SW 10: 52). Joseph, as the nominal head of this little group, and looking upon Frau Tobler as if upon a lover, wears his master‟s mask more plainly and plays his role more closely, than at any other point in the novel.

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Bound so tightly to Tobler, there is little room for flexibility, or for Joseph‟s own individuality.

This proximity and inflexibility make Tobler‟s binding brittle, however. And with each row of the oars, Joseph breaks through them, until Tobler‟s commanding voice is drowned out by the warm melody of a lyre. “Vom Ufer her blitzten die zerstreuten

Lichter und kamen ein paar Geräusche her, darunter eine helltönende Männerstimme, und jetzt hörte man vom jenseitigen Strand her eine warme Handharfe ertönen” (SW 10: 52).

The lyre‟s music wraps itself like ivy around the body of the summer stillness, and the world seems bathed in romantic “Genugtuung, Befriedigung und Bededutung” (SW 10:

53).

All in the boat are overcome by the dream, and forget the outside world. Indeed, with minds and souls lost in the fragrant silence of the night, their boat almost collides with another, which appears “aus weiter unbekannter Ferne her, oder aus der Tiefe heraus” (SW 10: 53). No one more than Joseph is transported into this realm of impressions, where everything is saturated with meaning. As the moment begins to break apart for Frau Tobler, in whom thoughts of land and the warmth of home are born on the chill in the air, Joseph sinks deeper into his unreality.

Steige, hebe dich, Tiefe! Ja, sie steigt aus der Wasserfläche singend empor

und macht einen neuen, großen See aus dem Raum zwischen Himmel und

See. Sie hat keine Gestalt, und dafür, was sie darstellt, gibt es kein Auge.

Auch singt sie, aber in Tönen, die kein Ohr zu hören vermag. Sie streckt

ihre feuchten, langen Hände aus, aber es gibt keine Hand, die ihr die Hand

zu reichen vermöchte. Zu beiden Seiten des nächtlichen Schiffes sträubt

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sie sich hoch empor, aber kein irgendwie vorhandenes Wissen weiß das.

Kein Auge sieht in das Auge der Tiefe. Das Wasser verliert sich, der

gläserne Abgrund tut sich auf, und das Schiff scheint jetzt unter dem

Wasser ruhig und musizierend und sicher fortzuschwimmen.-- (SW 10: 53-

54)

The deep that rises out of the water is, like the water itself, and the reine Sein, without form. Barriers are broken down, and the space between the heavens and the surface of the lake is filled. All becomes one in unity, and like the freedom of Jakob von Gunten‟s inner chambers, is beautifully unreal. Joseph and his little ship are swallowed by an abyss that is somehow both meaningful and beyond any existing means of comprehension. And like

Jakob‟s dream of freedom, which is “Nicht-lange-zu-Ertragendes” (SW 11: 101), this experience is also “nur für kurze Zeit” (SW 10: 52), and must come to an end.

The end comes as the boat collides with a pylon close to shore. Even this jolt, however, is not enough to fully rip Joseph from his dreamy state. “Es muß zugegeben werden, daß Joseph sich ein wenig zu sehr seinen Einbildungen überlassen hat. Er merkte kaum, daß die Fahrt zu Ende war, als man auch schon ans Land anstieß . . .” (SW 10: 54).

Still lost in the realm of impressions, Joseph is absent from the world around him. Not until Tobler reprimands his young servant, is Joseph finally grounded. “Tobler rief . . . seinen Untergegebenen zu, er könne auch besser aufpassen” (SW 10: 54). With the hierarchy of power reestablished, Joseph is reminded of his obligation to heed his master‟s orders. Only then does he step out of the precariously tipsy boat and on to solid land.

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Tobler‟s call to Joseph is a tether that ties him to reality. Just as the boat will be lashed securely to the dock, so will Joseph be lashed to his master‟s will. His responsibility and obligation ground him in the real world. They give him a safely predictable and stable home. While on the water, which is Walser‟s predominant metaphor for the realm of the reinen Seins, Joseph experienced an unreality in which common distinctions, standard expectations, and the rules of reality held no sway. At

Tobler‟s feet, which are planted on a secure and terra firma, Joseph regains the stability of the servile position to which he returns. Just as Jakob‟s experience of the inner chambers concludes with his return to the system of rules that define the institute, so too does Joseph‟s return to his master‟s rule bring a close to his otherwise unencumbered dream.

Servitude is the artist‟s answer to the precariousness and dangers of the necessary dream, as well as to the alienation in a society whose rules are foreign and hold little or no significance for him. The position of the servant is one that requires no active participation with the outer world. The ideal servant is “kopflos,” as Jakob writes again and again in his journal, and his thoughts and actions are thus not his own, but that of the master. As servants, Walser‟s characters do not step out into the world as themselves, but donning masks, they play the role of their employer. Such a position of self negation prevents conflict with the expectations of society, and avoids the communicative tangle of the double-bind and further alienation.

Freedom from society‟s rules comes in the form of submission to the more rigid code of the master. This code, while more defined than that of the social world, is also limited in its scope, and consequentially more brittle. “Das ist sicher, ein Commis ist

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äußerst verwandlungsfähig. Er kann rebellieren und gehorchen, fluchen und beten, sich winden und trotzen, lügen und die Wahrheit sagen, schmeicheln und aufprotzen . . . Er gehorcht gern und widersetzt sich leicht” (SW 1: 52-53). Unforgiving, and therefore vulnerable, the Spielregeln des Herrn can be shattered by the servant‟s disobedience and expression of individuality. Breaking through these bonds, the servant becomes a dreamer and enters into the realm of reinen Seins. The last remaining rules, expectations, and external organizing forces have given way to a liminal state of freedom, space, and transformation.

However, whereas the master‟s rules have been temporarily broken, the master himself remains to call his servant back. “Schießt dann der Chef mit Donner und Hagel hinein . . . [ist] der Commis wieder er selbst” (SW 1: 52). His voice reminds the servant of his obligations and of his position in society. It is also a reminder of a claim to reality.

Jakob von Gunten‟s journal entry detailing his confrontation with Herrn Benjamenta, from which he flees in fear of his headmaster‟s reaction to the insults, ends with his return to the classroom, and his focused study of the institute‟s rules. “Ich ging ins

Schulzimmer und vertiefte mich in die Lektüre des Buches: “„Was bezweckt die

Knabenschule?‟” (SW 11: 62). The master‟s code functions as an anchor for the dreaming mind, preventing it from drifting too far into the dangerous deep. It helps ensure a return, both to an external set of expectations and rules, but more significantly, to the grounded stability provided by ties to the outer world. In so doing, it serves to control and curtail the intoxicatingly beautiful freedom of the dream experience.

The curtailing of dreams is also ensured by the theater‟s falling curtain. The stage, much like the liberated realm opened up by the servant‟s broken shackles, is a space in

263 which the habits and worries of the external world have been supplanted by the “gänzlich neue Gesetze” of the theater (SW 16: 36). Here, the boundaries and thresholds of the world outside the theater walls are dissolved. Brightly muted colors bleed together.

Running rivers congeal into the body of a horse and its rider. Snow covered hills continue for impossible distances. The theatergoer abandons a perspective based in reality, and turns his back on what is common or normal. He consciously adopts a new and aberrant psychic state, and must become a “geistig nicht mehr Normaler” if he is to experience the pure freedom of the stage (SW 3: 13).

The freedom is limited, however, by the physical structure of the theater, by the play‟s temporality, and by the curtain‟s fall, which marks the absolute end of the fantasy and releases the viewer from its spell. These limitations help demarcate the border between reality and unreality and between the external social world, and the internal world of the dream. Once he has left the theater, the patron is able to think back on the experience, and label it as a memory that is separate from the here and now. Achieving this distance, the inherent threat of the reinen Seins is discarded, and the dream can be reflected upon and aesthetically reworked.

While the position of servitude and the theatergoing experience both allow for, and restrict the dream process, their most significant shared attribute may be that they are external systems to which the dreamer is beholden. The master‟s call is the call of another. Likewise, the curtain‟s fall is dictated by forces outside of the viewer‟s control.

Indeed, it often seems to come unforeseen. The dreamer, lost in the realm of reinen Seins, caught up in the chaos and potential danger of limitless freedom, seems to have little control over the process. As Jakob von Gunten, slips deeper into the inner chambers, his

264 own thoughts become persecuting, autonomous subjects (SW 11: 102). The dreamer cannot be expected to call himself out of the dream. For that, an anchor is needed, a tether to dry land with which the dreamer can be pulled back into shore. The responsibility must be that of another, however, one who is firmly planted in reality. Such is the faculty of the master‟s call. So too function the theater walls, ceiling, and the unambiguous verity of the final curtain. These are the artist‟s failsafes, the restricting frameworks in which he allows himself to dream, the predetermined limitations placed on the experience, lest the dreamer become lost in this land of unreality.

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CONCLUSION

“Meine Krankheit ist eine Kopfkrankheit, die schwer zu definieren ist.” – Robert Walser

“Wer kann einer Seele sagen, woran sie erkrankt. Überlassen wir die zeitgemäße Beantwortung dieser Frage unsern Herren der Wissenschaft. Die haben‟s Patent drauf.” – Robert Walser

In the preceding chapters, I have sought to show the centrality of narrative observation and hyperreflexivity in Walser‟s creative process. Many of the stylistics that make his writing unique and recognizable at a glance, attributes that have been referred to as

Walserian, can be traced back to various observational stances that he, as an artist, seems to have adopted in his relationship to the world. All aspects of narrative observation found in Walser‟s works are underscored by critical reflection on communal narratives, a macrosocial observation that shares many characteristics with the schizophrenic hyperreflexivity detailed in the writings of Louis Sass. “Das Leben mit seinen wilden

Gesetzen ist überhaupt für gewisse Personen nur eine Kette von Entmutigungen und schreckenerregenden bösen Eindrücken” (SW 11: 123). Looking beyond these arbitrary social expectations, Walser‟s focus shifts to the details of the world “die eben am

Ertrinken und Untergehen sind” (SW 3: 131), and hopes to rescue some experience of pure being from them.

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A hyperreflexive observational stance, when applied to the rules of language and communication, has a dramatic effect on the semantic quality and trajectory of Walser‟s prose. Strikingly similar to N.C. Andreasen‟s schizophrenic language patters, outlined in her article and then later adopted by the DSM III, Walser‟s prose is often guided by a highly attentive (höchst aufmerksam) consideration of various acoustic qualities and potentials of individual words. The trajectory is often dictated by experiments with rhymes, rhythms, antonyms, synonyms, alliteration, consonance, or other associations that words and phonemes offer up, rather than by an overarching meaning or the development of a concrete plot.

Such word games are undertaken in the hopes that hidden beneath the language is a significance and purity that can be accessed through a focus on the external, physical, and acoustic qualities of language, “. . . doch ich experimentierte auf sprachlichem Gebiet in der Hoffnung, in der Sprache sei irgendwelche unbekannte Lebendigkeit vorhanden, die es eine Freude sei zu wecken” (SW 20: 430). While this “Lebendigkeit” defies definition because it exists outside of language, its significance can be approximated and perhaps suggested by a playful dance with language. “Ich habe die Absicht, mit Worten zu Tanzen,” writes Walser (SW 20: 248).

However, as was illustrated with a close reading of “Brief an Edith,” this aesthetic process is not wholly abandoned to an unfiltered flow of associations, and it is not accurate to speak of a “Moment des Unvorhersehbaren, Antiselektiven” in Walser‟s word choice, as does Böschenstein (20). Rather, Walser tethers himself to a core idea, around and about which his prose then develops. “Ich bin gern an einen vorgeschriebenen Stoff gebunden. . . . Ich kann aus einer Idee zehn, ja hundert Ideen bilden, aber mir fällt keine

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Grundidee ein” (SW 1: 24). Thus his walks were undertaken in order to collect images and impressions, which would then function as anchors and catalysts for his poetry.

Walser‟s writing is grounded to a concrete idea, and the available associative field, the semantic network, is to a certain degree defined and limited.

Walser‟s relationship to style and language is founded upon the notion of Zwang.

Compelled as an artist to experiment with words and to give expression to the silent significance of language, Walser places himself in a subordinate position to the surface of language as he obeys its ebbs and flows, “d.h. dem Fluß des Erzählens gehorchen” (SW

12: 32). At the same time, however, he remains bound to a “Grundidee” that ensures that his prose doesn‟t drift too far into a realm of un-understandability, thereby remaining coherent, even at its most nebulous. As such, he maintains a connection to the social world through the reader‟s comprehension of the word.

Hyperreflexivity and the corresponding narrative observation have an effect on the visual quality of Walser‟s images as well. With a discussion of the schizophrenic

Trema, and accompanying experiences of mere being, fragmentation, and unreality, parallels were drawn between the schizophrenic perception of the world, and that of

Walser‟s characters and narrators. This is particularly evident in scenes marked by stasis, distance, and the flattening of spatial relationships, which are aesthetically achieved through various manifestations of narrative observation.

Sass‟ concept of hyperreflexivity is supported by Blankenburg‟s theory of the

Verlust der natürlichen Selbstverständlichkeit, whereby the self-evident and unquestioned „truths‟ of the physical and social world are lost. A similar process is seen in the macrosocial observation that permeates Walser‟s writing, in which the empirical

268 world is critically reflected upon. In both cases, organizing principles of reality are shed, revealing a new and ineffable visual experience of the world.

In Walser‟s texts, as is also the case in Sass‟ theory, this new way of seeing is accompanied by a spirit of discovery, which Sass refers to as an apophanous mood. This often engenders an intense observation of the external world, with the belief that its new appearance signals some underlying truth to be revealed. In German psychiatry this is referred to as the Wahnwahrnehmung or Wahrnehmungsstarre, which Sass translates loosely as the truth-taking-stare. In the frameworks of narrative observation, this correlates with the revelatory pursuit that one senses behind Walser‟s penetrating stare.

For Walser, these are moments in which the “wesentlich saubere, naturwahre

Färbung” of things is sensed (SW 7: 66). This “wesentlich” quality is the expression of an object‟s reinen Seins, and as it stands outside of the prescribing limitations of social meaning, it represents a state of pre-significance, and as such, of freedom and limitless potential. In Walser‟s prose, this becomes a moment of fantasy, and a decontextualized world serves as a vacuum into which he creates. “Alsdann ist Träumen für den

Schauenden und Ankommenden eine längst vorbestimmte Sache,” he writes (SW 1: 95).

Walser‟s break from the predetermined meanings of a civilized world differs from the schizophrenic break, in that it exhibits a sense of volition and is as such artistic rather than the compulsory pathological break experienced in schizophrenia. However, there exists at the same time an underlying danger in this aesthetic process, which quickly reveals itself as anything but benign. Walser‟s artistry is like that of the tightrope walker,

“Feuerwerk hinten auf dem Rücken, Sterne über mir, einen Abgrund neben, und so eine feine schmale Bahn vor mir zum Schreiten” (SW 1: 30). Looming always is the danger of

269 a fall into the abyss. Walser‟s characters repeatedly find themselves swimming in the uncontrollable impressions of the reinen Seins, as the observational experiment slips out of control. This is the duality of Walser‟s attempt to access the undefined, pure potential of this realm. As an artist, he needs the experience to create a liberated context in which his works can be produced. As a man, living in the reality that he continuously seeks to decontextualize, his very sense of self and belonging in the world are under the constant threat of permanent alienation.

Chapter 5 expanded on the discussion of breaking with cultural expectations, and the danger that such a break entails for the author. Whereas hyperreflexive observation of self-evident truths leads to their devaluation, both in semantics as well as in the observation of the physical world, it likewise comes to question narrative conventions inherited from previous centuries. In Walser‟s case, this is seen most explicitly in the reader‟s expectation of a teleological text. In a consideration of “Minotauros,” the emancipation of Walser‟s writing from the influences of the Spielregeln der Gesellschaft was illustrated, thereby creating a liberated textual space in which to produce.

The similarities between Walser‟s prose and the productive schizoid wish fulfillment of Deleuze and Guattari‟s Anti-Oedipus were addressed in this context.

Whereas the two correlate with one another in many respects, particularly in the liminality of their production, unmoored from practical concerns, a schizoanalytic reading of Walser was shown to be inadequate primarily because Walser‟s works, while often alienating to their readers, were nevertheless recognized by the author as marketable items in the moment of their conception. Walser‟s connection to the market stands in opposition to Deleuze and Guattari‟s schizoid, the very revolutionary nature of

270 whom is made possible by his existence outside of a market society – his deterritorialization. Walser‟s connection to his “geneigten Leser[n]” was suggested in his search for a Grundidee to which his prose is tethered, and which ensures some degree of comprehensibility (SW 19: 191). Chapter 5 underscored his consideration of the marketability of his writing with examples from Walser‟s private correspondence with friends and publishers.

The danger of the reine Sein-experience is also expounded upon in a discussion of the inner chambers in Jakob von Gunten. In Jakob‟s dream, the tenuousness of the liberating experience is emphasized, as is the need for the dreamer to remain connected to the outside world. “„Das ist die Freiheit,‟ sagte die Lehrerin, „sie ist etwas Winterliches,

Nicht-lange-zu-Ertragendes. Man muß sich immer, so wie wir es hier tun, bewegen, man muß tanzen in der Freiheit. Sie ist kalt und schön‟” (SW 11: 101). In other texts, Walser links the impeding danger of the artistic process with a threat to one‟s health and safety.

“Wir pröbeln und schneidern mit Dingen, die in der Brust anderer Menschen gesund und geheimnissvoll und unangetastet ruhen, heiligen, gefährlichen Quellen gleich, die man nicht ungestraft beständig hervorreizt” (SW 2: 65). The process is one of observations and doubts, “die ihm die gesunden Sinne zu verrücken drohen” (SW 15: 64). To ensure that the dreamer doesn‟t slip permanently into his dream, some anchor is needed that ties him to the social world, and as such, to his own identity in the world, and to a sense of self.

In addition to the concept of a “Grundidee,” and to his ties to publishers and consideration of the market, there are two recurring themes in Walser‟s texts that both allow for the fantasy of the reinen Seins, while also curtailing it, before it becomes unwieldy and all consuming. These are the themes of the theater and of servitude.

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The theater is for Walser a physical space in which the patron dreams like a

“geistig nicht mehr Normaler” (SW 3: 13). Separated psychically and physically from the outside world, the theater experience is freed from the limitations of reality. Played out on the stage is the revelation of the reinen Seins. Figures are transformed and distances disappear, and the audience sits in wonder at the false-reality revealed to them. The same physical barriers that keep the external world at bay, also contain the theater-dream within their walls. When the curtain falls, the audience leaves the defined space of decontextualization, and is forced back into reality, their psychic stability ensured.

Servitude functions in a similar manner to the experience of the theater, as the rigid binding that ties the servant to his master allows the former to rebel with expressions of individuality, thereby momentarily negating the rules and expectations of the latter. The disobedient servant destroys the organizing rules of his world, which is the limited world defined by the master/servant dyad, the Spielregeln des Herrn rather than the Spielregeln der Gesellschaft. As these Spielregeln are shattered, a new space is opened up for fantasy. The experience is regulated by the master, however, who is quick to reprimand his servant for his insolence, and to return him to a position in society, and to the security that such a position provides. Both the theater and servitude may function to provide for safe and insulated access to the realm of the reinen Seins, where the creative mind is able to drift, provoke, rearrange, and produce without fear that this liminal state will come to permanently define its experience of the world.

In the introduction to this work, I illustrated the numerous ways in which the reception of Robert Walser has been fundamentally influenced by his biography, most notably by his hospitalization in Waldau and Herisau from 1929 until his passing in 1956.

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The subsequent pages have illustrated that the parallels between Walser‟s writing and schizophrenia stem not only from superficial associations located in his biography, but that they can be found embedded in the prose itself. Walser‟s semantics and language games, his intense stares out into the world, and his deliberate frustration of tradition and social norms all resonate strongly with many symptoms of schizophrenia. By analyzing numerous stories rather than one or two works, and by selecting examples from all periods of the author‟s production, I hope also to have illustrated that the characteristics of Walser‟s writing that find corollaries in clinical analyses of schizophrenic patients, are not limited to the later Biel and Bern years. They can be found throughout his oeuvre, from his earliest publications to the posthumously transcribed microgram texts, some of which were written after Walser‟s hospitalization in Waldau.

Walser was aware of the impression of illness produced in his writing, and references it in his final, posthumously published novel Der Räuber:

Ich richte an die Gesunden folgenden Appell: leset doch nicht immer nur

diese gesunden Bücher, machet euch doch auch mit sogenannter

krankhafter Literatur näher bekannt, aus der ihr vielleicht wesentliche

Erbauung schöpfen könnt. Gesunde Menschen sollten stets gewissermaßen

etwas riskieren. (SW 12: 83)

He was also aware that his aesthetic process was one that, should it overcome him, would threaten his health and security, and could cast him into the abyss below the high wire.

What it is that makes his writing ill and abnormal, or what specifically he means to symbolize by the looming danger to the artist, Walser doesn‟t say.

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It is very possible that Walser was aware of a pending schizophrenic break with reality, or that he had already experienced numerous such breaks in his past. In the introduction, it was noted that Walser had repeatedly undergone some manner of break with the external world, which would be visually transformed - glimmering and flickering before his eyes. Walser‟ attributed this to epileptic seizures (Briefe 326). But it is conceivable that these were the first moments of a Trema-like experience. As schizophrenia is an affliction that generally develops in adolescence, if Walser was afflicted, he would have likely lived with schizophrenia for decades before checking into

Waldau at the age of fifty. In fact, his first breaks would have likely come in the late nineteenth century, at the same time that his first stories were being published.108 This may offer an explanation as to why his prose, in all periods, exhibits so many characteristics that can also be found in schizophrenia.

To say with certainty that Walser was schizophrenic, however, is not so easily done by drawing close parallels between his prose and schizophrenic symptoms. This is in part due to the fact that research in schizophrenia, and the criteria used to diagnose

Walser, were in their relative infancy in 1929. Kraepelin‟s handbook was only a few decades old, as were those of Bleuler and Jaspers. At the same time, competing theories offered by psychoanalysis, now largely seen as incorrect, muddied the picture.

Additionally, schizophrenia itself, like modernism, is difficult to describe, define, or understand, as evidenced by the sheer number of irreconcilable theories developed over

108 Walser‟s first publication came just after his twentieth birthday, in May of 1898, when Josef Widmann of the Sonntagsblatt des Bund published some of his poetry. It was through this publication that Walser met Franz Blei (Mächler 268).

274 the past century. In his extremely influential study, Allgemeine Psychopathologie, Jaspers went so far as to say that it was not possible to understand schizophrenia at all. Indeed, research and competing theories on this most bizarre and enigmatic affliction, what Sass calls the quintessential disease of the twentieth century, virtually dictated the development of modern psychiatry over the past one hundred years (M&M 13).

In a letter written from Waldau, Walser writes, “Meine Krankheit ist eine

Kopfkrankheit, die schwer zu definieren ist” (Briefe 342-43). With typical paradox, however, he writes in the same letter, “Ich bin vollständig gesund und zugleich sehr ernstlich oder eheblich krank . . .” (Briefe 342). This brings up a third stumbling block, the largest standing in the way of clarity on Walser‟s psychic state. Despite his admiration for, and identification with authors like Kleist, Hölderlin, Lenz, and Brentano; and regardless of the borderline venomous animosity that he often expressed for his contemporaries, Robert Walser was unquestionably a modernist. Paradoxical quips and vagaries like those expressed in his letter in 1929, belong to the aesthetics of modernism, and it is therefore difficult to draw the line between art and pathology.

Gorsen notes the similarities in syntax between the Expressionists and schizophrenics. The Dadaists, Symbolists, and Lettrists too experimented with metaphors, phonetic spellings, and the destruction of meaning (20).

“Beziehungslosigkeit, Ideenflucht, Objekt- und Orientierungsverlust, Ambivalenzen,

Depersonalisation , Sinnestäuschungen, Wahnideen usw. sind bis auf Arrabal, Beckett,

Th. Bernhard, Ionesco, Weiss . . . bevorzugte Themen des literarischen Kunstweks geblieben” (Gorsen 38). Moreover, with authors who are genuinely ill, among whom

Gorsen includes both Walser and Hölderlin, schizophrenia is not represented in the text,

275 but is rather the source of the text. This makes any analysis difficult, because one cannot decipher between symptoms of schizophrenia, and a distanced use of schizophrenic styles for aesthetic or socially critical means (39-40). These challenges are at the center of any approach that seeks to read Walser in the context of psychosis.

Germer is a longtime office employee in the short story “Germer,” first published in 1910. Germer is sick. He doesn‟t get along with his employees, he can‟t control his emotions, he roars and blusters and throws his hands wildly about in the air. He sticks his tongue out at his colleagues and calls them all “Affen!” (SW 3: 117). But Germer is not at fault, it‟s his sickness, “also ist Germers Krankheit ein Feind des mächtigen

Kollegengedankens” (SW 3: 117). His colleagues talk of madness, and of sending him to the countryside. The fresh air will do him good, they say. It will alleviate the cause of his

“geistiger Verwilderung” (SW 3: 118). But Germer remains, year after year. “Wenn so eine fleißige, emsige Stille im Saal herrscht, pfeift einer plöztlich, und wer ist es?

Germer. Auch laut lachen kann er plötzlich. Und immer wischt er mit der schrecklich großen und flachen Hand etwas aus der Luft weg. Armer Germer” (SW 3: 120). It‟d be better, says Meier, if he was brought to the countryside.

So much of the discussion from the previous six chapters is represented in this short story, itself just over six pages long. The relationship between madness and modernism, a central concept of Sass‟ theory, is embodied in Germer‟s hectic

“Wechselportefeuilleposten,” which his colleagues postulate is the source of Germer‟s madness. So to do the stresses of modern life appear in the pervasive opinion that Germer be brought to the countryside, and to a slower pace of life. This hints at Walser‟s own retreat to provincial Switzerland, and eventually, to the sanatoriums that dotted the Swiss

276 landscape. One is likewise struck by Germer‟s negativism, and finds examples of the word games discussed in Chapter 3, like rhyming and work approximations (“Armer

Germer,” “Bockwurstwitzwesen,” “Tisch-lein-deck-dich-Sachen”). Significantly, Walser represents the constellation of “geistiger Verwilderung” as the “Feind des mächtigen

Kollegengedankens,” and suggests a relationship between madness and the Spielregeln der Gesellschaft, which is similar to that proposed by Sass.

The most poignant moment in the story comes on its final page, as the narrator comments: “Wer kann einer Seele sagen, woran sie erkrankt. Überlassen wir die zeitgemäße Beantwortung dieser Frage unsern Herren der Wissenschaft. Die haben‟s

Patent drauf” (SW 3: 120). Walser doesn‟t hide his cynicism for the growing psychiatric movement, and scholars would be remiss not to heed this advice.109

I did not begin this study of Robert Walser‟s work in search of a diagnosis, nor will I now conclude with one. I am not a psychologist or psychiatrist, and have no known experience with schizophrenics, clinical or otherwise. It would therefore be unscrupulous, as a literary scholar, to make a definitive judgment on Walser‟s psychiatric condition. My hesitation in this area is compounded by the fact that my reading of Walser‟s work takes place over fifty years after his death. It is questionable practice for anyone working almost exclusively with his literary texts and second-hand accounts of his biography, to make concrete claims addressing psychosis. Our greatest access to Walser is through the

109 “Gemer” was published one year prior to Eugen Bleuler‟s Dementia Praecox oder Gruppe der Schizophrenien, and only three years prior to Karl Jaspers Allgemeine Psychopathologie. Walser‟s own brother Ernst would be treated for schizophrenia a few years later, and would die in the Waldau hospital in 1916.

277 prism of his modernist prose. The clinician‟s reports from Waldau and Herisau are regrettably limited, and the myth of Walser as Hölderlin‟s heir is pervasive. There are simply too many variables in order to overcome the risk inherent in a posthumous diagnosis or re-diagnosis.

I am sympathetic to the efforts of the anti-psychiatrists who sought to free schizophrenics from the stigma of illness, as I am to the numerous speeches, books, and articles addressing Walser‟s madness in the hopes of claiming for him a “nicht- pathologische” position in the German canon (Hiebel 260). The willingness with which psychoanalysts and psychiatrists often diagnosed their patients as schizophrenic is disturbing. Yet there is a tyranny in „liberating‟ efforts as well, and if Walser did suffer from the pain and alienation of schizophrenia, then we must allow him this. Just as the confirmation of a false diagnosis of schizophrenia incorrectly labels Walser and his texts as ill, as krankhaft, and thereby stigmatizes both author and work, so to does a re- diagnosis run the risk of robbing this author of the manner in which he experienced the world. If Walser were sick, then he has a right to claim that experience, whether positive or negative. Removing the stigma does not remove the suffering, but serves only to take from him the right to claim that suffering, to discredit the alienation that he may have experienced, and to label to his pain as false.

Rather than a diagnosis, the cognitive approach to Walser undertaken in these pages offers a new manner of reading one of the most elusive and perplexing authors of the previous century. Although it contributes to a long history of scholarly discussion addressing Walser‟s hospitalization, its greatest value may lie in its contributions to a narratological understanding of his works. The framework of narrative observation, and

278 the concept of hyperreflexivity, form a bridge between Walser and the budding cognitive approach to literature, and as such, between literary studies and the cognitive sciences of psychology and neurobiology. This connection between Walser and cognitive studies is mutually beneficial, as each promises to expand discourse on the other.

As cognitive studies grow, and with the support of the neurosciences, branch out from the field of psychology and the psychoses, scholarship on Robert Walser may develop along with it. Likewise, as more and more translations of his writings promise to be introduced to the English speaking world, thanks almost exclusively to the tireless efforts of Susan Bernofsky, Walser‟s audience will continue to expand. It is doubtful whether Walser‟s work will ever be viewed separate from his diagnosis of schizophrenia.

However, his diagnosis in 1929 need not overshadow the beautiful and arresting quality of his prose, and his schizophrenia, whether genuine, feigned, or imposed upon him like a brand, need not preclude the fact that Walser was one of the most gifted, innovative, and intriguing poets of his generation. With time, perhaps the biography will retreat into the background and allow the text itself to come to the fore, and Walser will claim a position in the canon of indispensible and fundamental authors of German modernism. To that end, Walser is given the final word in this study.

Unser großer Schweizerdichter , den Sie sicher

kennen, saß auch zeitweise in einem Sanatorium für geistig nicht ganz

mehr so recht auf der Höhe Stehende. Jetzt feiert man dieses armen

Menschen hundertsten Geburtstag mit Ansprachen und

Gesangsdeklamationen. Und er wagte einst kaum die Feder in die Hand zu

nehmen, aus Furcht, er wäre ein lumpiger Stümper. (Briefe 240)

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WORKS CITED

In Text Abbreviations______

BG – Aus dem Bleistiftsgebiet, Robert Walser D&G – Deleuze and Guattari “ISF” - “Introspection, Schizophrenia, and the Fragmentation of Self,” Louis Sass “LU” – “The Land of Unreality,” Louis Sass M&C – Madness and Civilization, Michel Foucault M&M – Madness and Modernism, Louis Sass SW – Sämtliche Werke in Einzalausgaben, Robert Walser “NS” – “Negative Symptoms,” Louis Sass “TCM” – The Consiousness Maschine,” Louis Sass

Robert Walser______

Walser, Robert. Aus dem Bleistiftgebiet. Ed. Bernhard Echte and Werner Morlang. am : Suhrkamp, 1985. Print.

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