W.

Sem-Sandberg Steve Sem-Sandberg

Description

In this internationally acclaimed novel, Steve Sem-Sandberg brilliantly refracts the story of Buchner's groundbreaking play Woyzeck through a new lensW., the astonishing new novel by August Prize- winning author Steve Sem-Sandberg, is a literary reimagining of one of modern literature's touchstone texts, the play Woyzeck. Considered the first modern drama, Woyzeck tells the story of a loyal soldier and survivor of the Napoleonic Wars who, in a fit of jealous rage, kills the woman he loves. In 1836 this true story inspired Georg Buchner to write the play, unfinished at his death at just twenty-three years old.W. grippingly recounts the lovers' relationship, the murder case, and the soldier's execution. The story unfolds as the soldier W. struggles to recount the events of his life. He grasps at understanding and experiences feelings of time and timelessness. He finds patterns and repetitions, but these are of no interest to those determining his fate.Sem-Sandberg searched court archives to bring new light to this story, and he masterfully sustains a rich period atmosphere through poetic and controlled prose, down to the choice of pronouns as the soldier is held at a cold distance in court proceedings when addressed with the formal, capitalized "You."Against a landscape devastated by inhumanity and greed that, yet, manages to sustain hope, Steve Sem-Sandberg's W. tells a ruthless, moving, and utterly relevant story as the soldier W. desperately and humanly fights to make something of the life given to him.

Informations

• Publié par: ABRAMS BOOKS
• Date de parution: 28 juin 2022
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781647001445
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 1 Mo

Extrait

This edition first published in hardcover in 2022 by
The Overlook Press, an imprint of ABRAMS
195 Broadway, 9th floor
New York, NY 10007
www.overlookpress.com
Abrams books are available at special discounts when purchased in quantity for premiums and promotions as well as fundraising or educational use.
Special editions can also be created to specification. For details, contact [e-mail] or the address above.
First published in Sweden in 2019 by Albert Bonniers F rlag
Copyright 2022 Steve Sem-Sandberg
Translation copyright 2022 Saskia Vogel
Cover 2022 Abrams
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who wishes to quote brief passages in connection with a review written for inclusion in a magazine, newspaper, or broadcast.
Library of Congress Control Number: 2022932240
ISBN: 978-1-4197-5122-6
eISBN: 978-1-64700-144-5
ABRAMS The Art of Books 195 Broadway, New York, NY 10007 abramsbooks.com
WOYZECK. Have you ever seen nature inside out, Doctor?
When the sun stands still at midday and it s if the world was going up in flames. That s when the terrible voice spoke to me.
DOCTOR. You ve an aberration, Woyzeck.
WOYZECK. The toadstools, Doctor, it s all in the toadstools.
Have you noticed how they grow in patterns on the ground?
If only someb dy could read them.
Georg B chner: Woyzeck
I. At the Inquest of the Detainee
If we were to make a detailed study of the past life of the patient, prior to the complete derangement of his psyche, we would perhaps find that the key to the organic degeneration of the brain and of the vessels lies in this life itself, in its wrong conduction, its excesses and debauches.
Johann Christian August Heinroth, Textbook of Disturbances of Mental Life or Disturbances of the Soul and Their Treatment (1818)
(Stab er stab er stab that Woost woman stab er dead . . . !)
After the fact, during the police interrogation, he could not recall from where the words had come or what manner of voice had spoken them, he only said that it had been as if a giant s hand had grabbed him by the chest and flung him to the ground. And the force of this movement had been so . . . well, how to put it, so dumbfounding that later it seemed like nothing had happened at all, as if the words had not even been spoken. He had arranged to meet Johanna at Funkenburg that day. Or rather: he wasn t sure if they had agreed to anything. Last they met, she had come to him and for the first time in a long time she had touched him and she had inquired after the name of the soldier in the City Guard whom she thought he knew and afterwards he asked if she wouldn t also consider going out with him sometime, the evenings being now so light and long. And she had directed her slanted lupine eyes at him together with that smile she for some reason so often gave him, amused but with a hint of pity as when one regards a child, and replied that yes, she would like that. All the same they hadn t made specific arrangements, he said, and the two policemen stared at him uncomprehendingly. One was a constable with thinning hair sitting behind a heavy oak desk, the other a much younger colleague, thin and gangly. It fell to the younger one to take the minutes, but instead of writing he sat there rubbing his thumbs together and wetting his lips with his tongue as though it disagreed with him to be in the same room as a man who had been caught in the most gruesome of acts. W. looked down at his hands. They were no longer shaking. This was why, he said at last, he had already visited The Golden Goose in the morning. He wasn t sure if they had in fact arranged to accompany each other there, she hadn t given her word, after all. But she wasn t there when he arrived. Neither was she at Warneck s or on Sandgasse where she rented a room from Frau Wognitz. She must have set off quite early that morning, if she d even been home at night; and this was why he, for the first time, had decided to go there. Go where? the constable asked. To Funkenburg. To the garden restaurant. Perhaps she had wanted to get there early, to secure a table by the bandstand. But he d heard from some acquaintances loitering at the old brewery that she had been seen earlier that morning on the Br hl, strolling arm-in-arm with a soldier named B ttcher, and he was already acquainted with this B ttcher, a tall and handsome fellow with a ruddy complexion, a bristled mustache, and whiskers. He had already seen the two of them together several times. Once in Bosens Garten. He had passed them at close range and decided against saying hello. But what would those two have cared anyway? They were walking arm-in-arm and Johanna only had eyes for this other man, was strolling and smiling at him, but not like she smiled at him, Woyzeck, the smile one offers a child or someone of lesser mind, no, her smile was frank, he might go so far as to call it forward, and there had indeed been something about her smile that made him seethe, because afterwards he wasn t sure if it was that same night or another or weeks later, he d been so upset and despondent that he couldn t help but seek her out on Sandgasse despite her expressly forbidding him to do so, and then of course he didn t know whether or not she had been with that B ttcher fellow again or another man and neither did he have a chance to find out because her landlady Frau Wognitz had intervened with a broom and shooed him down the stairs, after which she appeared in a window and screamed for the whole neighborhood to hear Get on home, Woyzeck, get on home: farewell, farewell . . . ! The constable has finally lost his patience with him. He wants to know how this relates to the murder weapon. Did Woyzeck have it in hand the first time he set out for Funkenburg, that is to say, in the morning? Or was it only once he realized that Widow Woost had instead chosen to be involved with this soldier what s-his-name? What was his name? He directs these last words to his subordinate, who quickly skims his notes and mutters his reply. Bl ttcher, the man says, wetting the corners of his mouth with his tongue. Or did he acquire the weapon earlier? If so, how had he come by it? W. wipes his face with both hands. For the life of him he can t understand why they are so preoccupied with the weapon itself. He is trying to get them to understand that the blade from the saber had long been in his possession, it wasn t whole, more than half of it was missing and he had kept it in a leather-lined cloth bag but it was missing a hilt. Is this to say he had decided to carry out the act the moment he realized that Widow Woost was not going to keep her word and instead chose the company of that soldier, what was his name again . . . Blechner? No, that wasn t the case at all. I didn t decide anything, he says as calmly and quietly as he can. Everything had already been decided, you see, constable. It was like a giant s hand had grabbed me by the chest and afterwards it was like nothing had happened. I felt lighthearted, he says, staring down at his hands, which he is clasping in his lap. They ve started shaking again. The constable also notes his hands. Let s return to the day in question, he says after casting a knowing glance at his colleague. And after you found out that Widow Woost was in the company of that soldier B ttcher, what happened next? Woyzeck runs his hands from his hairline over his forehead and eyes, then down his chin and neck. They re shaking even harder now, his whole body is shaking. He s trying to remember. The days blur. Actually in recent weeks he hasn t had a fixed abode, he s mostly been drifting, borrowing a few groschen when possible, sleeping indoors when he d been granted lodging and outside on the days he d found none. The nights had been warm and dry. Now the constable has definitely run out of patience. Did he have it with him during this time as well? he asks, meaning the saber blade. Woyzeck doesn t know what to say. Surely the constable must understand, one amasses things, it was only half a saber blade but he might have been able to barter it for something, like food. Never for an instant did he imagine it would be put to such use. And anyway after the fact he had forgotten it all. I had run into a few acquaintances down at the inn. The pharmacist and Bon, the butcher s shop assistant, and both of Warneck s apprentice boys. I sat with them a while because they were in the shade and were buying. So you were drunk at the time? No, not drunk! How could he explain this to them? It was like he had found himself in a place beyond thought. He remembers the wind high up in the linden trees, the light sweeping leaf-shadows across the still-empty tables, and on the ground below: the pattern made by those trembling leaves, and how he suddenly feels free of all that otherwise burdens and stifles him so. Empty, and almost weightless. The pressure of other bodies in motion that otherwise follows him wherever he goes, the voices, the screams, all this no longer concerns him. It is as though he were drifting between sleep and wakefulness, body as if sunk in torpor, and yet he is so bright and clear of mind that everything squeezes into him with the full force of perception; and at times he has thought that this is the only true state. Once his surroundings no longer concern him he is able to focus his attention on what he actually wants to remember, to think about Johanna s skin, where it is at its most naked and defenseless, behind her ear and down along the neck, the dip of her throat or between her shoulder blades. Her deep, dark laughter as she slowly guides him into her. Into the sweetness, hot and wet. But this he can t explain to t