In a lengthy novel, more admired than read, Robert
Musil depicts the initially spring-fevered, ultimately autumnal society of
Vienna under the Hapsburgs; the
novel opens in 1913. Its
title is the haunting Der Mann ohne Eigenschaften (literally, a man without qualities or personal characteristics) -- haunting despite or
rather because of the nagging fact that, like some paradox in a dream, it makes no sense. The concept is looming and formless -- something best unmentioned, or to scare the children with.
Yet now it occurs to us (and we seem to have been the first to
notice this), that the familiar “plain-text” title with Eigenschaften is a Deckname, a cryptonym for something … darker, yet lying
phonetically just beneath the
surface. And so exactly does this
key fit that lock, that the hidden
mechanism springs open at a touch:
~ Der Mann ohne Eigenschatten ~
So what would be this “Eigenschatten”?
There is a technical meaning of the term, defined in
Wikipedia:
Der Eigenschatten (auch:
Körperschatten) eines Körpers ist der Schatten, den der Körper auf sich selbst
durch sich selbst verursacht. Dabei sind aber nur Schattenflächen gemeint, die
auf den jeweiligen schattenverursachenden Flächen liegen. Anders formuliert ist
der Eigenschatten die Menge der nicht beleuchteten also die der Lichtquelle
abgewandten Seiten.
But that is not the meaning that concerns us here. We allude rather to one who, for
grievous diabolical reasons, can cast no shadow -- who has no shadow to call his own.
 |
| I'll just take this, now ... you won't feel a thing ... |
The notion is familiar to students of German literature: it is the central plot-device of
Chamisso’s celebrated novella Peter
Schlemihls wundersame Geschichte, in which the hapless title character (a Pechvogel, and eponym of all later schlemiels and schlemazels)
sells his shadow to the Devil -- a bad bargain.
(Cf. additionally the opera by Richard Strauss, “Frau ohne Schatten”
(1919).)
~
~ Posthumous Endorsement ~
"If I were alive today, and
in the mood for a mystery,
this is what I'd be reading:
"
(Ich bin Adelbert von Chamisso,
and I approved this message.)
~
The eerie image of the man-without-a-shadow -- penumbrous dual of the shadow-without-a-man -- yet came to our author innocently enough. From Karl Ude’s introduction to
the Goldmanns Gelbe Taschenbücher
edition of the work:
Die Erzählung ist entstanden aus
einer zufälligen Frage an Chamisso, der sein Reisegepäck verloren hatte, ob er nicht auch seinen Schatten
verloren habe?
[Note: I use
the term “dual” here in its
mathematical sense; yet the
kindred notion of Doppelgänger is here curiously appropriate.]
*
For another,
exceedingly strange story,
and not unrelated in
theme,
try this:
*
~
Orthoëpic interlude
So -- how do you pronounce the guy’s name -- Chamisso?
The man was French in origin; and the worthy Webster’s New Biographical Dictionary,
to which I myself, as editor, contributed not a few pronunciations (though not
this one), gives -- for its pronunciation in English -- a value of orthographic “ch” which derives from French
(here I translate into “newspaper-style” transcription): sha-MISS-oh. But the name is quite odd, for French or for
German; I do not know how his
drinking-buddies called him.
An idiotic stab at the pronunciation is offered here for
internauts:
http://www.pronouncehow.com/english/chamisso_pronunciation
Ignore it.
~
To resume.
The man was, as we say, French, of noble origin (whence the
“von”) and had to flee the overexuberant antics of the French revolution. He spent the rest of his life dedicated
to German life and letters. With what results, we mention here.
And yes, I am aware, there is a parallel, between his Lebensbahn and mine -- ich, der ich Fremdling und Flüchtling
bin, nun jetzt in
Herbstesalter, in deutschem
Kulturgut fummelnd…
Yet there is a more deep-cutting parallel: and this, between Chamisso and
Schlemihl. For Chamisso
himself was a Mann ohne Eigenschatten
-- living in dreadful exile, his roots quite sliced, condemned to stammer in an
alien tongue.
*
Für psychologisch
tiefgreifende Krimis,
in pikanter
amerikanischer Mundart,
und christlich gesinnt,
klicken Sie bitte
hier:
*
[Update 6 Aug 2013]
An interesting article by Costica Bradatan explores the writerly bilingual dilemma here:
In her exploration of the Catholic
religion, “Letter to a Priest,” written
the year before her death in 1943, Simone Weil noticed at some point that “for
any man a change of religion is as dangerous a
thing as a change of language is for a writer. It may turn out a
success, but it can also have disastrous consequences.” The Romanian
philosopher Emil Cioran, who was one such writer, talks of the change of
language as a catastrophic event in any author’s biography
~
To recur to the thorny subject of the Eigenschatten.
The poet and mystic Christian Morgenstern has discoursed in rhyme upon this matter:
Das Lied vom blonden Korken
Ein blonder Korke spiegelt sich
in einem Lacktablett –
allein er säh’ sich dennoch nich,
selbst wenn er Augen hätt’!
Das macht, dieweil er senkrecht
steigt
zu seinem Spiegelbild!
Wenn man ihn freilich seitwärts
neigt,
zerfällt, was oben gilt.
O Mensch, gesetzt, du spiegelst
dich
im, sagen wir, – im All!
Und senkrecht! – wärest du dann
nich
ganz in demselben Fall?
This we have managed, by a heroic feat of compression, to
reproduce, for a world-wide anglophone audience, the original dozen lines by a
mere six: thus doing our ecological bit to stave off the impending
Global Pixel Shortage (“Peak Pixel”):
A cork upon a mirror stood;
though had he eyes, ‘twould do no
good,
because he stands on self upright,
his mirror image -- out of sight.
E’en we! beamed forth beyond the sky
see not ourselves with inward eye.
(This miracle of minimalism we achieved by means of Korf’s
own invention,
described by Morgenstern in “Die Brille”.)
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