2004 : Elfriede Jelinek

2004 : Elfriede Jelinek

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“for her musical flow of voices and counter-voices in novels and plays that with extraordinary linguistic zeal reveal the absurdity of society’s cliches and their subjugating power”



October 20, 1946

Place of birth


Murzzuschlag, Styria, Austria



Playwright, Novelist




Notable award(s)


Nobel Prize in Literature 2004


Elfriede Jelinek, born October 20 1946 in Murzzuschlag, Styria, is an Austrian writer. She received the Nobel Prize in Literature 2004, with justification, “for her musical flow of voices and dissenting votes in novels and plays that with extraordinary linguistic passion baring the social cliche of the absurdity and compelling power.” Jelinek studied art history, theater and Music in Vienna. She has published poems, novels, dramas and radio play, and wrote the scenario for a film version of the novel Malina, 1991 by Ingeborg Bachmann. Jelinek language processing berries, which also indicates the Nobel Prize justification, clear traces of the author’s musical background (she is a trained organist). The language of Jelinek exhibit distinctive rhythmic structures. Her treatment of the German language and words resonates phonetic quality is another of the basic elements of writing, she is working diligently with various kinds assonanser, not only in poetry and drama, but also in the narrative prose. This makes, according to the author himself, that she “is among the writers who really can not be translated” (interview in the Daily News on October 8, 2004). Despite this carefully calibrated work with a musical language is Jelinek works far from a purely aesthetic experiment. Civic criticism is biting. Jelinek scourge of modern life, especially commercialism and its excesses. Her works have also a feminist message, in which various forms of male violence against women form a leitmotif in the description of a sexistiskt society. It also used some obscene and vulgar elements that style means to unmask society. Another recurring theme of Jelinek is Austria’s inability to come to terms with its Nazi past. She is active as the left debater and was a member of Austria’s Communist Party 1974-1991. The right-populist FPO took in an election campaign in Vienna in 1995 up Jelinek’s name as an example of the opposite of what they considered to be “arts and culture.” When the Freedom Party later was included in the Austrian government selected Jelinek its rejection by banning the Austrian state theaters to play her plays, a ban which she later annulled.


Works in German:

  • Lisas Schatten : [Gedichte] – Munchen : Relief-Verlag Eilers, 1967 – (Der Viergroschenbogen; 76)

  • wir sind lockvogel baby! : [Roman] – Reinbek bei Hamburg : Rowohlt, 1970

  • Michael : ein Jugendbuch fur die Infantilgesellschaft – Reinbek bei Hamburg : Rowohlt, 1972

  • Die Liebhaberinnen : [Roman] – Reinbek bei Hamburg : Rowohlt, 1975

  • bukolit : horroman – Wien : Rhombus-Verlag, 1979

  • Die Ausgesperrten : [Roman] – Reinbek bei Hamburg : Rowohlt, 1980

  • ende : gedichte von 1966 – 1968 – Schwifting : Schwiftinger Galerie-Verlag, 1980

  • Die endlose Unschuldigkeit : Prosa, Horspiel, Essay – Schwifting : Schwiftinger Galerie-Verlag, 1980

  • Was geschah, nachdem Nora ihren Mann verlassen hatte oder Stutzen der Gesellschaften – Wien : Sessler, 1980

  • Die Klavierspielerin : Roman – Reinbek bei Hamburg : Rowohlt, 1983

  • Theaterstucke / hrsg. und mit ein Nachwort von Ute Nyssen – Koln : Prometh-Verlag, 1984

  • Oh Wildnis, oh Schutz vor ihr : Prosa. – Reinbek bei Hamburg : Rowohlt, 1985

  • Krankheit oder moderne Frauen – Koln : Prometh-Verlag, 1987

  • Lust : [Roman] – Reinbek bei Hamburg : Rowohlt, 1989

  • Wolken. Heim – Gottingen : Steidl, 1990

  • Isabelle Huppert in Malina : ein Filmbuch / nach dem Roman von Ingeborg Bachmann – Frankfurt am Main : Suhrkamp, 1991

  • Totenauberg : ein Stuck – Reinbek bei Hamburg : Rowohlt, 1991

  • Theaterstucke / hrsg. von Ute Nyssen, Regine Friedrich – Reinbek bei Hamburg : Rowohlt, 1992

  • Die Kinder der Toten : Roman – Reinbek bei Hamburg : Rowohlt, 1995

  • Sturm und Zwang : Schreiben als Geschlechterkampf / Elfriede Jelinek, Jutta Heinrich, Adolf-Ernst Meyer – Hamburg : Klein, 1995

  • Stecken, Stab und Stangl : Raststatte [und andere] neue Theaterstucke – Reinbek bei Hamburg : Rowohlt, 1997

  • Ein Sportstuck – Reinbek bei Hamburg : Rowohlt, 1998

  • er nicht als er : (zu, mit Robert Walser) : ein Stuck – Frankfurt am Main : Suhrkamp, 1998

  • Macht nichts : eine kleine Trilogie des Todes. – Reinbek bei Hamburg : Rowohlt-Taschenbuch-Verlag, 1999

  • Gier : ein Unterhaltungsroman – Reinbek bei Hamburg : Rowohlt, 2000

  • Das Lebewohl : 3 kl. Dramen – Berlin : Berlin-Verlag, 2000

  • In den Alpen : drei Dramen – Berlin : Berlin-Verlag, 2002

  • Der Tod und das Madchen I-V : Prinzessinnendramen – Berlin : Berliner Taschenbuch-Verlag, 2003

  • Bambiland ; Babel : zwei Theatertexte. – Reinbek bei Hamburg : Rowolht, 2004

Works in English:

  • The Piano Teacher : a Novel / translated from the German by Joachim Neugroschel – New York : Weidenfeld & Nicolson, 1988 – Translation of Die Klavierspielerin

  • Wonderful, Wonderful Times : [novel] / translated by Michael Hulse – London : Serpent’s Tail, 1990 – Translation of Die Ausgesperrten

  • Lust : [novel] / translated by Michael Hulse. – London : Serpent’s Tail, 1992 – Translation of Lust

  • Women as Lovers : [novel] / translated by Martin Chalmers – London : Serpent’s Tail, 1994. – Translation of Die Liebhaberinnen

  • Einar / translated from German by P.J. Blumenthal – Sausalito, Calif. : Post-Apollo Press, 2006 – Translation of Einar

  • Greed : a Novel / translated by Martin Chalmers – New York : Seven Stories Press, 2007 – Uniform Title: Gier


  • Elfriede Jelinek : Framed by Language / edited by Jorun B. Johns and Katherine Arens – Riverside, Calif. : Ariadne Press, 1994

  • Fiddler, Allyson, Rewriting Reality : an Introduction to Elfriede Jelinek – Oxford : Berg, 1994

  • Janz, Marlies, Elfriede Jelinek – Stuttgart : Metzler, 1995

  • Szczepaniak, Monika, Dekonstruktion des Mythos in ausgewahlten Prosawerken von Elfriede Jelinek – Frankfurt am Main : Lang, 1998

  • Vis, Veronika, Darstellung und Manifestation von Weiblichkeit in der Prosa Elfriede Jelineks – Frankfurt am Main : Lang, 1998

  • Strobel, Heidi, Gewalt von Jugendlichen als Symptom gesellschaftlicher Krisen : literarische Gewaltdarstellungen in Elfriede Jelineks “Die Ausgesperrten” und in ausgewahlten Jugendromanen der neunziger Jahre – Frankfurt am Main : Lang, 1998

  • Hoffmann, Yasmin, Elfriede Jelinek : Sprach- und Kulturkritik im Erzahlwerk – Opladen : Westdeutscher Verlag, 1999

  • Die Nestbeschmutzerin : Jelinek & Osterreich / Pia Janke (Hrsg.) – Salzburg ; Wien : Jung und Jung, cop. 2002

  • Heberger, Alexandra, Der Mythos Mann in ausgewahlten Prosawerken von Elfriede Jelinek – Osnabruck : Der Andere Verlag, 2002

  • Janke, Pia, Werkverzeichnis Elfriede Jelinek – Wien : Edition Praesens, 2004

  • Johanning, Antje, KorperStucke : der Korper als Medium in den Theaterstucken Elfriede Jelineks – Dresden : Thelem, 2004

  • Janke, Pia, Literaturnobelpreis Elfriede Jelinek – Wien : Praesens, 2005

  • Mayer, Verena, Elfriede Jelinek : ein Portrat – Reinbeck bei Hamburg : Rowohlt, 2006


2004: Nobel Prize in Literature.


Excerpts from The Piano Teacher

Erika Kohut, a piano teacher, comes into whirlwind into the apartment she shares with her mother. The mother likes calling Erika her little hurricane, the child, in fact, moves sometimes with extreme velocity. It seeks to escape her mother. Erika approach to quarantine. The mother could easily, given his age, be his grandmother. Erika was coming into the world after many years of married life difficult. Immediately father had passed the torch to her daughter and left the scene. Erika appeared, the father disappeared. Today Erika is fast out of necessity. As a whirlwind of autumn leaves it crosses the door and trying to win his room without being detected. But already the mother stands in front of any size, and to restrict it. A explained. Back to the wall. Inquisitor and firing squad in one person and a State family unanimous recognize as the mother. The parent survey: Erika why does she now, so late at home? Three hours that his last student has gone, crumbling under his sarcasm. You think maybe I do not see where you were, Erika? A child spontaneously accountable to his mother who however do not believe, because the child likes to lie. The mother looked again, but just the time to count to three. One, two … Two girls already manifested by the strong response that diverges from the truth. At the same moment his old towel stuffed partition is torn and bitter response to all questions immediately jumps in the eyes of the mother. Four volumes of Beethoven sonatas and a dress – one more – and obviously we just buy, share cramped space indignant. On the spot s’emporte against the mother the garment. What just now had the store look so attractive if dapper, so silky, pierced by the hanger bracket is no longer a rag Fripp that pierced the mother’s eyes. The money that was intended to dress the Savings Bank: Here it is spent before term. Say that any time we could contemplate this dress, in the form of filing, the booklet on the plan savings of the Savings Bank Austria, provided they have the courage to go to the cupboard laundry where, hidden behind a pile of sheets, the booklet tip the nose. But today he made a trip, a withdrawal was made, and that’s the result: each time you want to know where all this money is well spent, it will qu’Erika put that dress. And the mother shouting, “You would have been rewarded later, you put all your fault! Later we had a new apartment, but you do not have been able to expect and what you have left is this wreck which will be quickly outdated. The mother wants it for later. Nothing on the field. Unless the child she wants at any time and at any time it wants to know where to reach in an emergency; mom could have a heart attack. The mother wants to save now in order to enjoy later. And now qu’Erika is nothing better than to buy a dress! Dress more perishable still a net mayonnaise on a sofa with fish. The next year, not next month, it will be completely outdated. The money itself is never outdated. The purpose of their economies is to buy a large apartment together. The apartment for rent where they still languish at the moment is so outdated that it is just good to swing. Previously they have every opportunity to choose all integrated cabinets and even the location of bulkheads, as their new home will be built on a revolutionary process. Everything will be implemented strictly according to their instructions. Who pays, decides. The mother, with her tiny pension, decide Erika payroll. In this brand new apartment, built using the technique of the future, each has his kingdom, Erika here, the mother then carefully separated the two kingdoms. But there will still be a common lounge, where you can meet. If we want. And mother and child want to always – according to natural laws, since both are the pair. Already here in this barn that collapsed gradually, Erika has its own kingdom where they reign without sharing, trust. This is only a provisional kingdom, because at any moment is the mother entries. No lock on the door of Erika, no child has a secret. ——————————-

Erika moving objects from one end of the room to another and report immediately to their original place, it watching his watch and ostensibly the top of his semaphore emits a signal indicating its invisible fatigue after a hard day’s work lives Art desecrated by dilettantes to meet ambitious parents. Klernmer motionless, the beholder. Erika does not want the silence itself and said a banality. Art is his daily bread, because it is art that nourishes. As it is easier for the artist, said the woman, to catapult itself out of feelings or passions. This dramatic turn made you so much, Klemmer, still means that the artist makes use of fireworks, leaving the real means. She talks to prevent the outbreak of silence. Me as a teacher, I advocate an art not dramatic. Schumann, for example. The tragedy is always easier! Feelings and passions are never as substitutes, substitutes the cerebral. An earthquake, a tidal wave which hit on specific elements unleashed, here’s what the aspiring teacher. The fiery anger Klemmer almost break the wall with his head; class clarinet neighbor recently that he attends twice a week as owner of a second instrument would surely be much surprised to see a surge of the wall head furibonde Klemm next to the death mask of Beethoven. Erika, Erika does this feel it therefore not true that he only talks about it – and it naturally! It sets them a sensual, forcing the spirit, this enemy of the senses, the primary enemy of the flesh. She believes it to Schubert but think he did that himself, as he never think that when he opens his mouth. He proposed to Erika suddenly turning to tutoiement, keep to the facts, it advises she said. His mouth cusp without his knowledge in a rosette wrinkled, it does more. It controls well what this mouth, but not the image it gives out. Goosebumps the win, everywhere. Klemmer was surprised at her own boldness, he is wallowing in discontent at ease in the trough of warm thoughts and words. It runs on the piano, and laying it pleases. Plays in a tempo too fast a fairly long sentence that comes by chance to learn by heart. And it wants to demonstrate something, what remains to be seen. Erika Kohut is not dissatisfied with this little diversion, it flows across the track to stop the fast before it is launched at full speed. You play too fast and too strong, Mr. Klemmer, and does prove one thing: the total absence of spirit in the interpretation can cause massive damage. The man propels itself backwards to a wheelchair and it dropped. Under pressure as a racehorse who has already won many victories. And that requires a reward for his victories and a defeat for the prevention, treatment at least as costly and care at least as attentive service twelve silver coins. Erika wants to go home. Erika wants to go home. Erika wants to go home. It gives good advice: walk simply in Vienna and breathe deeply. Then you play Schubert, but this time correctly!

Presentation Speech:

Presentation Speech by Professor Horace Engdahl of the Swedish Academy, December 10, 2004.

Your Majesties, Your Royal Highnesses, Ladies and Gentlemen,

The first thing we marvel at when reading Elfriede Jelinek is the strange, mixed voice that speaks from her texts. The author is everywhere and nowhere, is not behind what she says but never power for its poets figures, so that they would give the illusion that exist outside her language. There is only this stream of saturated rates, which seem glued under high pressure and have no room for a few moments of relaxation. Elfriede Jelinek opens deliberate the work of the cliches that meets the media, advertising and popular culture, our time collective subconscious. She manipulates the codes in the kiosk literature, comics, TV sapor, pornography and homeland novel, so that the inherent vanvettet in these seemingly harmless consumption phenomenon shines through. She mimics the prejudices we would never accept that we have and the record behind common sense, a toxic mutter, but the origin and addressee, the mass vote. She has said she knocks on the language to hear the hidden ideology, as when a doctor knocking on the patient’s chest. Dismayed we notice how class oppression, sexism, jingoism and the falsification of history echoes in everyday prattle. The sport seems to even suspect: military drill, uniforms similar suits, the cult of the strong and victorious. Nature: a political trap. The Austrian alplandskapet have been the perfect decoration for her destruction of idyll. When our common ideals and lyckodrommar played by Elfriede Jelinek instrumentation of the heartless word games, macabre metaphors and nasty skewed classic quotation, they never more themselves. Her INSINUATING tonnes of produce, similar to an infrared light of civilization hidden writing. Where we just saw a normal society we see a locked system of the male / female, assault and submission, hunter and prey. Yes, we have to realize that we are the hunter language sexier than the prey. Elfriede Jelinek social criticism formulated not from the better know the safe distance but from the bottom of a UNEXCEPTIONAL INFECTION. The dead in her books are returned not to comfort but to testify. The ghost is just as numerous as they live, the border between them are fluid. Woman’s existence is similar to vampires, at once alive and dead, because her DISSOLUTE is prohibited. Some of Elfriede Jelinek heroine is as stigna from the last turn of the century male horror fantasies of blood-sucking honmonster. As heir to the long line of critical language writers in Austria from Johann Nepomuk Nestroy to Ingeborg Bachmann and Thomas Bernhard, she knows how important it is to punctuate undergo’s pathos. Her parade of unfortunate from the fairy tale princesses and the reality of the drama suite Der Tod und das Madchen been eaten in the image of Marilyn Monroe blond hair, which causes up in the slot when inserted in kistlocket at her funeral. Lightning Fast will cool the comparison “… like the foam that seep out of a fire extinguisher.” The literary genres fade away during Elfriede Jelinek hand. Her drama is not drama but “texts to be spoken,” freed from the role of slavery. Dumbfounded directors have found it she sat in the hands of others is a matter for revolutionizing theater. Her novels – the nice girls blank in Die Liebhaberinnen, ungdomsrevoltens murderous logic of the Die Ausgesperrten, sjalvstympningens aesthetics in Die Klavierspielerin, the endless repetition of penetration simple fact of Lust, Women’s known in the ABC strategy – breaking cheerfully towards the classical arts tells laws. The author retains the floor and sees its characters almost as insects in a glass jar. It is her sentences are events. Through the musical exchange of voices and motstammor arises a world, through absent from her life-giving frenzy. What is a hero in a literary work? That is, apart from all the differences, someone who has the right over its surroundings. In the male Modernism has often been the author himself, disguised as the sole meeting of pushed me. Such sentiments and to invite identification, and thereby incurred literature eternal karaoke effect, in which the reader as well as singing in the chorus. The difficulty to read Elfriede Jelinek is that there is no sympathetic writers voice that the reader can rest in and identify with. It is an awakening from reading the narcissism. Her authors give perhaps a dark picture of life, but she is no pessimist, for the pessimism, in general, a splash of self-pity and an ineffable appeal. Rather sparkle in her curses a rude hilarity without hope, the rays from a black sun. Ladies Elfriede Jelinek! The woman is society’s irony, “says Hegel. You have with your writings gave a new validity to a heretical feminine tradition and enlarged the literary arts. You do not negotiate with your community and your time and you do not adapt to readers. If the literature under their rule is a force that does not take account of something, you are now one of its most accurate representation.

Nobel Lecture:

7 December 2004


Writing is it the ability to comply with the reality, huddle against? We would like to huddle, but that happens there then? What happens to those who do not really reality? It is so decoiffee. No comb that could smooth. Poets pass through and collect their hair desperately headgear, which quickly haunts the night. It does more with appearance. From his house of dreams, well assembled, the hair can be hunted, but they can be more tame. Or is again collapsed and now hangs like a veil before the face, hardly can it be controlled. Or stands on his head, terrified by what happens all the time. It leaves just did not comb. It does not. As often to pass the comb with several teeth pulled – it simply does not. It’s even worse now. The written when he talks about what is happening, fled on hand as the time, not just the time during which it was written, during which it has not been lived. Nobody missed something, when it was not lived. Neither living nor the time killed and the dead not at all. The time when we write, entered the works of other poets. Since it is time, it can at the same time: enter his own work and that of others, pulled in the other headgear, he spent as a fresh wind, even if it is bad, which was lifted, sudden and unexpected, from the reality. When he rose again, it does calm perhaps not so quickly. The raging wind is blowing hard and everything with him. And it tears all, no matter where, but never returns to this reality that must be represented. Everywhere except here. The reality is what goes under the hair under the skirts and rightly hard to something else. How the poet can know the reality, if it passes it and tear it off, always at the gap. From there, he sees a better second itself can not stay on the path of reality. Here, it has no place. His place is still outside. Only what he says from the outside can be received, and because he said ambiguities. And there arise already two matches, two truths that also point out that nothing happens, the two interpret it in different directions, the triturent until its unstable foundation, which lacks long as the comb teeth pulled. Two possibilities. True or false. It was eventually happen, because the soil as building land was still very poor. How to build on a hole without soil? But insufficient, which falls within their visual field, poets always enough to produce something they could well drop. They could not drop, and they also let down. They do not kill. They just watch their eyes disorders, but it does not become arbitrary in this regard unclear. The next key accurately. What is affected by this light that still fell down, although it has barely been looked at, although he had not even been exposed to public view sharpened, which is affected never says it could have been something else before it is a victim of that description. It means exactly what would be better left unsaid (because we could say better?), Which should always be trouble for no reason. Too have already mired belly up inside. It is quicksand, but they do not move. It is without substance, but not without merit. It is arbitrary, but it is never loved. The exterior is used to life which is precisely not there, otherwise we would not all in the middle, in full, in full human life, and it is used for observation of life which is always elsewhere . Here, where there is not. Why insult someone, because it can not find the path of travel, life, the journey of life, he was deported – and not deport deport someone else, or even win, simply moved by chance as dust footwear pursued relentlessly by the housewife, if somewhat less inexorably that foreign natives. What is it like dust? Is it radioactive or simply active itself, I ask only because it leaves this strange light drag on the road? Is this what the short side and there never meets more with the writing, the path, or the writing is the one who runs next in that gap? Different, it is not yet, but in isolation it already is. From there, he sees those who are different from him, but between themselves in their diversity, to represent them in simplicity, for getting in shape, because the form is the most important, there he sees better . But he warned grudge, then are they traces of chalk and not particulate matter that mark light the path of writing? In all cases, a mark that shows at the same time and again sailing and clears carefully trace it has left. It is not at all present. But despite everything we know, what happened. It was said at the top of the screen, faces distorted by pain, Barbouille of blood, riantes Masked mouths, swollen for makeup or other vents that have responded correctly to a question from the quiz, or people born hydrants, women who do nothing and may have nothing to add, who have lifted and removed their jackets to show the camera freshly hardened their chest, already hardened and that belonged to men. Quantity gorges s’exhalent songs as a bad breath, but even stronger. This could be seen on the way, if there yet. It goes its way out of the way. We see perhaps by far, where we stay alone and happy, because the way we want to see, but not take it. This trail has now given him a noise? Does it not through the noise, not just the lights, making people cry, garish lights, mindful of him? The path we can not take, he afraid of being not only borrowed him yet so many sins have borrowed without stopping, torture, crimes, theft, hard constraints, hardness constraint for the creation of destinies Global remarkable? Soon it is important to the path. It covers everything about him, in the firm, even if it is unfounded. Without foundation. On the ground lost. My hair stand on my head, as I said, and no permanent, which could force yet to flatten. Also not permanently in me. Not on me, not me. If you are out, there must always be ready to jump again and again, in which nothing is next to the gap. And the gap immediately made his trap gap loan at any time, discloses to attract someone even further. Draw, draw it on the inside. Please, now I do not want to lose sight of the path on which I am not. I would describe it anyway, especially well and properly and accurately. If I already described, it must serve some purpose. But not this way saved me anything. It lets me do anything. What remains for me then? Even on the road is blocked for me, I can barely move. I’m away while I do not go away. And here I would be protected by safety of my own uncertainty, but also the uncertainty of ground on which I am. She runs, for security reasons, not just to protect myself, my language, next to me, and control that I do it correctly, that I do wrong correctly describe reality, because it must always be falsely described, it can not otherwise, but if falsely that everyone who reads or hears, immediately its falsity. It lies! And this bitch of language that should protect me, that’s why I did it to me HAPPE now. My protection is biting me. My only protection against being described, the language, conversely, is there to describe something that I’m not – that is why I met so many paper, my only protection is turning against me. I have perhaps only that, under the pretext of protecting me, it casts on me. Because I sought protection in writing, be this way, language, which in the movement, speech, seemed to be a safe haven, turns against me. No miracle. Yet, I’m immediately suspicious. What is it that this camouflage that is there, so that does not become invisible, but still more readable? The language sometimes happens by mistake in the way, but it does not go out of the way. This is not an arbitrary process, the floor of a language, arbitrary involuntarily, like it or not. The language knows what it wants. What is good for her, I do not know because I do not know the names. The verbiage, the speech discourt now growing because it is always a flow of speech, without beginning and end, but not a word. It discourt on the other side, where still others are because they do not want to be, they are very busy. Here on the other side it. Not me. She, language away from me sometimes, for people, not other people, but real, real, remote there on the well marked path (which can get lost again?), It following as a camera in all their movements for at least her language, learn how and what life is, because at that precise moment, this is not life, what it is , And in addition we must describe what it is not. Discourons the fact that we had to go once again to review the prophylactic. But in one fell swoop, we are talking about suddenly, with rigor, as someone who has the choice not to speak either. Whatever happens, only the language part of me, myself I m’absente. The language is. I remain, but far. No way. I cut my tongue.

No, it is still there. Has it been there all the time, she thought about what she might think? Now she noticed me and immediately recalled to order, this language. It was risky to master this arrogance against me, she raises her hand on me, it does not like me. It would have really liked the nice people on the road, beside which it runs as the dog it is, simulating obedience. In fact, it is disobedient, not only to me but to all others. It is for itself. She cries at night because you forgot to place beside the path of enlightenment, with no sun for power and have no current need to give a name suitable to trail trail . So it namespace so that fails to follow the names, if we tried. I shout in my solitude, not by walking heavy on the graves of the dead, because as I run alongside, I can not also pay attention to what I walk, what Stop Smoking, I just want to get to where my language is already, and mocking, laughing at me. She knows that if I tried once to live, she would pay immediately. She would pay first, but something salty. Well. If I shed more salt on the path of others, I throw on the other side for their ice melts, salt spreading, so that made the surest basis of language. While she has more money for a long time. An unfathomable insolence of itself! If I am not on a foundation course, my language Nor should it be. Well done for her! Why is she not stayed close to me, away, why did she separated from me? She wanted to see more than me? On the high road here, on the other side, where there are more people, before any more pleasant, chatting nicely together? She wanted to know more than me? She knew, already more than me, but it takes more. It is suicide is still bouffant itself, my language. It Goinfre of reality. Well done for her! I crachee, but it does not spit anything anyway, it does not bigger. My name is the language gap, it will call out, there did not need to seek fair, it does not need anyway because it achieved its goal in not saying no n ‘Anything but talking with the rigor of Leave-being, as Heidegger of Trakl1. She calls me, language, everyone does it today, because everyone always has his tongue with him in a small device, to speak – why would he learned? – Her name is there in the trap where I am and Cree Gigot, no, it’s not true, it is not my language name is it from me, I was cut my tongue, she should call, she shouted in the ear, regardless of the device, computer, mobile phone, she screams in the ear that it is meaningless to express something, it does itself, I simply repeat what my breath, because it would have even less sense to empty his bag with a loved one, which falls to peak and which can be proud, because he fell and could not get up immediately and can not continue to cause me a bit. It does not make sense. The words of my language there on the road pleasant (I know it is more pleasant than mine which is not really a road, but I can not see clearly, yet I know that I would as well), the words of my language, is separating from me, become immediately expressions. No, not explanations for someone. Expressions. It s’ecoute itself by speaking my language, it corrects itself because the term can be improved again and again, yes, it can always be improved, it is even there to be improved and find new rules of language, but only for flouting the rules. Then they become the new path to dissolution, of course I think solution. A dead end. Please, dear language, you do not want to listen at least once before? So that you learn something, so you finally learn the rules of expression … That cries you there, rehashing that you? Are you doing this, language, to go through with me? I thought you did not want to come back to me! You have given no sign of your willingness to come back to me, it would have been absurd, I could not understand the sign. You would become language t’echapper just for me and reassure me that way about my progress? It is not safe. Especially you, as I know you. I do not recognize you at all. You really want me back? I don ‘t take over. What say you now? The path is far away. Far is not a path. So if my solitude, if my lack, my continuing gap came personally to bring the language so well established in my home, finally at home, it comes at a pretty sound, it could issue, it will push me even more Still more isolated with this sound, piercing shriek, shrill of a siren, in which the air enters. By the reaction of the language that I produced myself and ran away from me (or I produced for this purpose? To flee immediately in front of me because I have failed myself I flee in time?), I will be driven ever further into that out. My tongue was pleased to wallow in its Bauge, early provisional falls on the road, and look upwards towards the tomb in the air, it wallow on the back, confident that an animal would appeal to people like any language suitable it wallow, dismisses the legs, presumably to allow fondling, or why. She is drugged to loving. It prevents him from watching the dead that I do care, it’s always me that it is responsible. That’s why I did not have time to master my language now wallow shamelessly in the hands of caresseur. There are simply too many deaths that I must look to take care of them, the Austrian technical term for this, treat them well, but we are well known to treat everyone. The world already takes care of us, not worry. Do we not care. But stronger echoes this invitation to watch the dead, the less I can control my words. I must watch the dead, while walkers and cajolent caress the beloved right language, which does not make the dead live longer. Nobody is guilty. Me too, as are ruffled me and my hair, I am not guilty as the dead remain dead. I want the language that finally ceases to be a slave to foreign hands, even if they do it well, I want it begins to not ask any requirement, but is itself a requirement to ask finally, return it to me, not for cuddles, but because the language requirement should always arise, it does not know often and not listening to me. It must arise because people who want to accept, in place of child she is so cute when it likes, people do not ever arise, they decree, but they do not arise, many immediately destroyed the order of their call for sociability, have torn, burned the flag. The more people to accept the invitation of my tongue to scratch its belly, something to tousle, to accept affectionately confidence, the more I continue to stumble, I have finally abandoned my language, they treat her better, I almost steals, which was the way I need to run after? How why where I come? How I come to the place where I displays my tool, but actually I can also wrap? There gleams something clear under the branches, is this the place where my language flatters the lulls in security, just to be cradled itself once affectionately, finally? Or does it still bite? She always wants to bite, only others do not yet know, but I know well, it’s long as it is home. Before, it was therefore caline Becot and apparently tamed the animal they have, anyway, all at home, why should they look for a foreign animal at home? Why this language should be other than what they already know? And if it were otherwise, it might not be safe to take home. Maybe it does not match that they already have. The more people the kind foreigners, who live, and so far do not understand their lives as they follow projects caresses, because they must always pursue something less guess my eyes the way back to the language. Miles and more. Who else guess, if not the next? The call will also assume the light? Speak it even before watching? It wallow here, Tate by hands, mugie by winds, calinee by storms, offended by listening to what she heard at all. Then: that everyone listening! Whoever does not want to hear to speak without being heard. Almost all are not heard well they speak. I heard, although my language does not m’appartienne, although I can barely see. It said much of it. So it has much to say to itself, very well. It listens, repeats itself slowly while somewhere a red button is pressed that triggers a terrible explosion. We can only say that our father, who are. It can not myself think so, although I, finally, the father of my tongue, so I am mother. I am the father of my mother tongue. The mother tongue was there from the beginning, it was in me, but there was no father to whom she belonged. My language was often unbecoming, I had made it clear, but I did not want to understand. My fault. The father left the family with the mother tongue. He was right. In its place, I would not have stayed either. My mother tongue followed the father, she is away now. It is, as I said there, on the other side. She listens to people on the way. On the way father who passed away too soon. Now she knows something you do not know that he did not know. But the more she knows, the more it becomes insignificant. It does not say something, but it is insignificant. Loneliness takes his leave. It is not used. Nobody sees that I am still in solitude. We do not pay attention to me It myself, perhaps, but it does not pay attention to me. How I arrive, that all these words say something about me that could tell us something? Not while I spoke. I can not speak at all, my language is unfortunately not at home. Here on the other hand, she said something else that I told him not given, but from the beginning that she forgot that I ordered. It does not say so, although it m’appartienne. My language does not tell me nothing, how then could she say something to others? Yet it is not insignificant, do it! She says even more that it is far from me, then she only dares to say something it means, then it dares not m’obeir oppose me. When you look, the more we look longer, distance from the object. When we talk, you know, but you can not remember. It emerges and wants to catch up with its own description, all those words that I made and I lost. Enough word exchanged, the exchange rate is appallingly bad, and then it is no longer qu’affreux. I say something and forgot it from the beginning. It was sucked it wanted from me. The unspeakable is said every day, but what I am saying it should not be said. It is unfair on the part of Dit. It is very unfair. The Stated does not even m’appartenir. He wants to be done so that we can say immediately said – than done. I would be happy if it denied m’appartenir, my language, but should it m’appartenir. How can I achieve it strives for at least a little about me? The other, nothing attached, so I me to it. Come back! Come back, please! But no. She hears the other side on the way, secrets that I do not know, my language, and repeated them to others these secrets, they do not want to hear. I like it is my right, it looks to me, if you will, but it does not stop and talk to me, it does not. It is in a vacuum which is distinguished precisely by that differs from me because a lot there. The vacuum is the way. I’m out of the vacuum. I left the path. I’ve never done that again. They say many things from me, but almost everything is wrong. I only repeated, and I say now that’s what my word. As I said – said too! It did not say so many things for a long time. We can not listen at all although listening to something. In this connection, which is actually made to divert the eyes, even divert the eyes of myself, we can not say anything to me, since there is nothing, it does nothing. I always look at life pass me my tongue turns back to its soft belly to others that cajolent, brazenly, to me it turns its back if it turns something. Too often, it gives me no signs and no mention either. Sometimes I do not see at all, then, on the other side, and now I can not even say “as I said,” I said very often, but now I can not not say, words fail me. Sometimes I see their backs or below their feet with which they can not walk properly, words, but faster than me, long and always further. What do I here? Is this why she was lying at some distance from me, the beloved language? Thus it will be faster than me, bond and game, when I come to my search for the Gap. I do not know why I should look. For me it does not attempt? Perhaps she knows, she fled to me? Who does not suit me? Who is now the eyes and words of others, which may not really be confused with me. They are different because they are the others. No other reason than the alternative. This alone to me. The main, I do not: talk. The others, still others, so I’m not the only, one to which it belongs, the sweet language. I also caress, like others here, if only I could catch it. But it is there, so I can not catch. Decamp when she gently? When Decamp does a little for that silence is? More language Decamp there on the other hand, the more one hears loud. It is in everyone’s lips, only in my mouth it is not. I’m crazy. I’m not unconscious, but I’m crazy. I check out my tongue like a beacon on Wednesday which should enlighten and not in light, which in turn is always something else of darkness that is, that the lights or not, c ‘Flagship is a person who does well so we do not want to die in the water. More trying to extinguish, the more it insists on not extinguished, language. Now, this flame j’eteins mechanically speaking, I commute on the flame savings, but I try to put on it a wet blanket at the end of a long stick, with which we put out the candles in the church my childhood, the more I try to stifle the flame, the more it seems to have air. The more she cries strong wallow between thousands of hands to do good, that I never told him unfortunately, I do not know myself what I would be good, so now she shouted to stay away from me . She shouted to others to give a helping horn and shout like her, for it is stronger. She shouted that I should not m’approcher it. Nobody should approach the other. And what is said must not too close to what we mean. It should not be too tied to its own language is an affront, it can easily be repeated something to itself, very hard not to have heard it said that it has been blown in advance. She even made promises that I remain far from it. She promised, if I do not m’approche it. Millions can approach it, not me! Yet it is mine! How do you find that? I can not tell you how I found it. This language has forgotten its beginning, otherwise I can not explain it. It began modestly home. And as she grew! I do not agree at all. I have yet known when she was small siiii. When it was so quiet when language was still my child. Now it has become huge in one fell swoop. It is no longer my child. The child does not grow, but it is high, he does not know that it is still not large enough, but he is awake now. It is so aroused that he covers himself with his cry, and others who shout louder than the language. So she rises to incredible heights. Believe me, this, you do not want to hear everything! I am not proud of this child, believe me, please! At the beginning I wanted it remains as quiet as before, when he did not speak. Now, I do not as it sweeps like a storm, leading others to scream even harder and raise their arms and throwing hard objects that my language can not catch any more because it has never been sports, my fault. It does not catch. It throws, but can not catch. I remain caught even if it is not there. I am the prisoner of my language that is my prison. Comic – it does not monitor! Because it is so sure of myself? Because it is so safe that I will not flee, does it think it can escape me? But sometimes someone already dead, and he tells me that this is not for him. He can now speak many deaths of their voices stifled, now they dare because my own language does more monitors. Because it knows that it is not necessary. Although she fled me, it loses me more. I am at his disposal, but I lost. I rest. But what remains is not the poets. What remains is far. The surge is stopped. Nothing and no one has arrived. And if, however, against all odds, something that is not even arrived, would like to stay a little, what remains the most fleeting, language disappears. She responded to a new job. What must remain, is still far away. It is not in any case. What we have left.



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