HP - fuzhnote

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«Pizza
always
beats
art»
nick
hornby
pablo pepito
Incompletezze
franziska häfeli
Interview
mit dem Schriftsteller Hans Polder
Editorial Sidenote0
Try to picture yourself lying with friends under a gorgeous night sky, preferably at the beginning of August. At some point, someone starts screaming what sounds like random stuff: you can
barely recognize words like shooting star and haveyouseenit? and awesome. You now probably
hate yourself, cause you thought it would be a good idea to give your eyes some rest just now, or
maybe just to point them towards the wrong section of the night sky. If nothing else, you are probably wishing someone had told you to open your eyes a fraction of a second earlier. Now consider for a moment the same situation from a different point of view: you are now a cold chunk of
some sort of mineral, traveling through the void of space at some 70 km/s. That’s all you’ve always
been doing and, as far as you know, that’s all you’ll ever do. At some point, a blue-ish and slightly
bigger chunk of some sort of mineral gets in your way: next thing you know, you are spectacularly
being annihilated by its atmosphere, and your journey is over. If nothing else, you probably would have wished that as many eyes as possible would have been open and pointed towards
you during that fraction of a second.
Meteors, in other words, are cool. What they lack is one single skill, a pretty crucial one if you want
people to see you while you’re shining: scheduling.
Comets, indeed, are way cooler than meteors.
What you are now reading is an attempt to learn from comets. After a first, very exiting and
surprisingly successful semester, we decided to start anew: Fussnote will starting from now cease
to be a poorly scheduled blog and become a monthly online magazine, published in the form of a
PDF file like the one you are reading right now. The basic concept, however, will remain exactly the
same: Fussnote is fundamentally a platform on which to share works you care about. We,
on our part, will be slightly more active, carrying out some more serious and thorough editorial
activities such as basic spell-checking or coming up with captivating layouts.
In the following pages you will find a selection of texts and images that have been published on the
old blog. Nothing is new, except everything is cast under a very new, shiny light.
Enjoy reading some of the old stuff and start getting used to the new format
0
martino oleggini
!
h.k.
Wir sind die Jammergeneration
noé albergati
Il canto di Ulisse
anonymous
Fucked-up Poem
mirjam aeschbach
Sehen
donath morell
Il gatto e l’uomo
alessia schmocker
Ricordi quel tempo
raph al guul
Raiders of the Lost Ball
sara groisman
Incontri
olivier nüesch
Erinnerungen eines Spiegels
noupa
In My Book
Wir sind die Jammergeneration1
_________
Und
Jammern
Wir sind die Jammergeneration
Jammern wir nicht über die Selbstfindungskrise
Jammern wir über die SVP-Initiative
Die Managerlöhne
Oder das Fernsehprogramm
gehört
zu
Wir sind die Jammergeneration
Die Teenager jammern über die Alten
Die Alten jammern über die Teenager
Die sind ja wirklich alle so unhöflich
unserem
Lifestyle.
Wie der
Coffee to go
und
das
Internet
Wir sind die Jammergeneration
Und Jammern gehört zu unserem Lifestyle
Wie der Coffee to go und das Internet
Ich bin so beschäftigt und hab nicht so viel Zeit
Ich würde doch viel lieber
Wir sind die Jammergeneration
Jammern wir nicht zusammen
So jammern wir jeder für sich
Und über dies hinaus vergessen wir
Dass Jammern ohne Taten
Nichts mehr als Smalltalk ist
1
1
h.k.
kill the pain
now
with hideous chemicals
with
with
whisky
another goddess-like woman.
bed
dirty
stretching in my
giving me a
smile2
Fucked-up Poem2
_________
I came to love,
she came to forget.
I appreciated loneliness
she feared it.
she has taught me to hate it..
to fear it
to be…
like a black widow
too nice to be true
she’s spinning a web
catching a new reckless guy
to forget the last one
everyone claims to be a nice human being
giving humanity to those who need it
wearing a mask
fearing to be unmasked
to be real
I’m sick of these kinds of people
but i was angry
to find this behavior as well in me
be unfair to all those people who didn’t
deserve it
and be betrayed
by those who claimed to be
innocent
1
Strangers Passing by*
_________
sitting in the dark
the world is
sometimes
not a joyous place
kill the pain now
with hideous chemicals
with whisky
with another goddess-like woman.
stretching in my bed
giving me a dirty smile
at least I was real for a period
sitting on a chair
writing this fucked-up poem.
sitting in the dark
the world is
sometimes
not a joyous place
kill the pain now
with hideous chemicals
with whisky
with another goddess-like woman.
stretching in my bed
giving me a dirty smile
This is not what you might think it is.
These are just two strangers passing by.
at least I was real for a period
sitting on a chair
writing this fucked-up poem.
2
anonym
* antonia steger
Come faccio a
cacciare
se non ho le unghie
affilate come le tue?
compero
Ma io mica caccio, io il mio cibo lo
al negozio, lì dove la padrona ti compra i
croccantini
3
Il gatto e l’uomo3
_________
Eh, ti piace farti accarezzare, farti viziare mentre il tuo molle
corpo si squaglia sulla coperta di lana. E cos’altro ti piace fare?
[…] Riposarti! Ma riposarti da cosa se non fai niente? […]
Dalla fatica?! Eh già, effettivamente dev’essere molto faticoso
quello che fai: dalla scodella al divano, dalla televisione alla
cassetta; c’è un sacco di strada fra un posto e l’altro, effettivamente dev’essere faticoso. Mi sbaglio? Ci sono forse altre cose
che fai? […] Qualche volta esci a prendere aria sul balcone!
Come sei coraggioso, quasi temerario. Ma non fa freddo là
fuori, non rischi di buscarti un raffreddore? […] Ah, ho capito, esci solo un attimino. […] Come? In che senso: provi
una strana sensazione quando esci? Spiegati meglio. […] Ah,
capisco: quando vedi la gatta bianca che passa senti qualcosa
di strano. Non c’è niente di strano, o almeno, non dovrebbe
esserci niente di strano: è un istinto. Ti senti attratto da quella gatta perché un istinto ti spinge verso di lei, perché vuoi
montarla, fare dei cuccioli, garantire la sopravvivenza della
tua specie. Mi segui? […] No eh, immaginavo. Come potrei
spiegarti? Ecco vedi , quel pezzo di carne che ti penzola dal
basso ventre, quello da cui pisci, quando vedi una bella gatta
si dovrebbe indurire. Quando questo succede vuol dire che è
pronto per infilarlo nel corpo della femmina per fecondarla.
Ma adesso dove scappi? […] Ti imbarazza questo discorso?!
Diamine, non pensavo un gatto si potesse imbarazzare; non ci
si deve imbarazzare per queste cose, come ti dicevo si tratta di
un istinto, è naturale.
Torna qui dai, non ne parliamo più, prometto. Va bene, decidi
tu: che vogliamo fare? […] A posto, guardiamo un po’ di televisione se ti piace. Cosa vuoi vedere? […] Programmi di cucina! Ah, ho capito, vuoi sbavare dietro a una qualche bistecca,
a un bel pezzo di carne succulento. […] Come cos’è la carne?
Non sai cos`è? […] E che mangi scusa? […] Croccantini?! Ma
quindi non sai nemmeno d’essere carnivoro? […] No. E quelle
unghie a cosa credi servano? […] No, non a grattare i divani,
quello serve solo a far arrabbiare la gente. E i tuoi denti affilati?
Le tue zanne così taglienti, così acuminate a cosa credi servano? […] No, non a mangiare croccantini. […] Beh, ci provo a
spiegartelo, se proprio lo vuoi sapere. Tu sei un carnivoro: sei
snello, agile, silenzioso, hai zanne ed unghie affilate per rincorrere ed uncinare i topi, per cacciare! […] Ah, già lo fai? […]
Eh no amico, non i tuoi topini di stoffa. Io intendo topi veri,
di carne e ossa. I topi veri li devi rincorrere, è per questo che
sei agile, li devi braccare, infilare le tue unghie nella loro carne
viva e con le zanne strapparla mentre la loro coda si muove
ancora a destra e a sinistra! […] Ma come che schifo?! Sei uno
strano gatto tu, mi viene da pensare che l’unico istinto che ti
sia rimasto consista nel coprire le tue feci con la sabbia profumata della cassetta. […] Non le copri? Schifoso! Vabbè, non è
poi così grave: ci sarà chi lo fa al posto tuo. […] La padrona lo
fa? Eh già, chi se non lei. Tra l’altro: ci mette sempre così tanto
a prepararsi la tua padrona? Dovremmo essere al ristorante
per le nove… […]
Cosa sono io? Io sono un essere umano. Un homo sapiens; o
sapiens sapiens, se preferisci. […] Certo che ho degli istinti,
sotto sotto sono un animale pure io. […] Sì, quella cosa del
pezzo di pelle la facciamo pure noi: funziona un po’ come da
voi, ai maschi quello, alle femmine dentro, sì insomma, hai
capito, ci siamo intesi, quella cosa là. […] No, io non sono
carnivoro, sono onnivoro. Significa che mangio di tutto:
verdure, cereali, carne, tutto insomma. […] Come faccio a
cacciare se non ho le unghie affilate come le tue? Ma io mica
caccio, io il mio cibo lo compero al negozio, lì dove la padrona ti compra i croccantini. No, figurati, io cacciare, la carne
cruda, che schifo! […] Cosa faccio io? Intendi come passo le
giornate? […] Beh, io lavoro. […] Cos’è il lavoro mi chiedi?
[…] Ce ne sono di diversi tipi, io ad esempio lavoro in ufficio: sto seduto e intanto digito cose nel computer, che è una
sorta di televisione. […] Come non è faticoso?! Tutto il giorno seduto, alla sera mi fa male la schiena. […] Beh, dopo il
lavoro me ne vado a casa, mi siedo sul divano e guardo la televisione. Alla fine un po’ quello che fai tu. […] E no, è diverso per me, i miei istinti, cioè, e, è proprio diverso, nel senso,
a me gli istinti non è che servano proprio. […] Come nemmeno a te? […] E ma no, è diverso ti dico: io sono un essere
umano, lavoro in ufficio, il cibo lo prendo al supermercato.
Gli istinti non li ho più perché non mi servono più. […]
3
donath morell
Incontri4
_________
Lei pensava
che il suo
grande amore
avrebbe avuto
mocassini marroni,
nessuna frangia,
un poco sformati.
Incontrò lui a caso
sul bus delle 9
4
Sedettero vicini
4
ma i mocassini di lui
erano a casa,
bagnati
caso! – in un negozio
Ma lui
voleva amare
una
an
a
e lei non lo riconobbe.
Lui la incontrò – che
ra
gazza cast
lei s’era fatta mora per il Carnevale
Passarono
gli anni,
le estati,
le scarpe
e i capelli.
e lui non la riconobbe.
caso – all’ospizio.
di lei i ca
lli
fu un lampo
hi
pe
bianc
antofole
ap
nche
bia
Lui avev
S’incontrarono – un
e subito si dimenticarono.
Ma l’Alzheimer li divorava
4
sara groisman
AWA 355
In
my
5
book
In My Book5
_________
In my book
You are far from bad
Thoughtful at day,
And sweet at night.
You try to include me
In your decision-making;
Because I have a voice, surely.
In my book
I am never waiting by the phone
Do not expect much,
And you will not hear me groan.
Not once I have to shrug,
Because at any given time
You shower me with hugs.
In my book
I am not taken for granted
You value my love
And I am not left feeling stranded.
There is no discrepancy,
Need not fight for attention
Because you say what you mean.
In my book
My heart is still;
Neither on ice nor fire
And not a bad feeling to kill.
If only I had the chance to rewrite
Because what is really wrong
Cannot bring you to make it right.
nicole bataclan (a.k.a noupa)
5
Erinnerungen eines Spiegels6
_________
So blickte er in mich hinein. Grimassen schneidend oder Kostüm tragend. Sich stundenlang mit
lautem Lachen damit beschäftigend. Die Mutter
von hinten eine Krawatte umbindend. Den Groll
darüber hegend.
mereel tiM
kcurdsuA
gnalnednuts
rim rov
6
dnerrahrev
Mit leerem
Ausdruck
stundenlang
So blickte er in mich hinein. Die Frisur und Krawatte mit schnellem Tempo herrichtend. Das Gesamtäussere kurz betrachtend. Schon wieder weg.
So blickte er in mich hinein. Mit leerem Ausdruck
stundenlang vor mir verharrend. Immerzu den
gleichen Fleck auf der Haut anstarrend. Die Ehefrau hinter im Trost einflüsternd. Die faltigen
Hände sich umklammernd.
vor mir
verharrend
6
6
olivier nüesch
On the
path down the hill,
his phone rings – it’s a
satellite
, or
phone
something else that works in
the
jungle
,
shut up.
He picks it up and
secretly hopes it s a
lady.
pretty
’
7
It is not
Raiders of the Lost Ball7
_________
The entrance of a musty cave, somewhere in the Amazon
jungle. A man in a dark leather jacket is standing in front
of it, ready for an adventure. This man is California Smith,
a renowned university professor and freelance adventurer/
archeologist. No one really knows how a profession like that
is possible. One would think California – or “Caly”, as his
younger female friends tend to call him while being in peril
and need of his help – would have both hands chock-full of
work with the professorship alone. But somehow he manages
to also go on adventures and discover more rare artifacts in a
year than any other archeologist could find in a lifetime. Unfortunately, he has the tendency of losing said artifacts immediately after discovering them; it’s actually quite surprising
that anyone even believes that he is good at archeology, considering the amount of ancient temples he has already caused
to crumble to their grounds.
Anyway, let’s get back to the situation at hand. California
Smith is standing in front of the cave. He’s wearing a dark
leather jacket and a fancy hat. Now, I know what you think.
Don’t think that. It’s not that kind of hat. It’s a black top hat,
not a fedora. California is well-known for wearing it outside
at all times, even though there is little practical value to a top
hat in the Amazon jungle. But the hat has never been about
practicality, anyway. Think about it, who’d wear a hat on an
adventure that is likely to involve hectic movement, free fall,
and possibly brawling with native tribes or a rivaling party?
You’d have to be packing a ton of backup hats because you’d
constantly be losing the one you’re wearing.
But California is not bothered by that. He grabs a pack of
matches and steps forward into the dark cave. He lights one
of the matches and looks around. Cobwebs everywhere – it’s
like a cheesy Hollywood movie. The walls of the cave are tastefully decorated with the skulls of dead people. Whoever
was in charge of interior design here had some extravagant
taste. The light of the match is flickering down the dark corridor of stone and bone and then the small flame dies in California’s hand. “Whatever,” he thinks, “enough with the special effects.” He reaches down to the back of his belt where a
flashlight is dangling.
In the strong beam of cold white light he can see that a few
meters onward, there is a gaping hole of several meters
length. He’ll have to make it over there somehow. He walks
to the edge and readies his go- to-tool for adventurous archeology: a lion tamer’s bullwhip (obviously). California directs
the light towards the ceiling of the cave, trying to find the
obligatory hook or plank at which he will swing his whip and
subsequently traverse over the obstacle without effort. However, he can’t find it. “Amateurs,” he mumbles to himself, “put
all these skulls up but forget the freaking hook.” He grumpily
examines the hundreds of dead people’s heads to his left and
right; there he spots something. A large lever is sticking out
of the wall. There is a little plaque beneath it. California mutters: “That’s new,” and blows onto it to remove all the dust
and cobwebs from its surface.
The inscription on the plaque isn’t in English, but that doesn’t matter. It’s a language that California understands for
some reason, and in his mind, he translates it to: “Only for
authorized use. P.S.: Crazy adventurers with hats are not authorized.” First, California is discouraged by the apparently
exclusive nature of the lever. Then he looks around, wondering if anybody would notice. He turns off the flashlight and
stands still in the darkness, trying not to breathe or make
any other sound. For a few minutes he stands there, trying to
detect any sound of movement that might indicate that he is
being watched. After a while he turns the light back on and
says to himself: “Meh, I can always tell them I didn’t see the
sign, right?” He pulls the lever and a loud mechanical screech
sounds through the cave. As California looks back to the hole
in front of him he sees a bridge slowly extending over the obstacle. “Well, that was easy,” he remarks a little incredulously.
Effortlessly, he walks over the gaping hole, secretly flipping
it off behind his back to indicate his superiority. After the
bridge, California finds himself in a larger cavern. There are
some openings in the ceiling through which light and some
water reach the underground facility. California turns off the
flashlight and puts it back on his belt. In the middle of the
cavern, there is a small pedestal; on top of it sits a big, golden orb. California knows the significance of this orb from
a book that conveniently opened on the one page where a
description of this particular artifact was located. This is
the Amazonian gold orb – a ball made of gold. Really quite
valuable, even though there is not said to be a supernatural
component to it. Also, it’s old, which in archeologists’ terms
means “better”.
He knows not to rush things, though. Surely there are traps
leading up to the pedestal. The ground of the cavern is comprised of checkered floor tiles, some bright grey and some
dark black. California takes off his hat and pulls a bunnyrabbit out of it. He places the little animal on the ground and
it shouts: “Freedom!” Then it runs onto the floor plates. As
soon as it touches a black one, it gets impaled by a large, frozen freedom fry – because of anachronistic irony. “So black is
bad,” California reflects, “that’s racist.” He moves towards the
orb, carefully and a little bit joyfully skipping from grey tile
to grey tile.
Arriving at the pedestal, he realizes that he might have to
replace the orb with something. That’s just common practice
amongst ancient artefact hoarders: they want something in
return from the tomb and cavern raiders. California checks
his pockets; his wallet? No, he’ll need that later down at the
pub. Keys? Yeah right. Breath spray? And how will he impress the ladies? Finally he decides to take off one of his shoes, this should be fairly easy to replace – and if the jungle
gets too spiky, he’ll hop for a while. He takes the admittedly
somewhat stinky shoe in his left hand and gets ready to grab
the orb. This is a crucial moment for some reason, so he
should wait and hesitate a bit before making the switch. He
waits and hesitates a bit.
Then he grabs the orb with his right hand. Or maybe it would
be more appropriate to say he tries to grab it. But it’s a big
ball made of gold, as already mentioned. It is not only very
round and thus difficult to get a hold of, especially when
trying to do so with only one hand, but it is also quite frankly
heavier than a dead priest. California’s hand slips off several
times and some swearing occurs. Then he has what seems
like a brilliant idea: he steps behind the pedestal and starts
pushing the ball down. With an extremely loud thump, the
orb falls to the ground. Quickly, California puts his shoe on
top of the pedestal. He then proceeds to kick the orb forward
with the foot that isn’t naked.
There is one problem, though. Remember when we established that the orb is a ball made of gold? Or the time when it
was really heavy because it’s made of freaking gold? Yes, we’ve
been harping on and on about the gold part of the equation,
but apparently that went right over California’s head. When
he shoved the gold ball off the pedestal, the resulting impact
on the ground deformed the once perfectly round ball. While
this does not particularly affect the gold value, it does have
a noticeable effect on the ball’s innate rolling properties. Kicking the ball like he would kick any other ball, except with a
little more caution in order not to hurt his foot, California is
miscalculating the route of the orb.
The events that are about to unfold certainly put California’s
intelligence into question. Oblivious to the fact that the gold
orb is now more of a random wobble than an actual ball,
he gives it a second push with his foot; now the dented side
hits the ground and the orb immediately changes its course.
California is not quick enough to react because he failed to
expect complications like these. The ball tilts to the side, tips
over, and rolls straight onto one of the black tiles. With eyes
of sheer panic, California stares at the ancient artifact touching down on the dangerous ground. Without delay, the
massive golden ball is impaled by the frozen freedom fry.
Don’t question it.
California knows that he won’t be able to salvage the remains
of the gold orb. (Again, don’t question it – you’re not there, so
who are you to judge the logic of it?) “Damn it,” he mutters
to little effect. He is quite used to this type of outcome, though, thus finding his composure again fairly quickly. He walks
past the traps, back to the bridge. Oddly enough, he makes
it out of the cave without any unexpected surprises. Usually,
there’s a final twist or just something really weird that occurs
right when he thinks his adventure is over. This time, the
only weird thing is that there is no weird thing.
“Hey, California, how’s the adventuring going?” It’s Brody
Marcus, some fairly annoying guy from work. “What’s up,
Brody,” California asks insincerely, “I’m pretty much done
with this adventure.”
“Oh really? How was it?”
“Ah you know, the usual.”
“Oh,” Brody says in a disappointed tone, “so, nothing to bring
home?” “Unfortunately no.”
“What about the orb that you told me about?”
“Impaled.”
“Ah. Well, that makes sense.”
On the path down the hill, his phone rings – it’s a satellite
phone, or something else that works in the jungle, shut up.
He picks it up and secretly hopes it’s a pretty lady. It is not.
raph al guul
7
Ricordi quel tempo8
_________
R i c o r d i
quel tempo
di ginestre
e fiori di
campo
8
Ricordi
quel tempo di ginestre
e fiori di campo,
di giochi muschiati
e peripezie su foglie
sgretolate?
Di risate sbiadite
ancora risuona l’eco
in quest’aria stantia.
Ricordi,
sua ultima pallida spoglia,
gl’infantili giorni
miei?
Se avessimo sospettato
l’avarità del tempo
quante altre avventure avremmo tentate?
Viaggi tra palpebre stanche
e storie da ignoti orizzonti,
lunghi silenzi
che noi sole avremmo capito.
alessia schmocker
8
Sehen9
B
Ich
höre
nichts,
kein Atem,
kein Geräusch,
keine Stimme,
keine Gedanken.
9
Nicht einmal die Stille
_________
Wir sitzen. In einem Raum. Einem Raum voller Luft und voller Transparenz, ohne nichts und doch nicht leer. Voller uns.
Weisse Wände, weisser Boden, weisse Decke. Und doch sind
wir nicht eingesperrt, das Weiss blendet nicht, ist nicht trist.
Licht brauchen wir nicht. Der Raum hat keine Türe, keine
Fenster, keine Luken, keine Ritzen, keine Herkunft und kein
Ziel.
Wir sitzen, nicht nah und nicht entfernt, auf dem Boden, einander entgegengesetzt, haben wir uns, hat man uns.
Ich höre nichts, kein Atem, kein Geräusch, keine Stimme,
keine Gedanken. Nicht einmal die Stille.
Ich spüre nichts, wir sitzen und doch fühle ich nicht die Härte des Bodens, denn er ist weder weich noch hart, fühle nicht
die Kälte des Bodens, denn er ist weder kalt noch warm.
Fühle nicht die Arme auf meinen Beinen ruhen. Bewege
mich nicht.
Windstill.
Ich schmecke nichts, schmecke nicht Atem, nicht Zunge,
nicht Speichel, nichts. Nicht einmal eine Erinnerung daran.
Ich rieche nichts, nicht dich, nicht mich, nicht Haut, nicht
Haare, nicht die Luft.
Ich vermisse nichts, vermisse keine Geräusche, keine
Berührung, keinen Geschmack, keinen Geruch. Ich sehe dich
doch.
robinmjam*
_________
Ich sehe dich doch sitzen, sehe deine Augen, deine Haare,
deine Nase, deinen Mund, deine Lippen, deine Falten, deine
Hände, deine Beine.
Sehe dein Lächeln, sehe jede einzelne Pore deiner Haut, deine feinen Häärchen.
Ich berühre dich nicht, fühle dich nicht, höre dich nicht, rieche und schmecke dich nicht. Nicht nicht mehr, nicht noch
nicht.
Ich sehe dich.
mirjam aeschbach
9
* anonym
Il canto di Ulisse10
Aspettano
sulla
scogliera
rivolte al
il
ritorno
delle
navi
mare
due
sedie
vuote
_________
Aspettano sulla scogliera
rivolte al mare il ritorno delle navi
due sedie vuote
e sospinge la brezza salmastra
il loro discorrere fino all’albatro
e intiepidiscono l’aria addii che sospendono
tante piccole inezie pungenti,
schizzano le onde sbattendo sugli scogli
e brucia il fiato di un bacio sulla soglia.
Fischia nell’intreccio di vimini il vento marino
e sembra urlare tarde parole, vane alla mente
dopo che il vento ha gonfiato le vele;
sono uscite a pescare le navi
e inseguono non lontani banchi di pesci,
riempite le stive di corpi argentini
dopo giorni di spuma allo scafo
tornano tutte al porto,
di solito.
10
10
noé albergati
I.:
Sind
Sie
unsicherer
demnach
auch
ein
Mensch?
H.P.: Also bei schönen
Frauen
Interview
mit dem Schriftsteller Hans Polder11
_________
Interviewerin: Mit Verlaub,
Alkohol…
Sie riechen sehr stark nach
Knie.
Hans Polder: Selbstverständlich. Die Nacht habe ich in einer
Bar verbracht.
I.: Sind Sie jetzt gerade
H.P.: Selbstverständlich. Die ich habe die Nacht in einer Bar
verbracht.
bekomme ich durchaus weiche
unsicher?
I.: In Ihrem Werk spielt die Verzweiflung stets ein zentralle
Rolle. Würden sie sich als verzweifelten Menschen bezeichnen?
I.: Sind Sie demnach auch ein unsicherer Mensch?
H.P.: Also bei schönen Frauen bekomme ich durchaus weiche
Knie.
H.P.: Sind
jetzt
I.: Sind Sie jetzt gerade unsicher?
Sie
H.P.: Sind sie jetzt traurig, wenn ich nein sage?
traurig,
I.: Es wird über Ihr Werk gesagt, es sei ein Lichtblick in einem
Meer von Oberflächlichkeit…
wenn ich nein sage?
11
H.P.: Ach wissen Sie, es könnte doch genausogut heissen mein
Schreiben sei ein Beispiel dafür, was heute alles schieflaufe in
der Literatur. Das ist doch völlig willkürlich, was dieser Zirkus
von Kritikern und Rezensenten von sich gibt. Reine Glückssache ob man gehört wird oder nicht. Und überhaupt, was sind
das eigentlich für Fragen? Sie sind sehr direkt, das gefällt mir.
Aber Sie stellen die falschen Fragen! Bringen sie einem diesen
Mist auf der Journalistenschule bei? Wissen Sie was? Ich werde
das Interview mit mir selbst weiterführen. Passen sie gut auf!
I.: Meine Herren! Ich meine…Herr Polder…
H.P.: Lieber Hans, hast du gut geschlafen?
H.P.: Selbstverständlich. Eben genau darum wollen wir fremde
lesen.
H.P. & H.P.: Ruhe!
H.P.: Ausserdem Schreibe ich Gedankenfetzen nieder, die ich
dann zu Publizieren gedenke, als ein Einblick in den Kopf eines Menschen unserer Zeit.
H.P.: Aber hat denn nicht jeder seine eigenen Gedanken?
H.P.: Ich habe garnicht geschlafen, aber danke.
H.P: Interessanter Gedanke…
H.P.: Denkst du was du Schreibst ist wichtig?
H.P.: Nicht wichtiger als Steine und Sterne. Dies wäre doch
übrigens ein toller Buchtitel, „Steine und Sterne“.
H.P.: Machst du dich über mich lustig?
H.P.: Warum?
H.P.: Ein grandioser Buchtitel! Universell, ambivalent, unmittelbar und transzendent.
H.P.: Das Wortspiel.
Aber erzähl mir doch auch mal von dir. Was treibst du so?
H.P.: Wortspiel?
H.P.: Nun, ich führe neuerdings Interviews.
H.P.: Vergiss es.
H.P.: Was denn?
I.: Also wirlklich Herr Polder, was soll das jetzt? Können wir
bitte mit dem Interview fortfahren?
H.P.: Sind Ihnen denn inzwischen ein Paar gute Fragen eingefallen?
I.: Ich bin durchaus zufrieden mit den Fragen, die ich vorbereitet habe, Herr Polder.
Es muss hier der Vollständigkeit halber angemerkt werden, dass
Hans Polder zuvor und danach, nie als unangenehmer Interviewpartner auffiel. Niemand und noch weniger der Schriftsteller selbst konnte sich erklären, was an jenem Tag in ihn gefahren
war. Er schickte Frau Franziska Häfeli, Tage nach dem Interview, als kleine Wiedergutmachung einen grossen, gemischten
Blumenstrauss.
H.P.: Aber ich nicht! Wieso fragen Sie die Leute nicht, was sie
gerne gefragt werden möchten? Ersparen Sie mir die Antwort,
ich kenne sie. Fahren wir fort.
H.P.: Wohin denn?
H.P.: Das interview ist zu Ende.
H.P. & I.: Zu Ende?
H.P.: Zu Ende.
I.: Eine Frage noch Herr…
H.P.: …Was hattest zum Frühstuck, Hans?
H.P.: Hunger.
11
fransiska häfeli
Incompletezze12
_________
s’ogni
12
S’ogni suono,
non fa parola,
s’ogni una,
neppure frase.
Fassi realtà?
pablo pepito
12
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Ob Gedicht oder Geschicht’
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Welche Sprache steht euch frei,
auf fussnote ist’s einerlei.
Schreiben fällt dir jedoch schwer?
Willkommen bist du dennoch sehr,
denn nur das Lesen lässt’s bestehen.
Was euch beschäftigt, hat hier Raum;
wie im All mit Grenzen kaum.
Macht doch mit und lasst’s geschehen!
impressum
Editors
Martino Oleggini
Sara Schmid
Donath Morell
Sara Groisman
Josip Batinić

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